Yeah, are you feeling okay?
LIA 12:28 P.M.
That kabob you ate before you got in the cab looked pretty sketchy.
Funny, it didn’t look sketchy to me. Of course, I was so starved that I would’ve eaten anything at that point.
MEL 12:40 P.M.
A little hungover but other than that I’m fine.
I closed my eyes as a wave of queasiness sailed through my system. Maybe that street meat wasn’t the best idea. I should’ve listened to Lia.
My phone buzzed and I cracked one eye open to check the reply from the girls. But it wasn’t a text message; it was a Fluttr alert.
NEW DIRECT MESSAGE FROM JOE!
Oh, right. The guy I’d matched with last night before the parade of humiliation began. Did I even want to read what he had to say? Whit had warned me: Fluttr was not the place to find a respectable guy.
But I kept coming back to Lia and Jay. Nice guys were on Fluttr. It just might take some persistence to find them.
Feeling hopeful, I tapped the notification to bring up the message. And there, in all its swollen, veiny shame, was a blurry close-up of Joe’s dick.
Goddammit.
I chucked the phone across my room, where it bounced off the wall and landed with a crash against my dresser. That was going to cost me a pretty penny to fix.
Burying my face in my hands, I took slow, measured breaths, trying to calm my racing pulse. Normally, I would’ve taken Joe’s dick pic in stride. After all, some men can be weird and gross. If I wanted to be active in the online dating world, dick pics were just something I had to learn to deal with.
My usual response was to delete the message and unmatch from the guy, but suddenly, that didn’t seem like enough. Even though I would never hear from him again, Joe from Murray Hill would still be on Fluttr, spreading pictures of his penis to other unsuspecting women.
Telling him off was an enticing option. It’d certainly feel cathartic, but I doubt it’d actually make an impact. A man who sent dick pics to strangers already had no shame; if I tore him a new one, he’d probably take some sick satisfaction in knowing he got a rise out of me.
What I really wanted to do was get this guy banned from Fluttr, to take away the platform for his exhibitionism. There were options to flag profiles as offensive or harassing or spam, but as far as I could tell, Fluttr never actually did anything about it.
My train of thought was interrupted by a knock at my bedroom door. Great. As if I wasn’t feeling crappy enough, now I had to deal with whatever Vanessa wanted.
Another knock. “Melanie? You okay in there?”
“Yes.” My voice was unexpectedly raspy. I cleared my throat as I threw back my blanket and, on wobbly legs, took the one and a half steps from my bed to open the door. Vanessa stood in the hallway, hazel eyes shining brightly, not a stray hair in her sleek auburn topknot.
“Are you okay?” She looked me over from head to toe, her expression halfway between disgust and concern. “I thought I heard a crash.”
“I’m fine.” I was merely launching a piece of delicate machinery across my room. No biggie. “What’s up?”
“Did you get my email?”
“What email?”
“About the party.”
“What party?”
Vanessa rolled her eyes at me. “If you got the email, then you’d know.”
“Is the party happening right now?”
She squinted. “No, of course not. It’s next weekend.”
“Then can this wait?”
“No. I need to make sure the email went through.”
Her lash extensions fluttered like a hummingbird’s wings. I wiped the crust from the corners of my eyes. “But I’m barely awake.”
“Please?” she pleaded. “I just sent it a second ago, but then my computer started acting all wonky so I don’t know if it went through. Which reminds me, I need you to take a look at it later.”
It was clear she wasn’t going anywhere until I answered her question. “Let me check.”
She bounced on the balls of her feet. “Thanks.”
I picked up my phone from where it had landed facedown on top of the dresser. To my shock and delight, the damage wasn’t nearly as bad as I’d expected it to be. Just a hairline fracture across the bottom right corner of the screen. No shattering, no shards. I lucked out!
“Ooh.” Vanessa pursed her lips into a disapproving pucker. “What happened to your phone?”
“Uh... I dropped it.”
“That sucks.” She clucked her tongue. “There’s a place around the corner that fixes them cheap. Like ninety-nine bucks or something.”
“Thanks. I’ll check it out.” As if I would’ve wasted a hundred dollars on a superficial little crack. The phone still worked. When I pressed the home button, the screen sprang to life, revealing Joe’s penis in graphic detail.
Vanessa shrieked and recoiled, like she was afraid it was going to leap out and attack her. “What the hell is that?”
“That is Joe, from Murray Hill.” I held it up to her to give her a better view, and she retreated farther into the hallway.
“Why is that on your phone?”
“Well, it’s not like I asked for it.” From the frown lines forming on Vanessa’s forehead, it was clear she didn’t believe me. “I didn’t! Haven’t you ever gotten an unsolicited dick pic?”
“What?” Her topknot jiggled as she fervently shook her head. “No, of course not. What kind of person do you think I am?”
“It has nothing do with the kind of person you are.” Or the kind of person I am, for that matter. “Guys’ll just send them out of nowhere after you make a match. Aren’t you on Fluttr?”
Her lip curled in revulsion. “Ugh. No. The idea of dating some random creep I meet on the internet is...” She ended her sentence with a dramatic shudder.
“It’s really no different than meeting a guy at a party or a bar or waiting on line at Starbucks. Everybody starts out a stranger.” Though, admittedly, the odds of a stranger flashing you in the middle of a crowded coffee shop were pretty slim.
“Those all sound like terrible ways to meet men.” She folded her long, slender arms across her chest and stuck her chin out. “If I’m gonna let a guy put his tongue in my mouth, I’m gonna need to check some references first.”
“References?”
“You wouldn’t hire an employee without calling past employers to verify their skills and experience, right? So why would you start dating a guy that you know absolutely nothing about?”
It pained me to admit that Vanessa had a point. Still, the idea seemed sort of crazy. I envisioned her posting a personal ad on Craigslist soliciting résumés from potential suitors. She’d call ex-girlfriends, family members, financial advisors. If the guy’s story checked out, only then would she schedule a first date.
Unlike me, who jumped at the chance to meet the first pretty face that flew across my screen.
“But how does that work, exactly?” I asked. “How do you check a guy’s references?”
“I go to a matchmaker. She interviews guys, and when she finds someone who’s up to my standards, she arranges a meetup.”
I’d never seen Vanessa hanging around the apartment with anyone who seemed like a love interest. “Have you met anyone worthwhile?”
She scrunched up her nose. “There’ve been a couple of second dates, but nothing serious. At least, not yet. I’ve only been doing it for a year, though.”
A year. Seems like her strategy for meeting Mr. Right wasn’t any more effective than mine. Then again, I wondered how high her “standards” were.
“Her name’s Vilma,” she added. “She only takes new clients by referral, but I can put in a good word for you, if you want.”
I could only imagine how much Vilma charged for her services. Probably more t
han we paid for the rent on our dump of an apartment. It seemed nice in theory, but not all of us could afford our own personal Vilma to perform background checks on every guy we met. How did Vanessa have that kind of cash? Did being a freelance virtual assistant pay more than I suspected? If so, I might’ve considered a career change.
“That’s okay. Let me check my email.” I swiped away Joe’s nether regions and found an unread message from Vanessa at the top of my inbox.
* * *
From: Vanessa Pratt
Bcc: Melanie Strickland
Subject: Rooftop Rendezvous!
Hey lads and ladies!
Spring has sprung, which means it’s time to indulge in this lovely NYC weather with an outdoor soirée. Come over to my rooftop in Downtown Brooklyn next Saturday night, April 14, at 8PM for drinks, snacks, and views for days.
See you then!
xo
V
* * *
“Are we allowed to have parties on the rooftop?” I asked.
“Technically, no. But no one’s gonna care.”
“Some people might.”
“So they complain to the landlord. So what?”
I wish I could’ve gone through life like Vanessa, oblivious to things like personal bankruptcy and eviction.
“Okay. Well, looks like your email sent just fine.”
“Great, thanks. Feel free to invite whoever you want. And let me know if you want me to put you in touch with Vilma.” She scuttled off down the hallway without a goodbye.
I closed the door and face-planted back into bed, ready to sleep away the rest of my Saturday afternoon. Seconds later, my phone buzzed.
NEW DIRECT MESSAGE FROM JOE!
I knew I should have ignored it. Nothing Joe from Murray Hill had to say—or show—would be good. But I couldn’t help myself. Years of attachment to a digital device had rendered me incapable of letting a message go unread. My fingers were making the decision for me before my brain had a chance to intervene.
And, of course, it was another dick pic. Or, rather, the same exact dick pic he’d sent minutes earlier. As if he was worried I hadn’t received it the first time, and wanted to resend it just to make sure.
My thumb hovered over the unmatch button. Erasing Joe from my virtual life would’ve been the prudent thing to do. Responding would only give him the attention he craved. But I also didn’t want him to think that what he was doing was okay.
I’d had enough of the unscrupulous men in this city. Men who flirted shamelessly with their coworkers when their girlfriends weren’t looking. Men who made plans they never had any intention to keep. Men who started conversations with women they matched with on the internet, then followed them up immediately with pictures of their dicks.
What’s worse is I continually fell for their bullshit. Time and again, I let men toy with my emotions, make a fool of me, telling myself that maybe this guy would be different than all the others. But no guy was ever different. And I never called them out on their behavior. I just let them go quietly about their lives without ever having to answer for their actions.
That ended right here, right now.
I hit the reply button and typed in a single word: Why?
A moment later, I received his response: Why not?
Joe from Murray Hill did not know who he was messing with.
MEL: Because I’m not interested. Because you’re a pig. Because your penis is not as impressive as you think it is. Need I go on?
JOE: Chillax babe. It’s all in good fun.
MEL: Maybe for you. But I didn’t want the first snap of your janky dick, never mind the second one.
At which point, Joe decided to send me a third copy of the same picture.
MEL: You know what? I’m going to tell everyone about you. I’m going to ruin your reputation. And you’ll never get another date in this town again.
JOE: LOL good luck with that babe.
I started to type a response, but the app froze, and the whole interaction disappeared from my screen, replaced with the message:
The conversation could not be loaded. Fluttr user has unmatched with you.
That son of a bitch.
If Joe thought this was the end of it, he was sorely mistaken. Because now I was out for revenge. Not just for me, but for every single woman in New York.
It was time to bring reference checking to the masses.
That’s how JerkAlert was born.
4
Some people think I made JerkAlert as part of a malicious, premeditated scheme to humiliate men at large. But in truth, it was just a gut reaction to the futility of the status quo. I’d had a few really bad days, featuring a few really bad dudes. So I did what any disgruntled coder would do: I created an anonymous website where women could rate their dating experiences with the guys they met on Fluttr. Kind of like Yelp, but instead of reviewing restaurants or nail salons, you reviewed your dates.
It didn’t take me all that long to get it up and running. Too hungover to get out of bed, I spent the rest of my Saturday writing the code. Then on Sunday, I slapped together some quick graphics, uploaded it all to my discount web host, and invested $9.99 in the purchase of JerkAlert.biz. (Unfortunately, JerkAlert.com was already taken, pointing to a site that appeared to be permanently under construction.)
On Sunday night, when it was all finished, I logged my first entry.
Name: Joe
Age: 25
Location: Murray Hill
Review: Sent three consecutive dick pics. Also, used the word chillax.
As soon as I hit the submit button, I felt ten pounds lighter. Like all that rage had dislodged itself from my body and floated away. It was liberating.
And somewhat addictive.
I hit New and logged another man.
Name: Brandon
Age: 26
Location: Brooklyn
Review: Bailed on our first date without warning or explanation.
The simple act of typing their names out, seeing their misdeeds printed in pixels on my screen, was enough to make me feel better. I was putting all my pain out there, into the void of the internet, so it could no longer drag me down.
I spent the next few minutes logging the details of other men I’d encountered on Fluttr who’d flaked out, harassed me, or otherwise screwed me over.
There was Shawn, 27, from Hoboken, who started a very friendly text conversation and then abruptly demanded nudes.
There was Enzo, 30, from Washington Heights, who showed up to our date looking about twenty years older than his profile picture.
There was Pavel, 28, from Astoria, who smashed and dashed after our third date, never to be heard from again.
And then there was Alex.
Technically, he didn’t belong on JerkAlert. We hadn’t met on Fluttr. We never went on a date. Before our little run-in at The Barley House, we’d barely said two words to each other.
But, still, he’d hurt my feelings. Before his girlfriend showed up, he was definitely flirting with me. He asked me to lunch. He made me think there was a reason to have hope, and then pulled the rug out from under me.
It was humiliating.
Name: Alex
Age: 26
Location: FiDi
Review: Flirted with me hard. Asked me out. Then his girlfriend showed up.
After I hit Submit, I had a pang of conscience. After all, what he did was shitty, but Alex wasn’t the worst guy in the world. He was still smart and attractive. And at least he didn’t show me a picture of his dick.
Besides, it didn’t matter what I posted on JerkAlert, because I never had any intention of letting anyone else see what I’d written. Now that I’d purged my disappointment and embarrassment, I realized the site was a terrible idea. It was mean-spirited and dirty, the exact o
pposite of what I wanted my love life to be. Just because guys—or, more accurately, some guys—made my Fluttr experience miserable, it didn’t mean I had to stoop down to their level. I could rise above and choose to remain positive. And I would.
As soon as I showed it to the girls.
* * *
From: Melanie Strickland
To: Whitney Hwang; Lia Berman; Dani Silva
Subject: Introducing... JerkAlert!
I found the solution to my problem...http://jerkalert.biz
* * *
After our bitchfest on Friday night, I figured they’d get a kick out of it. Maybe they’d even review a few men of their own before I took the whole thing offline.
* * *
Monday started off as per usual.
“I can’t connect to the internet.”
Josh Brewster was standing in front of me, nostrils flaring like a pissed-off bull. As if I were the cause of his internet connectivity issue, as opposed to the person who could help him solve it.
“Have you tried—”
“Listen,” he said, “I don’t have time for this. I got Vijay breathing down my neck right now and this fucking broken piece of shit won’t work.” He gave his laptop a violent shake. “You’re the help desk, right? Give me some goddamn help.”
There was no point in engaging him. I knew what these Hatchlings were like. Entitled bros who thought I existed merely to serve them. If I dared to challenge Josh right now, he’d report me to my manager, Bob. Then Bob would say, “Calm down, Mel. Don’t take things so personally.” He’d tell me these guys were under a lot of pressure, and that it was my job to make their lives easier. Plus, he’d probably be annoyed with me for forcing him to have this conversation in the first place.
I knew because this had happened before, too many times to count. So even though I hated having to grin and bear this verbal abuse, in the long run, it was far easier to suck it up and play nice.
“Let’s take a look,” I said, forcing a smile as Josh thrust the laptop into my hands. A quick peek at the proxy settings confirmed my suspicions. “You’re infected with malware.”
How to Hack a Heartbreak Page 3
