One hundred e-mails constituted overwhelmed.
This online dating thing had begun as a research project.
She was a simple columnist at a California magazine, fighting to keep her head above water with the hip and trendy up and comers who wanted her job and her column. At thirty-eight, Callie Winston struggled to be hip and trendy without being lame and farty. She swam with the little twenty-something vipers who thought they could replace her every day and she wasn’t about to sink.
Though, she did currently have a really good doggie paddle going on.
Callie sighed and twisted a long, dark strand of her hair as she tried to wrap her head around the “what now?” moment she was having over all of this damn e-mail. When she’d approached her boss, Tyler Atmore about doing this article for online dating he’d been less than enthusiastic.
Well, truth be told, he’d been more like completely disinterested in much but the bottom line—making money.
Whatever.
It wasn’t going to stop Callie from pursuing this—both guns loaded. She had nothing else left in her creatively these days—this was the dregs of her brain, the bottom of the friggin’ barrel brought on by one of those pop-up ads on the Internet she’d seen one night researching online. Her column was in danger of cancellation according to the bigwigs and this just might be cutting edge enough to keep that from happening. Callie fully admitted she wasn’t cutting edge, but she could be a dull knife…
She loved her column. She’d had it for six years now and she wasn’t giving it up without a knock-down, drag-out, hair pulling, wrestle in some lime Jell-O and that was just the attitude she used when she approached Tyler.
“Look, Tyler. This online dating thing is huge. There are more sites online than there are Viagra ads.”
Tyler looked up from his desk, tipping his glasses over his narrow, pointy nose and snickered. “So? Who gives a crap about online dating? Bunch of losers with no other way to get a date place an ad, tell all sorts of lies about themselves and show up looking nothing like their pictures.” Tyler’s features twisted into a sneer.
Whew, that was a strong statement coming from a man like Tyler. Somebody had been dipping into the online dating jar and had been left bitter about the experience…
“How would you know?” Callie asked suspiciously, because a force unknown to caution compelled her to dig at her shithead boss in any way she could.
“I don’t,” Tyler snapped just a bit too quickly. “I just know what I’ve heard through conversations with others.” He waved his hand as he said it, dismissing the notion that Callie just might have found out something personal about Tyler Atmore.
“Look, Tyler. I think I’ve got something here. The Internet is the newest and hottest way to find a date. No more lookin’ for love at happy hour in the local bars. No more inter-office nookie that has the potential to become nasty little sordid affairs. Yeah, it’s risky to hook up with someone you don’t know, but they have all sorts of precautionary measures to take before going on a date on the sites. You can have your pick of dates, pictures and profiles galore, sorta like a police lineup. Sure not all of them are truthful about who they are, but it’s the way the new millennium is dating and perfect for people who are tired of the bar scene.” For whatever reason, Callie pushed Tyler on this. Under normal circumstances, she’d back down and write another lame column on liposuction, but this could create real interest in her column again. Intrepid reporter delves deep into the underworld of online dating…Firsthand accounts of how to get started—what to expect—what not to expect.
Callie needed something to keep her head above water here. So she intended to document her own experiences and let her readers live vicariously through her. Maybe she’d get a little living thrown into the mix for herself too.
“So what are you going to do? Join one of these sites?” Tyler’s question was rife with incredulity.
Callie squirmed. Well, yeah. How else could she get an inside track to this? “Well, yeah. I’ll put up a snappy profile and my picture and see what happens. If I get lucky, maybe I’ll get a response or two and I’ll go out on some dates and find out what kind of results people are getting. What they’re looking for—what they’re expectations are.”
“You? Date? Have you had a date since you got your divorce?”
Callie bit the inside of her lip. Was her life so small that even her boss knew she hadn’t had a date? Shit. Callie shook her head. “Nope, but no time like the present, huh? I’ll be the magazine’s guinea pig.”
Tyler made a steeple of his hands under his chin and gave Callie the “don’t say I didn’t warn you” look. “As long as it doesn’t cost me a boatload of money, go right ahead. It’s human interest if nothing else. Help get circulation up and keep the expense report small.”
Small like your dick, Tyler? Callie grimaced at her thoughts and said instead, “Right. No problem. You won’t regret this,” as she zipped out of his office and back down the hall to her own, before Tyler took it back or she chickened out and wrote another penile implant column.
So here she sat—three days later, with more than a response or two, in one fine mess of cyber communication. Callie swung her chair back to face her computer with determination, prepared to tackle this with the intent of getting the real scoop.
Hookay, so she only had ninety-eight e-mails left to answer. No time like the present. Maybe looking at the profile before reading the e-mail might help her determine if the e-mail was going to scare the shit out of her or not.
Some of the profile pictures were too funny. What made a man put a picture of himself up with a feminine hand on his shoulder and the rest of said female’s body hacked off? It was just a smidge obvious that whoever owned the hand was once part of the couple and now she’d been obliterated from the picture, much like their relationship, Callie supposed.
Oh, now he wasn’t too bad. Callie glanced at tall, dark and semi-luscious’ profile. Six feet tall, brown hair, brown eyes, two-hundred muscular pounds. An accountant. His occupation screamed solid and secure. However, his userid made Callie cough.
Wenchhunter.
Ohh, and a big, studly wench hunter at that, Callie mused as she looked more closely at Wenchhunter’s pictures. Some of these men could really benefit from some help with their grammar and spelling. It would seem Wenchhunter fell into that category, because he wanted a woman who wasn’t clingy and injoyed life. A healthy set of mams was a high priority on Wenchhunters list too.
Callie glanced at her small breasts and winced. Well, her mammary glands weren’t winning any awards on their southbound destination.
Oh, God. Was this what they’d all be like?
Okay, it wasn’t fair to judge a man on grammar and his lust for mammary glands alone. Callie clicked on Wenchhunter’s e-mail titled “Look no further”.
To: Writer66
From: Wenchhunter
Subject: Look no further
Writer 66,
Has anyone ever told you, you have very sexy lips? How come your not writer69?
Gary
Cuz she was born in nineteen-sixty-six? Sex, it was all about the sex. Any innuendo that had to do with sex was not the way to this chicks’ heart, but what did she know? Callie hadn’t dated in thirteen years. Maybe this was the new approach of the millennium, but not with her.
Loser.
Callie’s fingers twitched, as did her right eye. E-mail made people bold and she intended to be just that right now in the sharp-tongued way only Callie knew how to do.
From: Writer66
To: Wenchhunter
Subject: Re: Look no further
Hi Wenchhunter,
Because I hate sex…
Frigid in sunny CA,
Writer66
Callie grinned. Oh, she had an evil tongue and it was bound to get her into some major trouble if she kept this up.
A small box popped up to the left of her computer screen, startling her. As a matter of fact sever
al small boxes with glowing yellow lights popped up.
The instant messenger.
She’d forgotten that the site offered instant messaging as a feature. You could get to know your victims via bad come-on’s and all of the latest pick-up lines as you typed to one another in real time.
Oh, goody! More bad grammar and spelling to amuse her. Callie moved her mouse to one of the blinking yellow lights to find Alpha_Male’s profile staring at her. His very confident smile gleamed back at her. He had a suit coat thrown over his shoulder in the picture and he wore a very jaunty smile. Well, he was as good as any to start with. Callie tried to read his profile as she glanced at his type written message in the instant message box. “Hey there, you’re very attractive. I like your profile. Very strong and confident.”
Yeah, that was her, hotter than snot and more confident than a Victoria’s Secret supermodel in her thong and angel wings. Callie snorted and typed back. “Well thank you, kind sir.” He was, after all, fifty-eight, according to his profile. Addressing him as sir was definitely in order.
“Sir?” he questioned.
Oops. Had she offended him? Callie quickly tried to correct her mistake. “I was trying to be polite.”
“Are writers polite?”
Aren’t they? “This one is,” she answered back. Callie skimmed his profile and balked. Boy, he sure defined pompous, even if he did look pretty good for his age. Alpha_Male had the libido of a teenager, or so he claimed anyway. Only guys who were exceptionally self-conscious about other underlying issues were usually the ones who bragged about their libidos, and by the way—what alpha male boasted he was an alpha male? It would rather be like Callie touting she had boobs. She just did.
Alpha_Male typed, “So be polite to me, Writer66 and tell me your name.”
Yeah, sure. “Ernest Hemmingway.” Just call me, Ernie. Callie giggled again at her audacity.
“So are you a transvestite?”
Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold on there. No need to get nasty, little big man. What kind of pot-shot was that? Alrighty then, we were bringing the big guns out now. Callie’s fingers itched and set sail without thinking. “You know, Alpha Male, I see in your profile that you claim you have the libido of a teenager. Is that via aid of Viagra or foot pump?” Callie clicked send with an oomph. Slam dunk, baby!
There was a long pause on the screen. Callie figured he’d just go away now.
And then again, maybe not. The words just below the small screen said Alpha_ Male was typing.
Asshole.
“You know, trying to flirt with you is like trying to charm a cop out of a traffic ticket.”
Was this a rare form of flirting known only to the senior set? Insulting someone was the new way to flirt? Alpha_ Male had just let loose a good tweak and Callie was ready to go with it. Forget going with it—it flooded her in waves of irritation as her fingers clicked out a note back to Alpha, frickin’ arrogant Male. “Tell me one more thing, Alpha_ Male. Do you use the transvestite line at the senior citizens’ home at basket weaving classes as a way to pick up chicks? I think you ought to go back to charm school 101 and skip the crunches with the old foot pump.”
The screen remained blank. No reply from Alpha_Male.
Gee, too bad, so sad, you overbearing, pompous freak.
The earth was full. Go home.
Callie’s attention returned to the bigger screen and cringed. Jesus, the instant messages were like swarms of flies, popping up left and right and she didn’t have the foggiest idea of how to turn it off. She opted to ignore it in favor of the gigantic flood of e-mail she still had to answer. Not to mention the men who had “whispered” to her.
Callie had received three e-mails from Heavenly Hook Ups with the pictures and profiles of men who were too chicken to actually take the initiative and e-mail her, but chose to “whisper” their interest in her instead. It was an easy way to express your desire to communicate, yet get away unscathed if the party you were interested in didn’t express interest back.
Sissies.
Callie was going to ignore those now and spend her energy on responding to actual e-mails instead, skipping the men whose locations were undesirable, or at the very least sending a pleasant e-mail thanking them.
Scrolling the overflowing inbox of her e-mail a picture of a man with a gun caught her eye. Callie grimaced.
Boys and their toys.
Oooh, big toys too. That was quite the gun. A sniper rifle, she presumed. Well, shit, he must be in some branch of the service.
Callie clicked on Rambo’s profile before she opened the e-mail. Brian_SOF was his userid. SOF? Soldier of Fortune? Callie sighed. She didn’t need any warriors, thank you very much, but his picture captured her eyes anyway.
Daaaamn. He was cute. Sorta half devil may care and the other half all intense. His wavy, dark hair was cropped shortly above his ears and he had a sprinkling of stubble over his cheeks, chin and above his lip. A nice firm jaw, with a smile to match. He sure looked happy for someone who needed a big gun like that.
He wasn’t your typical hottie. This Brian didn’t have the slick look of some of the boy-toys she’d seen so far. But he was hot in the way only men who were secure could be. It didn’t look like he minded having his picture taken, yet he wasn’t posing either. The pictures weren’t of him bare chested and hamming it up for the camera. Just him and a gun…a big gun. He didn’t hold the gun like he was playing at being a tough guy either, rather it seemed a perfect extension of who he was and the job—whatever the job was—that he was doing.
Not a pretty boy for sure, kind of gruff and rugged, but playful.
A real manly-man this Brian_SOF.
Callie shivered as she ran her mouse over his profile. He probably couldn’t spell for all his testosterone and ammunition. As she read over his stats, she found herself sighing like a stupid girl in high school. Well, he was big. Like really big, He weighed nearly one-hundred pounds more than her and topped her by ten inches. Callie loved men who were tall and if they weighed a lot more than her, then her ass could only be an object that appeared smaller than it really was.
Hmmm, mmm good.
And he lived six flippin’ hours away. The site provided data on the distance between you and your potential interest, which was helpful, but she was getting an awful lot of mail from men who lived too far for her to interview.
This was beginning to push her buttons. Didn’t Brian read her profile? How much more clearly could she define California residents only? Rambo lived in Arizona and originally hailed from Mississippi.
A redneck. How predictable.
Even if he was a brick-shithouse redneck.
Callie opened his e-mail and began to read.
From: Brian_SOF
To: Writer66
Subject: Awesome
Hey writer66. I just had to drop you a note and tell you that your pic is awesome. I’d love to hear from you sometime.
Brian
Callie sat for a moment and thought about that. No one had ever called her awesome. Not that she could remember anyway. The word awesome glared at her and she smiled, but he still lived too far away to interview and it looked like he was in Iraq from the pictures she viewed in his profile, yet she felt a strange compulsion to e-mail him back anyway. What difference did it make if he lived in Arizona or Zimbabwe? Callie wasn’t in this to find her soul mate. She just wanted an article for her column that would bring in a flood of readers and keep her from being jobless. Truth be told, she was just a little flattered too…only a little and she couldn’t quite figure out why, she just was.
Brian_SOF’s picture and e-mail stirred something in Callie that she couldn’t define and didn’t want to. She didn’t spend much time looking at men because Frank, her ex, had ruined her ogling for good. No one since her divorce had made her libido do the dance of lust, yet Brian_SOF’s gave her a tingle. Still, it didn’t matter, Brian lived too far away so she could ogle all she wanted to.
Callie clicked reply
.
To: Brian_SOF
Subject: Re: Awesome
Dear Brian,
Well, thank you! Your e-mail made me smile, but would you answer one question for me? Why would you choose to e-mail someone who lives so far away from you? I’ve gotten a lot of e-mail from overseas and out of state. The writer in me is ever curious. I live in the land of surfers and tofu lovers and a cute guy e-mails me, and he has lots of potential, but he lives six hours away!
It’s just not fair! Anyway, thanks for the kind words!
Writer66
Callie sent it with a smile and a sigh of resignation. This was about research, not a concentrated effort to actually find the man of her dreams. He didn’t exist—not after her ex, Frank the freak. She didn’t need any dates for like real.
Just guinea pigs. Little test mice to take out of a cage and toy with, then safely return. No harm done.
No matter that they might be as cute as Brian. Ah, well, what was a little harmless flirting over cyber space anyway?
Chapter 2
Callie pushed the gate open to her small apartment and let it swing shut behind her, anxious to leave the day behind. She stuck the key in her door and turned it, giving a cursory glance around at her plants on her small cement patio. They needed watering, but she was too tired to do it.
She shoved open the door to find her favorite mammal on the entire planet safely back in her apartment. Callie and her ex-husband of ten years shared custody of their beagle, Aston. Ludicrous, sharing custody of a dog to be sure, but nonetheless it was part of a divorce agreement that by far would go down in the history of divorces as the one closest resembling The War of the Roses.
Frank had fought her tooth and nail on everything, including Aston. He didn’t really love Aston. Aston was a possession, just as Callie had been.
“Hey, Aston. Did the mean old wicked witch of Beverley Hills get your nails clipped?” Callie referred to Frank’s latest high-maintenance hootchie as she stooped to scratch Aston’s floppy ears. She got a whiff of the expensive perfume that Frank’s honey bathed in and wrinkled her nose. Aston flopped down on the floor and sighed with a long snort. “I know just what you mean. She smells like a two-dollar whore, huh?”
Sexy Lips 66 Page 2
