“Lena!” She takes it so far sometimes.
“Oh and Laila, I found out some juicy gossip,” she said in a low whisper. An image of her looking over her shoulder for eavesdroppers came to mind.
“Yeah?” Nothing better than tittle-tattle with Lena on Sundays. It’s like catching up on the latest episode of a favorite TV show.
“You remember, Gina Reeves from high school?
“Uh-huh. What about her?” I asked, waiting on her to get to the point. Who could forget the girl, who asked the football captain to homecoming in the middle of the pep rally and got rejected before the whole school. Gina wasn’t a beauty queen by any means, but she was decent looking. A little thick around the edges with a mild case of acne, but give her some TLC and she could definitely turn a few heads.
“Well, Denise knows her cousin, who said Gina had totally given up on getting married, but she went on this dating site and found someone. Her wedding is next year and it’s supposed to be this big to-do that everyone’s talking about. He’s some wealthy guy, who owns like two casinos.”
“Okay?” I probed, failing to see why the news was classified as “juicy.”
“So what do you think?” she responded.
“Think about what, Lena? Should I send her congratulations or something?” I still didn’t understand what I was supposed to think and why Lena was so excited.
“When I heard that Gina, who is nowhere near as hot as you are, is going to be married, I thought about you, Laila. Just because the club wasn’t necessarily your cup of tea, I don’t want you to give up and crawl back into your hole, shutting us all out again. I had so much fun with you last night. It was like old times. So…,”—I could just feel a flawed plan coming on—“…I was hoping you might consider online dating, like Gina did.” She literally exhaled, like she’d been holding her breath the whole time. I knew she was cringing with her fingers crossed, waiting for me to respond.
“Lena, I don’t know. Last night was fun, if only for the shock value, but I’m still trying to determine if I want to start all over again. You, of all people, should know what I’ve been through with Ethan. I don’t feel like I can bear anything like that a second time. Right now, I’m content to let the focus stay on you and Sam for a while. One wedding is enough, don’t you think?”
Lena didn’t even acknowledge what I had to say. She just kept right on trucking toward her mission to get me back in the saddle again.
“You could try it out and see what kind of guys you like within the safety of your own home. And if no one strikes an interest, just delete them,” she argued, expertly aligned with my overactive paranoia. The best way to appeal to me has always been with logic. She never joined the debate team because she said it was for nerds, but I’ve always believed that Lena could have been a brilliant, well-dressed lawyer.
“Lena, that’s just not for me.”
“You don’t really have to do anything. Sign up, and they do the rest. You check your e-mail every day, right?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s the same thing. Just check your inbox, and men that meet your criteria will be waiting. Basically, online dating is like choosing from an à la carte menu.” And for good measure, “Even you can do that, Laila.” As if it’s for dummies and I was the target market. There went another objection she could check off her list.
“I don’t know. Maybe.” What could it hurt to browse a bit, I pondered. She’d gotten to me, but it’s in my stubborn nature to give at least one last objection, for argument’s sake. “I wouldn’t even know where to start or which website…”
Knowing Lena, I shouldn’t have been surprised that she had already done her research. “I thought you’d say ‘no,’ but I pulled together a few profile ideas just in case.” Her organization never ceased to amaze me. It dawned on me that I was her “little project.” Typical Lena, the tinker in her, always needed something or someone to fix. Might as well take all the help I could get, so I relented.
“Which one are we going to use?” I asked, out of objections, succumbing to the pressure and enlisting her help. I typed in the address for the website she said, Suited&Paired.com, aptly titled for locals of Vegas. The cute pictures of kings and jacks weren’t as outlandish as I thought it’d be. Visions of scantily clad women and hypersexualized heathens waiting to lure me into bondage and lust had crossed my mind. Instead, my curiosity officially piqued enough to dig deeper. All of a sudden, I felt bold. A little bit more like myself. Entering the site, I sifted through men the way I picked out blinds and tiles—and it was empowering.
There’s something that felt right about being back in command. As a small child, coy was never a word used to describe me. Rambunctious, maybe. I’d always found it interesting to walk up to complete strangers holding hands and ask how they’d met, how long they’d been together, and what it was like being married. Every answer helped shape my own dream of a future wedding. Somehow, when I was audaciously interrogating couples to get a better picture of intimacy, I never thought I’d be thirty-one, brokenhearted, and alone. At that point, I should’ve figured something out. According to my naïve plan, two-and-half kids, a chocolate Labrador retriever, and my devilishly handsome husband should have been playing within the confines of my white picket-fenced yard, in front of my two-story colonial. It never occurred to me that finding someone special wasn’t an entitlement.
In my teenage years, growing up in Sin City meant the buxom blonde was the poster child for quintessential beauty. Consequently, I was the literal black sheep. Leveling off just below my shoulder blades, my onyx hair used to make me feel out of place and freakish, but it got me noticed nonetheless. Getting attention from boys wasn’t a work of labor. Many times, I considered cutting it and bleaching it to a more subtle mousy-brown to fit in, but conformity never was my strong suit. Sure, some guys preferred the sweet cheerleader type, but most craved the exotic goth that oozed from my red bones. It was the implied danger and mystery that appealed to most guys, along with the curvaceous shape and full lips that I owe to my mother. Between luring looks and the challenge to deflower me, I was the chance for a boy to get what all the others wanted.
Being chased was one thing, but chasing gave me a rush. I never shied away from asking guys to school dances or asking them for their phone numbers. As I’d come within inches of their ears, suggestively leaning in to let my warm breath seep in and travel south to get their full attention, I’d sashay away to allow them to scramble after me, begging for more. That’s all that boys were for me, fun and games.
I should’ve given a few of the good ones a real chance. Some of them turned out to be great men. Jake Reynolds was a nerd, complete with a protector and valedictorian tucked neatly in his pocket. Three years earlier, I ran into him at McCarran and my how Jake had grown into a full-blown man. Bifocals had been swapped for contacts and a T-shirt that failed to hide his chiseled abwork beneath. He’d blossomed nicely. Playing with computers may have been a hobby for geeks back in high school, but he’d turned it into a lucrative career as CEO to a systems analysis firm. I looked on admiringly, but my eyes were only for Ethan then. Still, it’s unsettling to think I let so many opportunities like Jake, who might’ve been someone special, pass me by.
Teetering between prowling at the club and surveying new territory online made me miss that time of blind complacency. Especially since the idea of online dating was repulsive. Nothing could replace meeting in person. The personal connection when you heard his voice. The intonation. The sincerity or lack there of. Maybe, his laugh. Or, the touch of his skin when his fingers lightly grazed my skin, telling me he just wanted to be near in any way I’d let him. My favorite, the look in his eyes, when our eyes meet, and we both knew we’d risk sleep and sanity in the morning rather than leave each other’s side. Seemed like an unworthy exchange for ogling a stranger’s picture on a laptop. But, the alternative, grinding a mating dance in the club and not even remembering why some bloke was slobbering on my Egyptian c
otton pillowcase in the morning, could not compare.
With the username and password Lena set up for me, I jumped in feet first. To my dismay, the first thing that popped up on the page was an overly patriotic picture Mom took of me at last year’s Fourth of July barbecue, wearing a red, white, and blue striped tank top and a Kool-Aid smile. The oily sweat on my face from the dry heat that Lena tried unconvincingly to tell me was dew, made my skin look greasy. Apparently, it showed off the intensity in my eyes and the symmetrical lining of my face. It wasn’t the photo I would’ve chosen for myself, but at least I didn’t have to indecisively sift through mounds of pictures to find one that I would approve. As directed, I continued to answer a hundred questions about myself, in order for my possible pairings to be suited and sent to me.
“Now Laila, be honest or else you’ll never find your suited pair.” Lena couldn’t contain her excitement. Finally, she’d gotten her shot to take on my dating life as her latest challenge. She was already using the website lingo, while I tried to figure out whether I was looking for a guy or playing poker.
“Okay, can you at least let me read the questions before you start hounding me about answering honestly!” She meant well, but it didn’t make it any less annoying to be pestered about dating by my baby sister.
By the time I finally finished answering all the questions and selecting the scenarios that best described my outlook on men, life and my perfect date, Lena’d left me to the wolves and I needed a third wind to kick in. Without being under her watchful ear, I pushed the laptop to the side. One more Sunday perk, like being back in kindergarten, after a hard day of playing, there was always room for naptime.
As timely as ever, with the first flicker of my dosing eyes, the computer pinged, alerting me of possible suited pairs. Despite the prospect of catching a few winks, the sleep instantly subsided and I jumped at the shot to get a glimpse at my potential matches. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach as I woke the computer.
One. Count 'em, one measly match popped up. True, only half an hour passed since my page became active, but a sole match? Either I was utterly repulsive to the opposite sex, Sunday is the worst dating day of the week, or marital bliss just wasn’t in the cards for me. My self-esteem sank. I shrugged it off and clicked on the lone candidate as a perky audio message sounded, “Royal Flush! You have a suited pair.” Although I preferred blackjack, I dabbled in poker enough to know that a royal flush was the best you could get.
I sat up a little straighter and held on to the little hope I had left. Maybe it wouldn’t take a million matches, just one that mattered. All I needed was one good guy. According to our match percentage, we were ninety-nine point eight percent compatible. Couldn’t beat that. He was practically perfect for me in every way, except for the fact that his ideal date included a long walk on the beach and I chose movies and dinner. I could do long walks on white sand beaches.
Compromising wasn’t an issue. My real hang up? He opted not to have a profile picture. I liked to think I was progressive enough that looks wouldn’t matter, but the shallow side of me reared its ugly head. Little thought bubbles popped into my head making me wonder whether he was repulsive to kiss. Glimpses of some hideous pervert hiding behind the screen to compensate for his shortcomings kept reeling across my mind: the gluttonous slob loitering on social networking and porn sites, the fifteen-year-old with a Mrs. Robinson complex hoping to score with an older woman, or worse, the serial killing sociopath casing for his next victim. Even though Michael Myers never talked, for some reason I envisioned some new age version of him in his antique William Shatner mask sitting at a computer, hunting me down to the beat of the bloodcurdling theme music. No picture? Definitely a deal breaker.
Right smack dab in the middle of my mental combat, he sent me an instant message.
LVGent: Hello gorgeous!
SEVEN
Of all the times Lena could dodge my calls, she chose the moment I actually needed her two cents, to abandon me. After the third attempt on her home phone, alternating back and forth from her cell, she finally answered.
“Lena! I need your help,” I pleaded. “What should I say?”
“Say about what?” she replied, excitedly.
“The guy from online. He sent me a message and I don’t have a clue what to say to him,” I said, completely frazzled.
“Uh, ‘hello’ would be a great start.” She sounded more like the elder of the two of us. She’s always been more mature when it concerned dating. “Laila, grow up and talk to the man. He can’t bite from online. Now, I’ve got better things to do at the moment, so be a grown-up and chat with the guy, and then call me when something actually happens. Gotta go!”
The dial tone let me know I was on my own. Just like that—me, the computer, and God knows who, on the other end. Here goes nothing.
LovelyLady: Hello?
With emerging caution, I treaded lightly. It was the closest thing to a whisper that could be typed.
LVGent: I didn’t think you’d respond.
LovelyLady: I’m sorry. I wasn’t at my computer.
I lied, giving him as little information about me as possible.
LVGent: Well, I’m glad you finally did. I’ve been looking at your profile for the last 30 minutes and I couldn’t wait to talk to you.
Instant messaging is so creepy. It’s the virtual equivalent of being in a dark room in a haunted mansion with no flashlight and only movements and sounds to avoid total disorientation. I kept thinking about those dumb unsuspecting people in horror movies who are home alone, but run around yelling “hello” at the top of their lungs, letting the killer know exactly where they are. I just want to yell, “People come on! Who are you talking to? If anyone answers, that’s not a good thing.”
LovelyLady: I’m sort of an amateur at this. It’s my first time being on a dating site.
I decided to give him a chance rather than suffer the wrath of Lena.
LVGent: The hardest part is done. You’ve set up your profile and we’ve already been matched. Now it’s up to us to take it to the next step. So, you game?
Maybe. As long as you’re not a psycho sick lunatic.
LovelyLady: You make it seem so easy. So, all I have to do is answer a bunch of questions and then I’m matched up with “the one?”
So, poof and it’s magic? Really?
LVGent: “The one?”
LovelyLady: Yeah, you know the elusive guy that every woman has been searching for since they were nine and have yet to find through speed-dating, disaster blind dates, and on-purpose chance meetings.
LVGent: Oh, that one. So, don’t tell me you still believe in Santa Claus, too?
LovelyLady: LOL. You don’t? You must’ve been on the naughty list.
Or, on America’s Most Wanted. Is that you, Dexter?
LVGent: LMAO! No. Maybe, if you decide to meet me, then you can determine whether I’m naughty or nice.
LovelyLady: Are you flirting with me, LVGent? You don’t sound too much like a gentleman.
Okay, I was intrigued. He might have been charming, but Ted Bundy was charming.
LVGent: I wouldn’t dare, with such a Lovely Lady. ;)
LovelyLady: So really, tell me a little bit about you. You’re profile said that you’re pretty much perfect for me. You are my “suited pair” in a “royal flush” no doubt. LOL (so corny) I know the sense of humor part was true, what about everything else?
Feel free to tell me all the stuff that would likely be on a background check.
LVGent: It’s all true! I’ve already been through the trenches and I’m finally ready to settle down. Although…I’m better in person.
LovelyLady: Warning! I’m kind of a skeptic. Meeting in person will take some time for me. Not that comfortable, yet. I don’t know you.
It’s not going to be that easy, bucko!
LVGent: That’s fine with me. What do you have in mind?
LovelyLady: 20 questions too corny?
LVGent: LOL! Just my
style.
Unknowingly, we forwent the twenty questions, partially because I lost count somewhere around seventeen and partially because I still needed more answers. After much interrogation on my part, I found out that the “LVG” in LVGent, stood for Larry Vincent Gentry, the recently divorced thirty-six-year old, self-employed owner of Tailored Gent, menswear. A victim of infidelity, he hadn’t let his faith in love subside. With such optimism, it’s no wonder his favorite color changed from plain old blue to “happy yellow”—even after going through the hell that is bereaving a loved one, whether death is involved or not. I’d worried that he might be burned beyond recovery, but that suspicion quickly subsided when we moved away from trivial questions and I learned about the loss of his father and the strong women who nurtured and raised him never to give up on love. It was a welcome change to know that he could be secure in his manhood, yet in touch with his sensitive side and personal passions.
An international traveler, he’d been all over the Americas, Asia, and Australia, but Europe was where his brief stint as a fashion model in his twenties found him falling in love with the skilled art of designing and tailoring fine garments. In Italy, historical museums and architectural gems, which surrounded picturesque canals, inspired Larry. Though the modeling was short-lived, it funded the opportunity for him to spend a year completing an apprenticeship, perfecting the craft that turned out to be his calling.
It's Got A Ring To It Page 5
