Of Personals, Lies, and Kicks to the Groin

There's no shame in trying, but there's plenty in getting kicked in the nuts.

Sometimes it takes perseverance to get what you want. If you persevere and win, mazel tov, you wind up the subject of a 12 minute docudrama during the Olympics. You're everyone's hero.

But when the crossbar's just a bit too high, when the skate edge is a bit too dull, when destiny, with a thumb on the scales and a smirk on her face, pulls her leg back, and WHA-BAM! connects full-on with your groin, you lie there for a minute, face turning green, balls turning blue, with an entire stadium laughing and pointing.

Now, in that sort of situation some people are able to get up, dust themselves off and keep going.

They're better than me.

People like me, we're more likely to stay down, unable to catch our breath. We wind up relegated to the "Potpourri" column on Jeopardy.

"For $400, he crashed and burned in the high jump."

After a second, Pat, the pig foot pickler from Pomona, chimes in. "Who is … ooh, I know this … Utica Hank?"

"No, I'm sorry. Anyone else?"

No one else rings in, Helen from Helena retains control of the board, and the contestants move on to "Things That Start with 'Fecal'" for $200.

Such has been my love life over the years. Here, it isn’t much better. The closest I've come to romance in the past nine months was a made-for-TV movie I sat through one night when I couldn't find the remote.

I work in a building in Albany where the median age is 84, and all the desks are drool soaked. There just aren't many women within a generation of my age to speak to.

It happens every day: I'm walking down the hall and ahead of me I see a woman who’s beautiful from behind – a “B.F.B.” in the local dialect. Ears perked up, I walk a little more quickly until I'm within a few feet.

And then she turns around and I have one of those slasher flick moments: My internal soundtrack screams "REE! REE! REE!" and my eyes jump-zoom closer and closer on each beat, until her 70 year-old wrinkles and missing teeth are all I see. I scream in a voice four octaves below my speaking voice, "Noooooooooooo!"

After one such encounter about three months ago in which I almost tapped a geriatric on the shoulder and asked her if she maybe wanted to go grab a few drinks ("Hey, baby. Wanna go with … Oh, uh, my bad."), I decided that I wasn’t gonna stay down, lying on the ground, cupping my balls.

I was gonna have to make matters into my own hands if I didn’t want to succumb to the nard punt of rejection.

I was gonna have to be proactive.

I was gonna have to make things happen for myself.

I was gonna have to take out a personal.

I figured, hell, I'm a writer. I’ve seen advertisements before. A couple emails would be all I'd need to get someone to fall under my sway (at least until they saw me in person, at which point all I'd need would be some shackles, a club, and maybe some heavy sedatives).

It was the perfect plan.

After choosing a personals site at random on the internet, I sat down aiming to write the perfect pitch of myself: funny, urbane, not fat, not totally psycho. Two hours later, having realized how damn near impossible that was, I got up from my desk, scratched myself, grabbed a beer and turned on the hockey game.

Now, back before electricity, losers placed personal ads in newspapers. Because space was so limited, all you could fit was a random string of abbreviations and a catchy headline, so "Big, Sassy, Beautiful: Hot 350LB BBW into BDSM looking for SJJT for WGFG KTTIYT" wasn’t just an acceptable ad; it was damn near Dostoevsky.

O, to live in those simpler days! Now, with the unlimited space available on the net, you need a novella. You need to describe your attitude about life, share your ambitions, talk about your hobbies. Therein lies the difficulty: my attitude’s bad, my main ambition is to eat a burrito in every state before I die, and my only real hobby is beating up old people. There just isn’t the demand for those things.

I quickly realized that to make myself even remotely attractive, there was really only one avenue to take: massive, massive amounts of lying.

“Hi there. I’m a tall, athletic professional polo player (water, not horseback) with good hair and white teeth. While I am heir to the largest ointment company in America – my dad was John H. Preparation III – I’m still down-to-Earth, laid back and like to kick back with my homies. My hobbies include skydiving, modeling, and rescuing babies from fires. I’m also a world-class pastry chef. I especially like sunshiny days and Broadway musicals. Some day, I hope to become President. If this sounds like what you’re looking for, drop me a line!”

That sounded about right. Next I had to come up with a description of “Your Perfect Match.” This one was a little easier:

“HOTTTTT. Applicants must be blonde, slender, and have juggs. Note the double ‘g’. Some brunettes may be considered, but I wouldn’t get my hopes up. Must also be able to spell and name the starting lineups of the Buffalo Bills and Sabres. Hell, you should just be smarter than me in general. Please, no fat chicks. Seriously.”

With a deep sense of satisfaction I hit ‘Post’, waited an hour, then checked my email. Nothing. Waited another hour. Nothing. Waited a day. Nothing. A week. Nothing. A month, two months, three months. Shockingly, nothing. And then I forgot about it.

And then it came:

“SUBJECT: You’ve got mail from loveslimbo.com!
FROM: BunniHugger334@loveslimbo.com

“hi, i liked your profile. polo players are hot. i don’t have juggs, but i do have some nice potts i boght from an aztec woman in gatemala with deers on them, they’re great. write me back if u want to talk or something. tell me about yourself. -Jeanine”

Wow.

Wow!

I loved it. OK, so maybe she had some spelling and geographical issues, but, hell, she liked my profile, seemed to like traveling, and wasn’t (yet) repulsed by the idea of me. The only problem was that I wasn’t sure whether she understood the whole thing was bullshit. Oh well. Time to find out.

“SUBJECT: Be my bureaucrat
TO: BunniHugger334@loveslimbo.com

“Hi, Jeanine. Thanks for writing, but before going any further, I gotta be honest: I made some of that stuff up. I’m actually not a professional polo player; just an amateur. And I’m not so much ‘tall’ as I am, say, not short. The rest of it was true, more or less. Sorta.

“Here’s the Reader’s Digest version of my story: I grew up in sunny Buffalo, did a couple things, and then about nine months ago, wound up in Albany. Currently, I’m pursuing my dream of becoming a Furniture Relocation Specialist.

“So, who are you, and what are you doing here? Personally, I find bureaucracy really sexy, so I’m hoping you have something to do with state government, or, at the very least, paperwork.

“What sort of things do you like to do? Do you have a police record? If you could only have one food for the rest of your life other than pasta, what would it be? I’m fairly new to this whole personal-writing thing, so if there are any other questions you think you should answer, please do so.

“In any case, I should go do some things, because if there were two words that describe me, they’d be productive and motivated. Thanks for writing, and I hope to hear from you again.

“Sexily yours,
Albany C. Dan”

All in all, not a bad effort. In fact, I dare say that if any email was gonna get me laid, it was that one. And even if it didn’t, in terms of not being completely ignored by a female, I was already doing better than I had at any point in the past year. Go me!

I’d sent that email at 10:30 Monday evening, and by 10:30 Tuesday morning, there was a reply waiting in my inbox.

“SUBJECT: no polo, no fat guys
FROM: BunniHugger334@loveslimbo.com

“hi, dan – i figured you weren’t a pro polo player since the nearest team is in poughkeepsie and that would be a really long drive for you everyday. so long as ur not fat and don’t have a nasty haircut that’s ok by me.

“i moved ehre 2001 in august for a job teaching englis to middle school kids i like it a lot – teaching kids is sooo rewarding!!! i love them and i want to have my own kids someday soon.

“no, i don’t have a police record hahaha :) although my last boyfriend got a ticket for not id-ing customers at his tatoo parlor where i met him. i dont get that law – middle schoolers are old enough to make up their minds for themselves and besides tatoos are really in now and i still like all of mine 4 years later.

“as for the food thing i would have to say anything vegan because like they say meat=murder! ever since my 5th-grade field trip to the slaughterhouse i haven’t been able to eat cow and anyone who does obviously has never been toa slaughterhouse or they wouldn’t eat meat at all!

“hmmmm what else should you know? well, my friends would say im an extra nice individual and caring and I’m passionate about my passions for dancinfg. i go out dancing almost every nite because music is such a huge part of who i am. it defines me. i would also say i think im definitely attractive, i have blonde hair and brown eyes and im kinda skinny but athletic.

“its good to hear ur so productive. its ok to be one of those a little dorky guys who only like to read the internet and books all day and who only like to go to movies and sports but that’s not what people like us go for.

“i have to go now my students are waking up from ther naps and its time for story time for them. before i go let me ask you some questions – what’s ur favorite music? do you like animals? what sports do u play? most important do u like kids???

“well that does it for now write back sometime. good to hear from you. -j.”

Huh.

OK, so maybe we had some divergent interests. Maybe I didn’t like dancing or kids as much as she did, or at all. Maybe I think tattoos are a little lame. Maybe I’m one of those “dorky guys who only like to read the internet and books all day and who only like to go to movies and sports.” So what? I still thought it could work, and if I needed some further creative interpretations of reality, so be it.

This was about love, man.

“SUBJECT: Dance Dance Revolution!
TO: BunniHugger334@loveslimbo.com

“Hey, Jeanine. Good to hear from you again. I know what you mean about those ‘reading’ types; personally, I just learned to read two years ago, and I almost feel guilty about it. Reading takes too much time away from important things like, say, going to the gym. Gotta pump that iron! And I do, at least six times a week.

“As far as other sports go, let’s see: there’s bocce, hockey (ice and street), football (but not soccer, which is hella gay), darts, jarts, triathlons, biathlons, athlons, bike racing (I won the Tour de France a few years ago, sorta), competitive stunt flying, and the South African sport Aktuba, which involves nipple piercings, beer and a giraffe. It’s pretty wild.

“I’m glad you like dancing as much as I do; it’s how I express myself, you know? The only time I feel really alive is when I’m shakin’ my thang on the dance floor. I guess because of that, my favorite music is anything dance-y, or at least Top 40. If it’s not on the charts, I don’t want to hear it. I ain’t got time for that.

“I don’t know which I like more, kids or animals. If I had to choose, I’d probably say kids, because they can eventually talk, and they have more bowel control. I love both of ‘em, though, so long as they stay on the paper. Regardless, I’m glad you’re a teacher. Kids today need smart, kind people like you so they don’t wind up in gangs. Good for you.

“Peace be with you,
Dan”

I know, I know. Most likely, yeah, she’d catch on to the whole “lying” thing eventually, but that was a problem for later, like where to hide if the sun explodes. On the other hand, it was also possible that she wouldn’t, in which case booyah for me.

To be honest, though, I was feeling more and more confident with each email. She seemed to dig my writing and I’d made myself out to be the super-stud I’m not, but that I should be. Hell, I was already picking out outfits in my head and figuring out which would be better first date food: shitty Thai or shitty Italian.

Another 12 hours later, she threw the gauntlet back to me.

“SUBJECT: um – good 4 u
FROM: BunniHugger334@loveslimbo.com

“wow u only learned how to read 2 years ago? it says in ur profile that ur 27 years old. How come it took you 25 years to read?? anyways good for u its hard to do even at 2 forget about 25. still theres nothing wrong with reading once in a while im just saying not all the time you know?

“wow um sounds like ur really busy all the time. are u sure you even have time to go out with me :) ?? speaking of that i think maybe we should wait a little bit and maybe get to know 1 another by email a little bit more first. btw ur real brave for not even asking for my pic yet … for all u know i could look like that chick from the golden girls.

“anyways i should go, things are real busy here at work today. –j.”

Doh. Suffice it to say, that didn’t look good. She was getting suspicious and I didn’t know what to do next. Should I ask her out? Should I make more small talk? Should I lie some more?

Then it hit me: send a photo. For one thing, it would make it seem like I was telling the truth, because, good Christ, who the hell would use a photo of me if they wanted to make themselves look good? For another, I could play off the whole not having asked for her photo thing. I’m sensitive like that.

Granted, the plan was fraught with danger. Strangely enough, some people aren’t attracted to swarthy, overweight guys who look like they haven’t seen a barber’s chair in months. Crazy, crazy, I know, but, well, there it is. I knew full well that this was my last chance.

Do you hear that? That’s the sound of the gauntlet being thrown down.

“SUBJECT: I totally understand.
TO: BunniHugger334@loveslimbo.com

“Oh, c’mon now. There’s nothing brave about that. I’m not one of those guys who cares what you look like. I mean, what do you think I am, superficial? Hahaha – of course I’m not.

“Regardless, just in case you want one, here’s a picture of me. I don’t really have very many – I don’t believe in pictures of myself – so I hope you like this one. I took it in a hospital in India, where I had stopped to work with lepers. They’re some wonderful, beautiful people. Well, more wonderful than beautiful, but you get the idea.

“So, I dunno, hope you like my picture. Maybe we could go grab some dinner or something sometime. Hope to hear from you again soon.

“Photographically,
Danno”

Some people really like waiting. Some people seem to be under the impression that the longer you wait for something, the better it’ll be, as if time is some sort of artificial sweetener.

I’m not one of those people.

And so it was with nerves on a knife’s edge, hoping she’d like the photo, hoping I hadn’t overplayed my hand like a teenage poker player, that I went about my business that day while checking my email semi-obsessively. Jeanine always wrote back at about the 12 hour mark, but I couldn’t help myself. I checked in 15 minutes after I hit send, and another half-hour after that. After the eighth time checking in five hours, I promised myself that I wouldn’t check again until the full 12 hours had passed.

As the second hand swept passed the 12 of the appointed minute, I signed onto the computer. I skimmed through the penis enlargement ads, past the breast enlargement ads, and past the letters from a banker in Nigeria who just needed my bank account number to secure $35 million in frozen assets.

With a searing blue flash of insight, I realized the one letter I had been waiting for wasn’t there.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

OK, OK. I had to collect myself. Her silence could mean anything. Maybe she’s busy at work. Maybe she’s taking care of her dying mother. Maybe she got hit in the head with one of those frozen chunks of urine that occasionally fall from passing jetliners. Who knows? The fact that she was taking longer than usual to write back didn’t necessarily mean she thought I was ugly or psycho or anything.

A full day went by. Another full day went by. A full weekend went by. Monday hit and I had to find out.

“SUBJECT: ??
TO: BunniHugger334@loveslimbo.com

“So, umm, you still there?”

After I’d been sitting at my computer for 19 hours straight, I almost lost bowel control when the computer chirped at me in its cool, confident voice, “You’ve got mail.”

“SUBJECT: re: ??
FROM: BunniHugger334@loveslimbo.com

“yeah i’m still here. nice picture – ur the fattest polo player i’ve ever seen. do us both a favor and go away. i have to go – fingerpainting is getting a little out of hand. –j.”

So blunt, so typical, and such a kick in the nuts. I mean, for the love of God, these ads and emails were my best representations of myself. Granted, yeah, they were lies, but if they weren’t good enough, what is? My real picture sure as hell wasn’t.

I was tempted to write back. I was gonna say something like, “Oh yeah? Well, um, you can’t spell! And, uh, tattoos are soooo last year!” But I didn’t. That’s the thing about kicks to the groin: after enough of ‘em, you don’t want to get up anymore.

I’ll take “Wounded Pride” for $1000 please, Alex.

Posted by albanydan at July 11, 2002 01:52 PM