He never responded.
Recently, there was an underemployed commercial property developer/comedian/ actor.
I know. I should’ve known better.
A quick Google search didn’t reveal much, because he had a common name. One Googlegänger turned out to be a man in Detroit who was accused of murdering his wife. (I did an image search just in case.)
After Googling his silly non-name email address, I found his blog. It was a weird hybrid of ideas – critiques of current political train wrecks, pseudo-intellectual observations of the porn industry, photos of his shockingly sophisticated refrigerator contents.
We had a nice evening at a bar, alternately drinking wine and seltzer; there was a simple, pleasant kiss goodnight, and a “see you soon.”
A few days later he invited me over for lunch. That morning, I took a peek at his blog again, and found he had written a post about me. He was dying to get laid, but had failed to bed some other woman, so now, me, the “so-so looking Jewish girl,” would have to suffice.
I wasn’t really hurt by his assessment of me, but I was deeply offended that he had thought I was dumb enough to never find his blog. I ended up calling him to politely decline his lunch invitation and explain that if he wanted to get laid, it might be best to not blog about the women he was pursuing. This seemed to surprise him so much that he continued to blog about me – an overly sensitive and nice girl with whom he’d foiled an opportunity.
The next day there was an open apology on his blog, addressed to me and all of the other women he had yet to meet.
Look, I’m not the guy you’re going to marry. I’m juvenile, underemployed, often depressed, both narcissistic and self-loathing, often adrift and unsure…but I take care of myself. I’m not sloppy. I can make a stiff drink and braise a leg of lamb. I’d love to see French films with you, and I dream of cunnilingus.
My takeaway here is a little selfish, but it’s simple. If you’re an online sleazebag and a seemingly decent person in the flesh, could you please just be an asshole in the real world and make things a little easier for me?
“It’s a good thing he dreams of cunnilingus,” remarked my virtuous and very married friend David. “Because that’s all he’ll be doing.”
“What a schmuck,” I complained to my friend who’d last dated well before the advent of the Internet.
“His loss. Your ‘Poker Face’ moment.”
Perhaps, I thought. The only difference is I usually don’t bluff with my muffin – I use a Web browser instead.