I posted a couple of ads up here during the last few months under the “women seeking men” section.
The first meeting was for coffee with a blue-eyed lanky man who told me that he had come through his trials with one gleaming jewel of truth, and that was all he needed, except maybe a partner to walk through the pearly gates with. “Life is a long joke,” he told me. “Heaven is when you finally get it.” He smiled a lot, was beaming with happiness, busting every now and then into relieved laughter, as if he’d just been missed by a truck. “You’re sure about that,” I asked him, and he, laughing, held out his hand over the table, as if he was inviting me to run across a meadow towards the horizon. I gave it a friendly squeeze and never called the number he gave me, because I know very well what happens when you run toward the horizon; you get smaller and smaller until you vanish. Was I discouraged? Of course I was discouraged, I was born somewhat discouraged, but in terms of action that’s neither here nor there.
The next time around on Craig’s List I got together with a man named Jake (Hi Jake) and he was witty to the point of glibness on the phone, so I thought I’d give him a shot. Over lunch he began to tell me a little bit about himself. He told me it was a miracle he was disease free, with the lifestyle he had once lived. He said he was looking for a women who explored alternative lifestyles and was comfortable enough with herself to be open about it. He had always, he said, loved my type – brainy girls, with big boobs and notions of freedom. Of course, he had a girlfriend, so we couldn’t actually have sexual intercourse, but he would love to lick my areolas and suck my nipples until they were swollen. But I had a reasonable sense of perspective. He so clearly meant to humiliate and degrade me that it was all I could do not to fall for him, but my vitamin regimen made me strong, and I left him there midsentence.
It began to seem to me as if there was simply no hope of finding a little comfort in the world outside my apartment, but just when I turned my attention elsewhere I stumbled on an uncut jewel, a pretty boy who liked girls, had green eyes, and could spell “phlegm” or “defecate” if he had to. He answered the ad with great trepidation, feelings of overwhelming shame and geekiness overridden by the normal human imperatives. But here I am to tell you that it all went to hell.
So here I am in casual encounters. I’ll just settle for breast feeding someone and a hand job. I am free around 5:30 (that time came and went and blah blah blah). Could meet you in the parking lot behind the Hong Kong Flower Lounge. You: neither sociopath or systems analyst. And in your 20’s and caucasian, PLEASE.
My last encounter last night (who I’d met at Nola’s in Palo Alto) turned out to be a schizophrenic man who might be shipped off to distant cousins in Iowa or Nebraska, doomed to spend his days with an American gothic couple who had agreed, for a fee, to take in their relative who never spoke. Oh well, at least he gave my areolas some attention.