Stories about dating, divorce, desire, desperation--all that good stuff.
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Who's Imagining All This?
[b]Dating My Vibrator (and other true fiction) [/b], is a collection of nine true, and almost true, short stories all based (unfortunately) on my own dating experience. After nineteen years of marriage, I was thrust into a brave new world of dating: online, offline, standing in line, listening to lines--and I've survived to tell these tales. [b]CAUTION[/b]: if you're contemplating a divorce, these stories may convince you to seek marriage counseling. If you're out there dating, chances are you will relate. OMG, here's a scary thought: maybe you've met some of these guys. Names have been changed to protect the guilty.
I remove my glasses, so I can really see him. Could be handsome if he’d smile. His face is soft, a little bland. Indefinite.
“So, you’re a Buddhist?”
“Yeah.” He looks around distractedly.
Friday, and the place is packed. Dim lighting and alcohol mask the lines that creep across my forehead, enhance the lines designed to lure me into bed. I spot another guy I met on Match. The accountant. About a month ago, we went out for coffee. Dutch. He’s wearing a black tee-shirt; I can’t see the logo but I suspect it says Harley-Davidson. Our conversation consisted of a blow-by-blow description of rebuilding his motorcycle. I don’t mind a guy who’s passionate about transmissions, but our date ended abruptly when he asked if I’d be into group sex.
Not if the group includes you.
Didn’t say that, but I thought it.
Truthfully, the idea of getting naked with one person is frightening enough. A middle-aged group-grope holds as much appeal as a colonoscopy. In fact, a colonoscopy might be more pleasurable; they use good drugs to knock you out.
I focus on my current date. The Buddhist thing intrigues me—I want a guy who’s conscious.
“These are good.” He drains his glass and motions to the waitress. “Another Appletini.”
I didn’t know Buddhists were so into alcohol.
The waitress glances at my drink, tonic with a hint of gin—the Happy Hour special. I’ve barely touched it. Alcohol makes me forget things, like promises I make. For example: no jumping into bed on a first date. I’m not taking any chances.
“A glass of water, please.”
I turn back to my date. His name on Match is Dharma Dan. Dharma means truth—I looked it up—and I want a guy who’s honest, a guy who seeks the truth. I find that attractive. I want a man who delves beneath the surface.
Dharma Dan is frowning, lost in contemplation.
“What are you thinking?” I ask.
Okay, maybe he’s not big on conversation. But still waters can run deep, and I’m looking for a deep connection.
“Is your place close?” he asks.
“Not too far.”
“I’d like to see it.”
I stare into my gin and tonic. I thought we had an understanding. We’ve talked a few times on the phone, and I’ve told him I need time. I told him I want to go slow, and he said he was fine with that.
The hole in our conversation deepens into a crater.
I chase ice cubes around my drink with a plastic sword, deftly stab the lime.
When we spoke on the phone, we seemed to have some things in common. I’m divorced and so is he. We both like Chinese food…. There must be something else, but I can’t remember.