Internet Dates From Hell Part 5

I felt foolish! He was right! Although quite forceful, Mickey remained polite and respectful throughout. I immediately apologized for my rudeness.

He responded with, "No need to apologize, Trish. There's nothing better than frankness on a first date. I admire that trait in you. Now let me be frank with you."

In the midst of his statement, I cut him off with one of my patented questions, "Don't tell me that you use the Internet for those encounters, do you?"

"As a matter of fact, I do, now that you asked."

Asked? Pried is more like it. I was actually prying into his personal life, and I had only known him for just a few hours. Who was I to do that? But then again, this was my life and I didn't want to get involved with anyone without a normal sense of control regarding his s.e.xual impulses. Mickey continued. It was downright shocking what he revealed in the next few minutes. He told me that he had been meeting with prost.i.tutes (high-end call girls, as he referred to them) over the past seven "dry" years. He admitted that at times these encounters were weekly and that the highest-end wh.o.r.e was upwards of $500. I am glad that he didn't tell me what he paid for the low-end ladies. Without pause, he detailed the different Web sites he had done business with. The only drawback seemed to be the expenses he had (not for the hos, but for the "ho"-tel rooms, due to the fact that he lived with his parents). His demeanor never wavered. It was almost as if he was proud of his accomplishments (s.e.xual conquests is what I called them). I decided to let Mickey talk until he was finished rather than deliver my own philosophy regarding the issue. The last thing I remember him saying was that he was going to treat himself to a high-cla.s.s call girl this Christmas if this date doesn't work out. I thought to myself, "Well then, make your call, boy, because this isn't going anywhere." Although there weren't any Ho Ho Hos in my Christmas that year, I'm sure Mickey had a few of his own.

16.

Pay Attention to Red Flags.

December 2000.

Only a few weeks later, the week of Christmas, I ironically received an interesting e-mail from Jamie, a thirty-five-year-old attorney from Stamford, Connecticut. I say ironically because during the week of Christmas, Internet dating reaches its nadir. By that time of the year, most people have either found someone to share the holiday spirit with, or are preoccupied with their family responsibilities. Jamie, however, persisted throughout the week. After four e-mails and attachments, I finally wrote back. He had mentioned his recent separation in the previous e-mail and I became a bit gun-shy. Another steadfast rule of mine was to not date married men under any circ.u.mstances, separated or otherwise. That was only one of the four red flags that appeared regarding Jamie. But feeling festive, I agreed to meet him for a quick cup of coffee at a nearby coffee shop. That week's calendar was filled with obligations, so coffee was the best I could offer. He surprisingly agreed.

What's the worst that could happen? A new friend? I didn't realize at that point that my dance card was so full. Only when I was standing in Lord & Taylor did I realize that my list of friends to buy presents for was the length of my forearm. It may sound cruel, but I had no time for more acquaintances. Nevertheless, our coffee date went well (all fifty-three minutes of it), and we decided to keep in touch. He said it was just as well, since he hadn't begun his shopping yet. He would take advantage of being in the middle of the city, and, with any luck, he would conquer his shopping list. We bid farewell, and I went about planning my annual Christmas party for my friends. Only two days left. I thought he wouldn't call until after the holidays were over, but, much to my surprise, he called the next day. I thought it might be an attempt on his part to thank me and wish me happy holidays, but no, he wanted to get together the following evening. I told him that I couldn't make it, that I was having my annual gathering. His response was pushy. "Maybe we can kill two birds with one stone. Maybe you can invite me to your party and I can help you with the serving." It was then that I found out he had worked at a catering company to put himself through law school. Good naturedly, I agreed.

This turned out to be one of my greatest mistakes. Even as a child I brought home stray cats all too often. It just so happened that Jamie was involved in a major litigation that would, with any luck, end by December 23rd. The trial was taking place in New York City, and he would be free a few days before Christmas Eve. I was in the middle of baking cookies for a holiday party when my tree stand broke, scattering the tree and its decorations in the middle of my studio apartment. I tried desperately to upright the tree, but to no avail. Just then my cell phone rang. It was Jamie wanting to know what he could bring to the party. I told him a tree stand would be nice, as I nearly cried into the phone.

"You're joking," Jamie replied.

Choking back the tears, I exclaimed, "No, I'm not. It's late, and I have no time to get another one."

"Relax, I will take care of everything," he replied.

And that's just what he did. He showed up with two bottles of champagne, a box of cannoli, and the tree stand. He was adorably dressed in a red and green holiday sweater. He was a lifesaver. Not only did he fix the tree and help me serve throughout, he had everyone in tears of laughter with his dry sense of humor. Even my best friend, Anne, who is normally very depressed about being single during the holiday season, was in the best of spirits. Other than his high-pitched feminine-sounding voice and nervous twitch tugging on his right earlobe, I found him quite charming.

The following day Anne called me to thank me for the great evening at my party. I was about to use this as an opportunity to ask her what she thought about Jamie. No sooner did I get the words out of my mouth, than Anne told me that her initial impression was extremely positive. She thought that Jamie could be a prime example of the new "metros.e.xual"-a straight man who is in touch with his feminine side. She expressed that during the evening she had spent a fair bit of time talking with him. As Anne spoke about her work in the fashion industry, Jamie shared his knowledge regarding a variety of fabrics and an in-depth knowledge of design.

"What man knows what taffeta is?" Anne blurted.

"I know Jamie was married before, so perhaps his wife wore taffeta all the time," I joked.

"Oh, that's right. Come to think of it, Jamie mentioned that his soon-to-be-ex-wife owns a small boutique in Greenwich," Anne retorted.

"That explains his great attention to detail. It's a nice change to find a straight guy with fashion sense," I added.

"Do you think this could be serious?" Anne questioned.

"He's not only handsome, stylish, and funny, but intelligent as well," I giddily exclaimed.

Noticing my fondness for Jamie, Anne's last words rang over and over in my mind: "Although he appears wonderful on the surface, you know that you're a romantic, Trish. Don't let the magic of Christmas cloud your judgment."

During the following week, Jamie and I talked for several hours on the phone. He wanted to return the favor and did, so I found myself agreeing to his invitation to a New Year's Eve party being held at his home in Stamford. He shared this house with his brother and mother. This was another red flag. I was definitely out of my environment. Although the house looked old and somewhat stately from the road, it was overgrown with what appeared to be ancient trees, bushes, and ivy. Even the driveway looked decrepit and unkempt. What soothed my anxiety were the many cars in the long driveway leading to the house.

I decided to park my car at the bottom of the driveway, with the nose of the car facing the street. What I saw when I walked through the door reminded me of the ancient house from the old sitcom The Munsters. Instead of a fire-breathing dragon coming out of the staircase, the staircase was covered with cats. I could hear voices coming from the back of the house. I decided to join the party with Jamie. There were a few close family friends in an enormous great room that jutted out into the woods behind the house. He introduced me to his brother, Larry, who appeared somber and unmoved. It was only then that I realized my third mistake (red flag). During our initial conversation, Larry insisted on discussing his present infantile fetish involving diapers, pacifiers, and teething toys. It was apparent to me that Larry had severe emotional issues. At first I thought he was joking, but I turned to Jamie when Larry was in the bathroom and asked, "Is he for real?" Jamie said that he took after his mother, who is a paranoid schizophrenic restricted to her room upstairs on the third floor of the house. You would think this would be another red flag for me, but it actually intrigued me. I felt sorry for Jamie for having had such an unstable childhood. The house was the embodiment of a past turbulent life. I inquired whether his father was in the picture and what he was doing. Jamie explained that his dad, a psychiatrist, had left his mother and family for another woman and was living with her and her children in Costa Rica.

I laid it out on the table with more than a little sarcasm: "Online dating has given me the fortunate opportunity to meet myriad potential partners, such as: a foot fetish fellow, a s.a.d.i.s.tic psychiatrist, a religious fiend into b.e.s.t.i.a.lity, and a guy who frequents prost.i.tutes that he orders online like you would order CDs, to name a few. Do me a huge favor: If you have anything that you are, or were, into, like these guys, please don't call me again." Jamie then looked me right in the eye and said, "I've never even looked at a Playboy magazine. My wife and I finally just fell out of love, and she abandoned me. I subsequently moved back into my childhood home to take care of my brother and mother." I felt sorry for him, just a lonely lost soul searching for love. I told him I felt the roads might ice up due to the cold temperatures, so he walked me to my car at the bottom of the driveway. The entire ride home was nothing short of disturbing. I don't know if it was the house, the brother, the mysterious mother upstairs (like the woman in ]ane Eyre) or just the remoteness of everything. Nonetheless, I got home safely and slept like a baby (pun intended).

At this point, I was highly doubtful that Jamie and I would have a future together, but I was willing to leave the lines of communication open. Never did I think those lines of communication would cross so quickly. It was 10:00 AM New Year's Day, and I decided to take the tree down. No sooner did I package one box of ornaments, than the phone rang. Jamie was on his way down from Stamford to Manhattan. I had, in my haste to leave, inadvertently left my sweater behind and hadn't even realized it. Within a few minutes, the doorman buzzed to alert me that Jamie was in the lobby.

I said, "Send him right up, Ralph. Happy New Year to you and yours."

"Happy New Year to you, Trish, and thank you for your thoughtful gift."

I held the door waiting for Jamie as he exited the elevator with a giant smile on his face. With a peck on his cheek, I looked down and noticed he was wearing my sweater! Why in the h.e.l.l would he be wearing my sweater? "He's so goofy," I thought.

"I think that color suits you," I chuckled.

"You really think so?" Jamie retorted.

"You were right about the snow; we lost power up in Connecticut. Is there any way that I can borrow your computer for a few minutes? I need to check on the progress of the trial with the firm."

"Of course, but I promised Greg that I would stop by for cappuccino at 11:00 AM. Can you manage it on your own?"

"Where does Greg live?" Jamie asked.

"Two doors down," I responded.

"Two buildings down?" he asked.

"No, two apartments down," I replied.

After I returned from Greg's apartment, as Jamie was using the bathroom, I checked my e-mail. As I was reading my e-mails, a slew of p.o.r.n pop-ups took over my monitor. I then proceeded to check the history to see why this was happening. As it turned out, Jamie had not been working on his trial. He was viewing transs.e.xual p.o.r.nography! I became irate. I interrogated him, and he became angrier and angrier. I even went so far as asking, "Do you want to be a woman?" He said, "No," and then called me a few choice words and left abruptly.

It wasn't until five months later that I got a call from Jamie again. My first instinct was to hang up. But since we had unfinished business, I decided to hear him out and listen to what he had to say. He expressed that I had been the only person who had the potential to truly understand him. After an hour of a heart-wrenching conversation, I found out that over the past five months he had embarked on pursuing a gender change. He had begun hormone therapy as well as facial plastic surgery. He confided that, although he really wanted to be a woman, the reason he had answered my profile is that he admired the type of woman I was, and that he wanted to emulate me. I also found out that over the previous year, he had answered personal ads of transs.e.xuals and transvest.i.tes, had cross-dressed in private, had gone to gay bars dressed as a woman complete with wig, makeup, padded girdle, high heels, fake nails, etc. He shared with me that he was going to therapy for gender dysphoria. At first I was p.i.s.sed because he had misrepresented himself in a major way, but that pa.s.sed, and I felt that I might want to help him.

My brain must have been on vacation, because there were several major red flags on this journey with Jamie. But as you know, people ignore red flags, and some people have the need to help others in a crisis. I will always wish Jamie well and hope he will be happy when he becomes a she for good

17.

Long Hair Doesn't Always Equal a GAP Model.

February 2001.

Out of the pan and into the fire? Maybe I should have waited, but in hot pursuit I retreated hastily to the dreadful dating Web site. To this point, the clean-cut collegiate look had failed me. Although I prefer that look, I was due for a change. Growing up in a household with three brothers who had pushed the limits of acceptability during the seventies (my oldest brother had waist-length hair), I had seen enough of the subculture that that decade yielded! I had made a pact with myself: my hair must be longer than my date's hair. However, short-haired "Internuts" had brought me nothing but confusion and aggravation for four years, so maybe it was time that I let my hair down.

Little did I know, it would turn out that I wasn't the one letting my hair down. Matt, a professional musician, had sent me a response. His picture showed a good-looking surfer type, with shoulder-length hair. Maybe this is just what I needed! A change of pace was in order! Since he appeared younger than I, I immediately went to the age box. Ironically, he had left it blank. "Good," I said to myself. Maybe the suspected age difference was what the doctor ordered. Until that point, I had been dating men much older than I. It might benefit me, I thought, to be in some control, even if the controlling factor was the age difference. After a decade of living downtown, I had had my fill of looking at the bohemian type. Then again, the male supermodels for the GAP and Tommy Hilfiger have curiously long hair! It was time to get over my fear of flowing follicles.

After a few e-mail exchanges, I realized that he was indeed younger than I. His taste in music and his obsession with motorcycles led me to believe he was at least four (maybe five) years my junior. That intrigued me. Let's face it; every woman at one time or another in her life has fantasized about a younger man. Perhaps I was having my turn. "Go for it," I thought to myself. So I made a date for the following Thursday for Matt to meet me in the lobby of my apartment building. I gave Ralph, my doorman, a leg up on the situation. After two or three sentences of fatherly advice, I a.s.sured Ralph that that kind of date was what I needed at that point in my life. With slight hesitancy, Ralph a.s.sented. He would buzz me the moment Matt showed up.

"Want me to give him the third degree, Trish?"

"Please, Ralph. The last thing I need now is a surrogate father. I could use a vigilant friend."

"As a father of two boys, I never had a daughter, and you're the closest thing to it!"

"You're a sweet man, Ralph."

"We don't want another one like Jamie," Ralph responded as he walked back to his post.

I felt the little three-p.r.o.nged pitchfork sting my neck again. It had been a long time since that cartoonlike devil had warned me of an impending disaster. I waited for his counterpart, but the little angel never played a note of encouragement on her harp. "That's odd," I thought to myself. Nevertheless, I decided to go through with it. The sheer excitement alone attracted me.

Ralph was true to his word. At precisely 7:45 the following evening, his kind-hearted voice followed the annoying buzz. "Your date's here. Don't rush," he yelled emphatically.

"What was that all about?" I said to myself. I grabbed my purse, coat, scarf, and hat, because it was twenty degrees (with a wind chill in the single digits) that night. "Don't rush," I thought to myself over and over. "What the h.e.l.l did he mean by that?" Too late! The elevator light read "lobby." I exited only to see what Ralph meant. There stood an exceedingly long-haired, much younger man. Immediately, Matt reminded me of the old David Lee Roth video "Just a Gigolo." "In a bizarre way," I thought to myself, "compared to what I am looking at, I would have preferred Louie Prima." Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I remember my father instructing me, after countless times of playing that song in my room as a seventeen-year-old-kid, that it was Louie Prima who originally wrote that piece in the late forties. I'd never seen a picture of Louie Prima, but I think he would have been better than Matt.

As I approached Matt, I quickly registered his apparel. From the unnecessarily long, stringy hair down to the gaudy snakeskin boots, I was utterly repulsed. Fabio, this guy was not. Upon closer inspection, his leather jacket was ancient, and fringed in all the wrong places! What set me reeling with disgust was the overly obnoxious, soph.o.m.oric chain attached to his back pocket, which was probably attached to an equally obnoxious motorcycle-logoed wallet, I imagined. What put me over the top were the cutoff leather gloves he wore as he reached out to shake my hand. I reticently shook his hand, only to detect the overwhelming stench of cheap whiskey and flounder (it could have been a fluke, but I could not discern). Now the pitchfork was firmly stuck in my neck. I could hear that little diablo laughing at me as we left the lobby. For some reason, I instinctively looked over my left shoulder, only to see Ralph laughing, as well as waving "ta-ta" in his good-natured way. If only I could crawl inside the empty soda can standing upright on the curb, I would be happier than to go through this date.

Silence was never my forte, but tonight, that's all I considered. Matt led the way conversationally. As a matter of fact, he wouldn't shut up. The old adage silence is golden really made sense to me that night. How anybody could walk that fast and talk that quickly was beyond me. He had to have snorted something, because he never exhaled for the whole twelve blocks. Cabs were nonexistent that night, and the thought of boarding a bus with this guy brought back memories of the film One Flew over the Cuckoo s Nest, where Jack Nicholson's character, along with the other patients and inmates, were stuck on a bus.

He said he had chosen his favorite restaurant in midtown for dinner. Great! I thought I was on my way to some greasy spoon diner with incessant Elvis playing in the background. Before we knew it, we were standing in front of Chico's-a Harley Davidson Cafe-wannabe in the high 40s and Tenth Avenue. Sure, there was no Elvis playing. AC/DC and Motley Crue were blaring out on the street. To believe I would have to stand in a line to get into a place like this was unimaginable (not to mention that the degrees never rose, nor did I feel warmer after a twelve-block jaunt). Out of nowhere, an enormous tattooed man in a tank top motioned for us to come forward off the line. "No waitin' fa you, my brotha. Go right in." Matt never explained his relationship with this man, nor did I want to know.

Once seated, I realized what it might be like to sit in "Biker Heaven" (my h.e.l.l!). Everywhere I looked there were motorcycle parts, guitars, and music memorabilia hanging askew. Wonderful, I thought to myself, while staring at a Steppenwolf poster where John Kay and his group gave the finger in unison to the viewer. My mind raced. How do I get myself out of this one? Do I use a toothache, a headache, a backache, or perhaps menstrual cramps (which no man can ever understand)? What made things worse was overhearing a couple seated behind us talking about the New York Taxi and Limousine Commission calling a strike earlier that evening.

"How do you like this place?" Matt interrupted.

"Interesting, if you're into all this," I responded.

"How can ya not be?" He yelled, "Waitress, two double J.D.'s straight up."

I didn't know what a J.D. was, nor did I want one at the time, let alone a double to boot. This guy had some nerve. He was ordering me what he was drinking, which was probably some awful whiskey. But with the clientele around me, I decided not to cause a stir. If J.D. was whatever he reeked of, what was the G.o.dawful fish smell I had detected in the lobby? I decided to ask him there and then. He laughed at first and proceeded to explain. He was part owner of a fish market on South Street. He continued to describe the family-owned business, begun in the late 1800s, he being the fourth generation. At a breakneck pace, he ranted about fish, motorcycles, and his favorite movie, Easy Rider. I found myself nodding like a demented workhorse stranded in a pasture.

After an hour and a half of this tortuous monologue, I reminded Matt that I needed to get home since I had work the next day. "So soon?" he yelped, "the party's only beginning." That was it; it was now or never. I had to put my foot down. I told Matt no, which he apparently was unaccustomed to hearing. I even offered to pay for the meal as long as we could leave at that point. I noticed a complete change in his countenance. He was as red as a tomato.

"I may look like a derelict to you, but I make six figures, and I run a fish company at South Street Seaport. I can at least afford to pay for dinner!"

Smiling warmly, I apologized for my curtness.

"Don't worry about it," Matt said, "I've been through this before." After a couple more exchanges, Matt politely offered to walk me home. I told him it wasn't necessary because I knew the bus schedule, and if I hurried I could get the 10:35 south.

"You don't mind?" Matt asked.

"Not at all, so enjoy yourself. You look like you're in heaven here."

"Sorry it didn't work out, Trish."

Before I knew it, I was standing at the bus stop waiting for the bus to arrive. "With a little luck," I thought, "the MTA won't also be on strike." After ten minutes of shifting my weight from one foot to the other and a hundred "brrrrr's" in between, the bus pulled up and the door opened.

"Warm enough for you?" the bus driver asked. All I could do was smile, find my metro card and take the nearest available seat. The bus and the people were inviting. Before I knew it, I was a block from my apartment building. The frigid temperature slapped me as I exited the bus. I scurried as quickly as I could to my apartment building, only to find Ralph finishing a cigarette as he held the door open for me.

"Home early?" he asked.

"I'll tell you tomorrow, Ralph; I am just too tired and cold to talk about it."

As I approached the elevator, I thought I heard Ralph make a "vroom vroom" noise the way a five-year-old would, playing with his toy motorcycle. I couldn't wait to get into my pajamas and warm bed.

18.

Don't Date Someone Who Lives at Work.

April 2001.

As seasons change, so do people. I am no exception. In my brief thirty-four years on the planet, I have learned that my persona is multifaceted. Coincidentally, my inner selves emerge with each equinox and solstice. With the impending spring of the year 2001, I found myself going through another change. I realized that my winter wasteland with the artistic types had not been productive (or at least, not at that point in my life). It was back to the nine-to-five types.

Ted responded to my profile with a very "normal" e-mail. He wrote that he worked at a well-known New York university as a sports coordinator. As a hobby, he enjoyed playing the guitar and would regularly get together with a few guys to jam. He came from a well-to-do family from Greenwich. The father, a renowned pediatrician, also taught premed courses at a local university. His mother was a registered nurse at his father's hospital. Ted claimed that his parents met when his father was an intern and his mother was a candy striper at the same hospital in which they both still work. I thought to myself, "A musician with two medically trained parents living in Greenwich-what could go wrong there?" Having experienced the admirable study of nursing for two years, I immediately felt good vibes.

We exchanged pleasant phone calls during the week. Each time we spoke, however, his cell phone would break up multiple times. When I asked Ted to call me back from his home phone, I sensed his anxiety.

"Oh, alright, umm, sorry about that. I'm due for an upgrade on my cell phone anyway."

It was at that point that I knew something was off. I couldn't put my finger on it, but it was seemingly more than just a phone issue. The following morning I received another phone call from Ted, and along with it, the same problem. This time he sounded as if he was calling from Bangladesh, not from Connecticut. My curiosity got the better of me and I said, "I thought you were going to call me back on your home phone." The deafening silence that followed concerned me.

"Are you still there, Ted?" I inquired, thinking it was another cell phone reception glitch.

"I'm here," he said curtly.

I decided to let him continue the conversation, and after a pregnant pause of a good thirty-five seconds, I asked him again.

"Are you still there, Ted?"

"Yeah, I am, already!"

"Is there something wrong, Ted? Why the tentativeness?"

"Trish, something came up, ah, so I'll call you later," Ted hurried.

"Much later, hopefully," I thought to myself, "because this is getting too weird. Either he has the oldest cell phone in creation or he picks the worst places to make his calls to me." I wasn't going to give it a second thought. With Easter rapidly approaching, I turned my attention to one of my favorite holidays of the year. Not that I need an excuse to buy a new outfit (no bonnet, please), but Easter is the best time for two reasons: The pastels of the season, along with the warming weather, spell relief from the cold, dark winter that is truly behind us. Secondly, the festive notion of rebirth and renewal is what I enjoy the most. Unlike Christmas, there's less obligation, stress, tension, and the need to placate others. In addition, being single on Easter is not disparaged by others like being alone on Christmas, New Year's Eve, and Valentine's Day. I like Groundhog Day and Arbor Day for the same reason. After a four-hour Bloomingdale shopping fix, I came home with a sense of rejuvenation. Another plus resulting from impulsive shopping stints is the opportunity to donate my old and outdated clothing to charity (who am I kidding-I'll never fit into size 8 again!).