OK, so I tried Internet dating. But that was back in 2000 when internet dating was moving from creepy and sad to a convenient way for busy professionals to meet.
I was surprised at the organized method to matching people up. There were whole sections for Men Looking for Men, Women Looking for Men, Couples Seeking Singles, Singles Seeking Activity Partners, etc. I have always prided myself in being clear and asking for what I want so other people don’t have to guess. So a whole community where people told you what they wanted was awesome! Although I have never ruled out dating another African-American, there was something very interesting to me about the community of White men actively seeking Black women.
I read those ads first and ruled out anyone was over 40, divorced, or used the words voluptuous, chocolate, mama, well-dowed, or made any reference to the length of their tongue.
That left me with Andy and Mitch.
Andy, another movie buff, agreed to meet me for drinks. It was the night before I started my first real professional job out of college, so this had to be a good sign, right? He told me I could spot him easily because he looked like Chuck Norris. Chuck Norris??
I had to freaking Google Chuck Norris to find out who he was! After I filtered through all the sites that claimed “When the Boogeyman goes to sleep at night he checks his closet for Chuck Norris”, I finally found a photo. I wasn’t so sure looking like Chuck Norris something to brag about. When I met Andy and realized he was about 47, I wondered if looking like the man who “could lead a horse to water AND make him drink” would have been impressive to a woman his own age.
The bar where we met was a very small hole-in-the-wall in a strip mall between a hair salon and a fondue restaurant. It was also a Sunday night so the only people there besides me and Andy were a bunch of golf pros from the course across the street.
I’m not sure if it is because I am African-American or because I was the only woman in the place, but I instantly became very popular. As poor Andy was trying to schmooze me with stories of when he’d actually met Chuck Norris and his taking karate classes, the golf pros kept interrupting by buying me drinks and asking me to play darts with them. Nate had taken a very specific interest in me, especially after he spotted me tattoo. When it was clear to me that Andy was not the reason why Waldo was hiding, I left with Nate when Andy went to the bathroom.
Nate was far too drunk for the experience to be anything other than throwback high school make-out session. You know, the kind of making out that boys actually enjoyed before they discovered a whole community of chicks that let them stick it in without even buying them dinner first. Sometime around 3am, I decided I needed to get some sleep before my first big day at work and left. I’m not entirely sure that he knew my name or if he had any interest in seeing me again. This is where my obsession with movies, TV, and general happy endings (no, not THAT kind of happy ending) kicked in and I started generating this really great story between me and the golf pro.
It started with me scheduling an anonymous golf lesson with him. Then, when I showed up, he would be so excited that I did it because we never exchanged numbers. He would stand behind me closely to guide my stroke, we’d have lunch at the golf course café, and I would eventually become this monstrously huge golf phenom. I would play like Tiger but look like Serena Williams. Maybe I’d wear a black catsuit at Pebble Beach. I would be huge and forget the man that got me to my pedestal. Until one crazy tournament where I lose my focus and he emerges from the crowd, gives me these beautiful words or inspiration, and I make the tournament-winning put. I look into the crowd for his face, run through the throngs of admirers until I find him. It immediately begins to rain and we rush towards each other and embrace in the kind of passion that elicits All I Want Is You by U2 to be played.
I actually did schedule the appointment with Nate, but I never show up. Mainly because my life rarely ever translates exactly the way it is in my head. So I was on to Mitch.
Mitch had big brown eyes, which he kept obnoxiously wide open. He looked like a mental patient who would break into the kitchen after hours and jerk off into the tapioca pudding. Plus, he told me everything that was wrong in his life in the first 10 minutes. But he called me pretty so I agreed to see him again.
On our second date, he presented me a picture of himself.
“Um, what’s this for?”, I asked as I held the pathetic little Sears photo in my hands. It was bad enough that he had gone to the 70’d porn store shop to buy the sad little brown polyester suit he was wearing in the photo, but the weirdo didn’t even smile. He jaw was all strained like he was trying desperately not to shout “I use my grandmother’s bedpan as a hat!”
“Oh. Um. It’s so you don’t forget what I look like.”
Are you freaking kidding me?
It happened to be Halloween and he took me to a haunted trail through the local park, I assume so he could get some pointers on his next murder. I sincerely was more frightened by his hand on my shoulder than I was at any actor that jumped out at me with a chainsaw or squirting thick, red corn syrup out of a mannequin. The little voice in my head encouraged me to fake a headache and had him take me home. Before his car could leave the curb, I was on my cell phone leaving him the house the “It’s not me, it’s you” message on his machine.
Normally, when I am through with a guy, I delete all trace of him from my phone and computer. However, I keep his number just in case John Walsh needs me to lure him into capture on America’s Most Wanted.
About a year later, I was driving home late at night and put on one of those call-in radio shows to keep me awake. It was one of those shows where people spill their guts to Dr. Drew or some other “doctor” to avoid paying the $450 per hour counseling sessions and having their issue managed before the next commercial break. I immediately recognized Mitch’s serial killer voice and turned up the radio, surprised that he chose to use his one call from jail on a radio show. Turns out he’d gotten some girl pregnant and she wanted him to pay child support. I am not sure what shocked me more; (a) that he was suave enough get some girl to have sex with him, much less unprotected sex, (b) that the constant reminder of said sex would be personified and living in her house, or (c) that he objected so fiercely to paying the child support. He refused to take the DNA test the doctor urged and angrily stated repeatedly that she was a slut.
I HAD to confirm it was him, so I called as soon as the interview was over.
“Is this Mitch?”
“Um, yeah.”
“I’m not sure if you remember me. My name is Jennifer and we hung out a few times about a year ago.”
“Yeah, sure. How are you?”
“Good, good. I was actually driving home and thought I heard your voice on the radio. Was that you?”
“Oh, you heard that! Yeah, yeah. It was me. How did I sound?”
“Well, I recognized your voice, so I guess it was good.”“I had to defend myself. That bitch is totally wrong.”
“I only heard part of the show, so I apologize if this question is weird, but why not just take the DNA test and get it settled?”
“That’s exactly what she wants- for me to have to take a day off of work and explain to everyone where I am. I don’t want the people at work to know about this!”
“Um…wouldn’t going on a radio show make it all a little more, I don’t know, open?”
“I thought about that before I called so I didn’t give the radio station my real last name.”
“But you used your real first name, though.”
“Well, they asked me for it.”
“OOO-kaaaayyyy. I haven’t talked to you in over a year and I recognized your voice. But, maybe I’m just good with voices. I am sure no one at work will know that it was you.”
Awkward silence.
“So, Jennifer, do you think you’d want to go out sometime?”
I’m not sure how long he listened to the dial tone before he realized I hung up. I guess I’ll have to keep listenting to late night radio shows to see.
