rainbow_colored_sky

Casting a wide net

 

People are extremely closeted about online dating activities. It’s like having anonymous sex without the sex.  It takes courage to put up a personal profile with fairly accurate information about how we would like to imagine ourselves to be.  If you want to cast a wider net, you go Internet.  It’s like real life, except without the etiquette or consequences.

I saw this chicks profile and it caught my eye.  Just one eye, the other one tends to wander.  Her stuff was well written.  She was clever and funny and didn’t have a picture.  I was pretty naive at the time and didn’t know that the lack of a picture is a grab bag of horrors that could mean; she’s really a man, she doesn’t have a face, or she is so closeted that she’ll never reveal her true identity.

I didn’t read her profile thoroughly.  The things I didn’t understand I just skimmed over thinking it wouldn’t matter and maybe she was kidding anyway.  Cool she’s a communist and dental dams are her giant turn on.

We met at Café de Artist, which is a snooty name for Café de Artist.  She wanted to go to the Gay and Lesbian Community Center to see a film, I said that sounded lovely but let’s have a drink first around the corner, hence the restaurant bar.  I had a drink and waited to see if she looked as good as the outdated picture she admitted sending.

Oh, the picture.  She looked like a fresh pastry without the calories.  Sweet, cute, blond, clean-cut, not at all like some radical communist dentist.  Okay, so I didn’t know exactly what the dental dam was about so I thought she was a dentist.

Olivia walks into the bar area and though she is ten years older than her picture, that doesn’t bother me.  What I couldn’t tell from the photo was that she is much more masculine than I know what to do with, except just let her get on top.  I ordered her a drink.  “Okay, but just one,” she insists because of the film.

“Yeah, of course.”  The film, I thought.

So three drinks and a few hours of conversation later, we have successfully missed the film and I manage to talk her into seeing my car.  I have films in there, I tell her, and I wasn’t lying.  I turn on the DVD player and throw on the film Hedwig for music and mood.  We get in the back of the SUV that is conveniently set up with a bed for my giant dogs, camping or whatever.   Then we start to fool around.  She isn’t as masculine as I suspected and that’s a relief.  Her skin is soft, lips are softer, we’re connecting on deeply physical level, but not deep enough.  There’s a lot of action but it doesn’t seem to be progressing.  So I say, “What gives?”  Every time I reach for her skirt there are other hands blocking me.

“Didn’t you read my profile?” She say’s, “I’m in to safe sex.”

“What does that mean?”  I ask.  “We’re lesbians.  We stand a better chance of getting hit by a plane on the ground than getting anything from one another.  Lesbians have the lowest rate of sexually transmitted diseases next to abstinent people.”

Then she launches into a tirade that includes graphs and diagrams.  In other words, she disagrees.  In the end we managed to achieve roughly the same result as we would have if we had been able to do all the fun stuff, although it wasn’t nearly as satisfying.  I asked her if we kept seeing each other, how long she planned to stick to the safe sex rule.  She said, “Until we’re both in a committed relationship and we get tested.”

We never did go out on a date together again.  We are friends on Facebook, but she may not even know that.  It is, after all, an extremely wide net.