Online dating’s long parade of hopefuls, liars, and scammers
fills a seemingly endless pipeline that like a sewer, spews into my inbox.
There was Bill, retired plastic surgeon, pleasant enough but looked like a corpse.
Turned out he was a cancer survivor. No problem, but his negative attitude was.
Beau was the chicken-necked attorney with a passion for making pizza and for his dachshunds who sleep in his bed. All fine except for the twitching of his scrawny neck in an overlarge collar.
Now Peter was something else – he worked for a communications company and when
we talked politics he said he thought that Hitler was an idealist. Another goner…
Then there was Frank, so short that even in flatties I towered above him. But that was nothing compared to his bad body odor, bad breath, and stinky car. And he grabbed me for a kiss! Next…
Later came Dan the pilot. Italian extract, stocky and into sex. Good chemistry, but oh dear, survivor of prostate cancer, which made sex a slog. And oops, I forgot. He was married.
Along came Norman, who ranted on about his life with never a question about me. After four
and a half narcissistic hours we ended our rendezvous with a prayer. Deliver me Oh Lord.
But Juan! After cocktails and dinner and lively conversation, he accompanied me to my car
and proceeded to kiss me like there was no tomorrow. Pity. Turned out there was no tomorrow.
The one who takes the cake though is Bert, the attorney who earns his living not in law
but cultivating pot in his guest bathroom. A 400-pound 65-year old pothead. What a waste.
Next came Robert, whose wife died next to him while walking down a dark street, both oblivious to the car (or so he says) that mowed her down, and one month later, so lonely he’s dating online.
I really fancied Lenny from Chicago though. Good chemistry and great kissing, but he was
one of the disappearers who turn up sporadically then vanish. My guess is he’s married.
Lou was the experiment, my first black guy, attractive, fit, obviously into sex but
let me tell you, when push comes to shove, a 60-year old dick is a 60-year old dick.
I was almost forgetting TJ, pleasant and charming, married and divorced five times,
but his forte, so he assured me, was working as part of a marital team. Really?
Endless procession going nowhere. If nothing else, they provide entertainment for
my girlfriends in exercise class. “We live vicariously through you,” they tell me.
There are many more, but I’ll stop here. They can go in another poem of remembrance.
Dating in older age takes stamina, commitment, and a healthy sense of humor.