Exchanging a few more pleasantries out of courteousness, I clasp him over the shoulder and see him to the door. I give him a two finger wave as he takes his Jeep back home. If I know Dolly, like I think I do, I’m pretty sure she called him as soon as I spoke with her and made him come deliver my order. The forever matchmaker, that sweet ol’ woman.
With a wry smile planted on my face, I go back into my office, steal my phone from my desk and plug it into the iPod speaker dock on the wet bar. Time to work some more, maybe delete all those…what I’m pretty sure are stupid and immature emails, and listen to some music. I enjoy only two kinds of music. Country, especially the older stuff like Johnny Cash and Loretta Lynn and I also—please don’t have a heart attack, like heavy metal. Ironic combination, but my mom made me listen to the likes of Willy Nelson and Patsy, growing up, and as an adult, I’ve taken to heavy metal as well. I’m not talking death metal. Just stuff like Drowning Pool, Mushroom Head, Marilyn Manson, Nine Inch Nails, music like that.
Scrolling rapidly through my music selection, I come upon what I was looking for and it’s perfect for the kind of day I’ve had. The Queen of the Damned soundtrack, pretty decent movie, even better soundtrack; if you’ve never listened, you really should. It’s rather intense but euphorically seamless.
Immediately my senses are sexually jolted with “Not Meant for Me.” I love this music; the sensual rhythm gets me all hot and bothered, turning me on. Ignoring my bodies’ deception, I take my food and sit back behind my desk. With my body flooding with too much rampant desire, I’m already angry with myself for picking this soundtrack without having Daniel here. Not my brightest move.
I’m not fixing this torturous throbbing. It will have to go away on its own or I’ll have Daniel fix me in the morning. My email pings again and I’m not sure if it’s my hormones or this orgasmic French fry I’m nibbling, but I get the urge to at least peruse through those emails. I’m not oblivious to men being attracted to me. It’s common knowledge. I’m not smug about it. If anything, I find it unnerving. I’m a slightly curvaceous woman, with, like I said before, fake boobs. I wear a size six in jeans—if that tells you much of anything. My stomach is completely flat, with scars, and I have a medium sized butt. Looking at me, no one would say I have childbearing hips. They’re not childbearing in any sense of the word. Also, my entire body is hairless except my head, eyebrows and lashes. No arm hair, leg hair, underarm hair, or other places hair. I had it all removed by electrolysis four years ago, when I got tired of shaving on a daily basis. It was painful, but nothing I haven’t been through before. You might find that superficial, but I promise you it’s not. I needed it.
Decidedly, I ignore the emails piling in my inbox and go straight to the source. Typing the website in my browser and checking my message box from there. Good grief men, this is a bit overwhelming. Their profile pictures and ages posted below them tell me enough to know that I have the whole gambit of ages to pick from, if I decided to.
Okay, John11433 what do you have to say?
Clicking open, his email.
Oh boy! This isn’t what I was expecting. A file has been attached and yes, you’ve probably guess by now what I am getting a rather large eyeful of. Do these men have no shame? Seriously, yuck!
Deleting and blocking the sick pervert, I roll my eyes, exasperated. I can’t believe men think any type of woman, minus hookers, would want an introduction with a dick pic. Puh-lease…. That is what porn is for, I should know. I’ve watched my fair share of it over the years. I don’t want to see Joe Schmooze’s or in this case, John’s dick. I’m sorry. It’s not on my bucket list of things to see. It’s not the eighth wonder of the world. It’s gross, end of story.
Moving along, I delete the emails of men that I know would never hold any interest. For example, a man who’s screen name is bigdaddyballs who’s in his fifties, even if he was my age he wouldn’t just be a no he’d be a raving hell no. I’m really tired of this already and I want to kill Roni for putting me up to this. Arg! I could really use something other than my delicious chocolate peanut butter milkshake. Maybe a glass of wine or a shot of Patrón would hit the spot, anything to make me not want to shoot myself, because this online dating thing is torture.
Ending my frustration by diminishing my email list down to three suitable specimens with no photo attachments, I disregard the angry knot of anxiety wrenching in my stomach and I power on. I’ve started it and now it’s time to finish it. Then I will be shutting down this stupid account and ream Roni for pressing me to do something I only did for her, to get her bitchiness off my back. Women with PMS are seriously not to be trifled with, especially her. She’s a witch when Aunt Flo arrives.