I immediately clicked on my profile and opened the “What I’m Looking For” box, making sure that it still read the same: “Casual sex. Nothing more. Nothing Less.”
That line wasn’t there for decoration, and it was in bold print for a reason.
I returned to the woman’s message and responded. “I am no longer interested in meeting you. Best of luck finding whatever you’re looking for –Thoreau.”
“Are you for real?” She replied instantly. “You can’t use another friend? We can’t be ‘just friends’?—Liz.”
“Hell no—Thoreau.” I signed off and blocked her address.
Another shot made its way down my throat, and I scrolled through the remaining emails—immediately opening the one that came from the only person I considered a friend in this city. Alyssa.
Subject: Desert Dick
So, I’m emailing you right now because I just thought about how much pain you’re in currently...We haven’t talked about you getting laid in quite a while, and that concerns me. Greatly. Like, I’ve CRIED about your lack of pussy...I’m very sorry that so many women have sent you fraudulent pictures and given you a severe case of blue balls. I’m attaching the links to a top of the line lotion that I think you should invest in for the weeks to come.
Your dick is in my prayers,
—Alyssa.
I smiled and typed a response.
Subject: Re: Desert Dick
Thank you for your concerns about my dick. Although, seeing as though you’ve NEVER discussed getting laid, I think having Cobweb Pussy is a far more serious illness. Yes, it is true that so many women have sent me pictures, but it’s quite sad that you’ve never sent me yours, isn’t it? I’m more than willing to send you mine, and eventually help you cure your sad and unfortunate disease.
Thank you for telling me that my dick is in your prayers.
I’d prefer if it was in your mouth.
—Thoreau.
Just like that, my night was now ten times better. Even though I’d never met Alyssa in person and our conversations were restricted to phone calls, emails, and text messages, I felt a strong connection to her.
We’d met through an anonymous and exclusive social network—LawyerChat. There were no profile pictures, no newsfeed activity, only message boards. There was a small profile box where information could be placed (first name only, age, number of years practiced, high or low profile status), and a logo on each user’s profile that revealed his or her sex.
Every user was “guaranteed” to be a lawyer who’d been personally invited via email. According to the site’s developers, they’d “cross-referenced every practicing lawyer in the state of North Carolina against the board’s licensing records to ensure a unique and one of a kind support system.”
I honestly thought the network was bullshit, and if it weren’t for the fact that I’d fucked a few of the women I’d met on there, I would’ve cancelled my account after the first month.
Nonetheless, when I saw a new “Need Some Advice” message from an “Alyssa,” I couldn’t resist trying to replicate my previous results. I read through her profile first—twenty seven, one year out of law school, book lover—and decided to go for it.
My intent was to answer her legal questions, slowly steer the conversation to more personal things, and then ask her to join Date-Match so I could see what she looked like. But she wasn’t like the other women.
She sent me constant messages, and she always kept the topic of conversation professional. Since she was such a young and inexperienced lawyer, she asked for advice on the simplest topics: legal brief editing, claim filing, and exhibition of evidence. After we’d chatted five times and I’d grown tired of having three hour long info-dump sessions, I asked for her phone number.
She said no.
“Why not?” I’d typed.
“Because it’s against the rules.”
“I’ve never met a lawyer that hasn’t broken at least one.”
“Then you’re not a very good lawyer. I’ll find someone else to chat with now. Thanks.”
“You’re going to lose that case tomorrow.” I typed before she could end our session. “You have no idea what you’re doing.”
“Are you really that upset about me not giving you my phone number? What are you, twelve?”
“Thirty two, and I don’t give a fuck about your phone number. I was only asking for it so I could call and tell you that the brief you sent me is littered with typos, and the closing argument reads like a first year law student wrote it. There are too many mistakes for me to sit here and type them all.”