Fun with Match.com
Fun with Match.com
For this entry, I’d like to treat you all to a little gem from a pal of mine. My friend Buck Stetka is one of the funniest people I know. He also happens to be a charter member of Trish’s Rescue Squad, a little (or not-so-little) group of friends who came out of the woodwork to get me through this past year. (Some of you may remember Buck and his band, Mr. Thingee, from a party we threw a few years ago.)
Anyway, Buck is from the been-there-done-that school of divorce. He had a tough road for a very long time but now is one of those so-happy-it-makes-you-want-to-puke married people. He also happened to meet his wife on match.com.
But before the Love of His Life came along, Buck had to log a lot of hours doing the online dating thing. A while ago I told him that I was considering checking out a dating Web site and he was kind enough to forward me an exchange he had with one of the match.com ladies. He also gave me permission to post this for all of you. Enjoy!
And now I leave you in Buck’s hands. (That statement just gave me the willies.)
This is an actual (and sadly fairly typical) female profile on match.com.
Here is a scenario…
We’ve exchanged some e-mails getting to know the very basis of each other. We’ve graduated to some long and fun phone calls that left us wanting to talk to each other nearly every nite and highly anticipating that first date.
You are stylishly dressed with a smile on your face as I answer the door. And when you hug me in greeting I can smell your fabulous cologne and I know that this is going to drive me crazy all night. I am looking very feminine in a dress and heels wearing my favorite perfume.
We go to a cozy BYOB that serves great food but I am far more impressed by your company. You are intriguing, witty, intelligent, and funny. You are engaging – mixing just the right amount of questions in with stories of your life. And you seem captivated with me because you are looking at me at all the right times and have a sparkle in your eye. Our waitress is cute but you haven’t taken a glance at her once all night. We try each other’s meals and you reach across the table a couple of times to touch my hand.
We take a walk after eating dinner and we each get an ice cream cone – I try some of yours and you try some of mine.
We walk back to your car and after you open the passenger door for me you turn around and slowly lean in and give me a soft and gentle kiss. And although I want more I restrain myself.
We go back to my house and I do feel comfortable enough to invite you in for a little while. The conversation flows just as easily as it did at dinner. We laugh, we share and we get to know each other more. And a little while turns into us watching the sun come up.
And when you leave not only can I not wait to see you again – I can smell you on my clothes.
And that is the perfect first date.
Care to make this a reality?
Here’s a little bit about what I am looking for:
What is sexy? A man who smells good is sexy! A man who is a good dancer – now that is SUPER sexy! A man who is confident and secure but not arrogant. A man who leaves me sweet voice mail messages or sends me cute e-mails. A man who likes to cook and work around the house. A man who will plan a weekend getaway or vacation. Oh, and if you have a hair like Patrick Dempsey or Jon Bon Jovi and great butt – that is also SUPER SEXY!
And it goes on and on… blah blah freaking blah.
Here’s what I wrote her:
How about this scenario:
We exchange emails and eventually phone calls and are digging each other. I’ve sent you photoshopped pictures of me without a shirt so I look buff.
You open the door and frown slightly. Can’t the cops keep the vagrants and door-to-door salesmen away? Oh wait! It’s your date! What IS that smell…? It’s going to drive you crazy all night.
We drive to the Arby’s. The waittress is a hottie and I try to get her number when I think you’re not looking. I also steal your curly fries. I touch your hand and leave a bit of roast beef grease there. I blab incessantly about my exwife. Your chest starts to feel warm from how I stare at it constantly.
Time for ice cream! I spill mine in your lap. Then I eat 95% of yours.
We return to my 1993 Toyota Corolla. I open the door for you with a creaking, groaning noise, and some particles of rust fall to the ground and sparkle magically and mysteriously in the moonlight.
I lean in and whisper “gimmee some sugar, baby.” Then I touch your butt. Your knees go all funny. Mostly because of the proximity of THAT SMELL.
You invite me in. I steal some of your silverware while you’re in the can.
You put the Barry White on the turntable and we dance. I step on your toe, you fall, hit your head on the coffee table. Next thing you remember, you’re watching the sun come up.
You finally get me to leave and wonder if that weird spot on the rug was always there.
The next week I leave about eight messages a day asking if I can come over and look for my underwear.
Please write me.
My wife should have kicked me out years ago. This is just too much fun.
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