a girl in her city, watching the sunset

Fresh Meat

For a few reasons, one of which may be best described as “whiskeybrain,” I join OKCupid.  Yeah, the dating site.  Some of this has to do with having to get the fuck out of G’s and Mastio’s places.  I’m staying with one or the other of them for the two weeks until my apartment is move-in-able.  I also sign up for Meetup things in which I may or may not be interested, but I surf and peek and shit like that.

So, OKCupid (heretofore OKC).

I am kind of an idiot about things.  Maybe it’s some naivete, maybe.  But I write my profile figuring that it will likely get as much traffic as one I had made in ATX. Which is to say “none”.    I am mistaken.


I have not entirely undertaken research on how to write a profile on a dating site.  On OKC, there’s a bunch of prompts and you’re supposed to write essays (ish) and the website sort of kicks at you to write more words, like more is better or something.  I don’t care about the words thing.  I presume the whiskey has something to do with this, as I’ve decided what I say is entirely enough and all that shit.  And besides, I’m all kinds of fuck it these days, and I rather blurt-type my answers to these prompts, which aren’t that challenging.   I don’t bother to answer the whole shebang to do with favorite shows movies  music and food.   I don’t really watch movies  or TV, and I figure my tastes in music are reforming.  And food is weird with me at the end of January.

I’ve seen profiles that start with something like:  “I never know what to say in these things.” or “I hate filling these out.  Just ask me.”  See, you have every opportunity to figure out what to say before you press “submit”.  And someone did ask you, the fucking website asked you, on my behalf.   So suck it up and quit complaining.  And by the way, I don’t want to date you now.  Ya whingey bastard.

However,  I’m repeatedly told my profile is a bit unusual.  Or very unusual.  Or something like that.  I admit, I haven’t really investigated the hell out of this one, I don’t look at other women’s profiles right now.  Why do the people who message me have to tell me that I (or my profile) is so different, or refreshing, or intriguing, or or or something that someone’s already said by the 2nd day of my entree to this whole thing.  (“I like the cut of your   jib!” becomes a crowd favorite.  Yes, really, someone said it before you did.)  And I can’t tell you how many people (by which I mean men) think that I don’t know I’m sexy.  But at first, this is heady.  You mean someone else thinks I’m sexy?  You mean he wants to fuck me?  Wait, this one wants to buy me drinks and kiss me?

I think I joined on a Friday or Saturday.  By Sunday, I think, I had dates for nearly every night in the coming week.

Including that night.  Except that he backed out.  Like, I had already walked towards the bus for almost a mile when he txtd to say that it was getting  late for him (it was 7.30p) and he had an early morning.

Which I think is a right fucked thing to do to someone.

I am plain about not having wheels on my profile.   If you want me to get to you, give me some leeway.  I can do it, but I won’t probably be there in 8 minutes.

Anyway.  I try to answer everyone who sends a message.  I figure the least I can do is busy myself until I have my apartment, getting out of G’s or the Mastio’s places in the evenings after work.  (The apartments aren’t big.)  So I stack up the names on my dance card, not really expecting sweet fuck anything would come of any of it, really, not even the first date.  But there it was, Monday, and I had at least two maybe three dates that I could have made.

I don’t know what they teach men about dating, or where.  I’ve been in 3 long term relationships with men, but I don’t really count the first one, which was over before I was 22, really.   So I don’t want the pressure of “relationshippiness” (That’s an Izzo word.)  I want something like I have/had with CakeLady.  Goddamn.  We get along, we can talk, we can drink, and we have unbelievably good sex.  That’s what I want.  The friends who fuck.  The people who are happy for each other.

And zomg every fucking guy I chat with/message with/email with?  They all want the SAME THING I DO.  It’s incredible.  How in the ever loving fuck does that happen?

To be continued…


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One thought on “Fresh Meat

  1. Pingback: Not entirely about the exemplar: The Challenge « aspiciat

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