Meeting Women Online Used to Be Suicide: Part 1

There isn’t much I ask to be given credit for in this world, but any time anyone logs on to Match.com or picks up a friend of a friend on Facebook, they should bow down and kiss my feet like I’m Christ on the cross. All of their online romantic success can be traced back to progenitors like me, socially-inept guys who were flirting with girls on AOL instant messenger, enduring endless streams of “A/S/L? Pic? Want to cyber?” from our fellow online predators as we sought women who even vaguely resembled the mildly attractive denizens of the scanned, blurry photos they sent us. I’ll say it: I’m the Christopher Columbus of online ass.


Though I’ve since moved on from my online dating ways (believe it or not, I’m in a happy, committed relationship…with a Japanese body pillow), I felt it time to share two of the particularly troubling tales of my former digital conquests. Just think of them as hilarious reminders of a long-passed chapter in our country’s history, like Negro leagues or the middle class.


Horsie

Before I begin, may I just say that it is literally impossible to search “fat girl with horse” on Google Images and find a non-pornographic result. What the hell is wrong with this world? This story involves a fat girl and a horse. It would have been nice to have both in the picture. Instead, because people must love to watch fat chicks fellate equines, you just get a morbidly obese horse. Thanks, democracy.


My tale starts with a meeting off of a now-defunct site called the Dilly. The Dilly, as I’ve previously mentioned on this page, was a MySpace precursor that was peppered with insecure women (the very best kind). The Dilly’s profiles consisted of the usual: Contact information, a list of crappy music the user liked to listen to, a mention of the fact that Dodgeball made them “lol” and few deceptively-angled or cropped images that could make Nell Carter look like Tyra Banks. (God help me if I ever see one more picture of a girl with a decent face and big boobs snapped from directly above, only her lid and cleavage showing. We all know you’re shooting at that angle to conceal a gut like King Hippo‘s, you gorgon!)


I came across the profile of the woman I’ll refer to henceforth as “Horsie” one night in between compulsive viewings of Casino and Conan the Barbarian (there’s a reason I was meeting girls online). She seemed cute in pictures (oh John…will you ever heed your own wisdom?), was bright enough to understand half of my prosaic dick jokes and was located only 30 miles away. Typically, after meeting someone through the Dilly, I would instant message them for a while, working up the nerve to ask them to see their goodies after a few weeks. Meetings would be requested months, if not years after the fact. But no, not with Horsie. After about 20 minutes of talk, she conveyed an interest in hanging out that night.


I had never had a one-nighter before, and I figured this might be my shot at the geek’s version of just that. Plus, she was part Native American and part Latina. I don’t know if it’s because my dad was a sailor and banged every people under God’s sun, but I’ve always been down with the idea of having a United Nations of sexual partners (at this point, all that’s left on the checklist is an Eskimo, and I’m not sure it’s worth the frostbitten taint from igloo sex), so I was definitely intrigued. In spite of my desire to quote Pesci’s “you Jew motherfucker” scene back to the tv for the hundredth time, I thought it might be nice for me to get out for once and decided to make my way to the home of Horsie.


For those of you that aren’t my real-life friends who are reading this (all four of you), I live in a rather developed suburb of Washington, D.C. That said, it doesn’t take too many miles before you’re surrounded by Confederate flags, Skoal cans and stickers of #3 with angel wings on it. Horsie lived out in these boonies, and, having just seen House of 1,000 Corpses a few weeks earlier, I’m not embarrassed to admit I was scared shitless driving around the country at night, especially in those days before GPS. I finally arrived at her parents’ house (more of a farm, honestly) and, while definitely disappointed with how she looked in person, I was just relieved she wasn’t wearing a dead-skin mask and burying a chainsaw in my crotch. We quickly retreated to her back yard to “talk.”


For those of you curious, the nickame “Horsie” isn’t derived from the girl’s appearance (she would be more of a “head of a lemur on the body of an overfed baby circus bear” if that were the case), but the fact that she had a horse in her backyard. And the horse fucking hated me. It wasn’t long before Horsie and I were hooking up on lawn furniture in a gazebo located about 20 feet from the horse’s boarding pen (I’m all class). I swear to god, the horse must have wanted to make a centaur with this broad, because every time things moved toward sex, it would go apeshit, making enough noise to wake up her parents. After my fifth attempt at doing the mommy-daddy dance getting cockblocked by a horse, I decided to cut my losses and bid Horsie adieu, leaving enough time in the night for at least one viewing of Casino.


The coda to this story is a good one. I woke up the next day relieved that I wasn’t in a tub of ice with my kidneys missing. As I began to drink a glass of milk with breakfast, I thought, “Wow, this milk reeks, it must be spoiled” and threw out the glass. I sniffed the carton itself, but it was not the offender. A few moments later, while eating a sandwich, I thought, “Wow, this sandwich reeks, the meat must be spoiled,” though, now curious about the odor I was encountering, I didn’t throw it out. It took me a few moments before I had my Dr. House “ah ha” moment and realized the common denominator between these two foods was my right hand…which had been used between Horsie’s haunches in the quest for amour the night before.


I’m not one of those asses who will maintain that women smell bad down there (nine out of ten times, everything is perfect, and I’ll go to town like the Snuggle bear in a blanket). But this was, without a doubt, the most potent, lingering stench I had ever encountered. It failed to come off after repeated washings. I felt like a bank robber who had an ink pack blow up on them. I finally resorted to using Palmolive, reasoning that if it could cut through steak grease, it could get the job done. It did, but only after I resorted to making a mock vagina with my left hand, filling it with the soap and repeatedly fingering it with my right hand’s besmirched digits. (Palmolive, if you ever use this story as the centerpiece of a new ad campaign, I’m coming for you.)


In part two of “Meeting Women Online Used to Be Suicide” I will bring you the tale of…THE BALTI-WHORE!

Tagged as: Facebook, myspace, online dating.