INTERNET DATES FROM HELL (7 page)

“Don’t you need to wear a tuxedo to a ball?” I asked.

“No, I am going to a ‘black and blue ball’ downtown later.”

I asked him what a black and blue ball was. He told me that it was a fetish party for people who liked to be told what to do. I asked him where in my profile it remotely indicated that I might be interested in that sort of activity. His response was that since I was a teacher he thought that I would be great at disciplining him! Hence, the leather wardrobe! I then proceeded to ask him what motivated him to be subservient or dominated by the objects of his affection. I discovered, during over an hour of painstaking digging, that his mother was overly domineering. Consequently, in his frantic search for a match, he only looked for women in authority, be it anyone from kindergarten teachers to CEOs of major corporations.

His good old mom was anything but a woman of real authority; her idea of discipline was sensory deprivation. For something as menial as breaking a glass or tracking dirt into the house, Angelo and his sister were locked in a dark closet for minutes on end. For something more heinous, like failing an arithmetic exam or wetting the bed, the tub water would be drawn with exceedingly hot water and the children would be forced to sit in it for inordinate amounts of time. God forbid they broke her cardinal rule, which was talking back to any adult or challenging an adult’s authority in any way. Angelo’s mother would march them down to the basement where two three-foot speakers and a lone chair sat. Once seated, operas from Verdi and assorted other famous conductors were played at unhealthy levels of volume. This could go on for hours, depending on good old mom’s demeanor. To this day, I think about Angelo and the extremely appropriate occupation he has chosen, and I hope that by helping others, he may find a way to help himself. It was at this point that he decided to don a pair of sunglasses, which solved the mystery concerning what I thought was a watch on his left wrist. The letters “S.M.S.O.A.” were clearly visible on the stainless steel bracelet on his left wrist. What made matters worse was that beneath the bracelet the same letters were tattooed across the inside of his wrist. He noticed me staring at both bracelet and tattoo, and offered the meaning of the acronym. He explained that the letters stand for the Sadomasochist Society of America.

After all of that, it is hard to believe that he asked me if I would like to accompany him to the S&M party that night. I never even addressed his question nor offered an answer. I politely excused myself to the ladies’ room to plan an escape. No sooner was I in one of the stalls than I instinctively looked at the ladies’ room window, which was too small for me to escape through. The most mature and humane thing to do was to be honest and tell him that he had made an error. I was not masochistic, sadistic, or any other “-istic” he was looking for. Much to my surprise, after all this delaying, when I returned to the table, Angelo had vanished!

I received a strange voice mail that went as follows: “Hi, Trisha. Sorry I had to run, but if you change your mind and would like to have your place cleaned, give me a call.”

Although for a second I actually thought my place certainly needed a good cleaning, my common sense quickly resurfaced. I decided to do it myself, thank you very much.

Here is a suggestion: Tell your Internet date that the first encounter can only be forty-five minutes long, due to a previous appointment that you had forgotten. It could be a handy way to escape this type of date from hell. On the other hand, if the date goes positively, this will entice the person to call for another date at another time in the near future where more time can be spent.

I had met a few people in between the dates up to this point who were either not what they portrayed themselves to be or not interesting enough to read and write about. The whole process was just fascinating. Each and every person opens up a new world to explore. Dating a myriad of men is like a smorgasbord. It was extremely entertaining, and it made for a much more interesting life than a grade school teacher would normally be exposed to. When would this searching end? Would I ever find contentment with a “normal man?” Since I had encountered a majority of unique individuals, would I be bored with a “regular guy?” I was always drawn to exotic men, either exotic-looking or from another culture. Although I have dated American men, it is the exotic men who intrigue me. When I am out with a man from another country, I feel like I am away in that country. In my teaching career I have three months of vacation every summer, and I have used this opportunity to travel extensively around the globe. I have more passport stamps than a seasoned diplomat. There is nothing I enjoy more than seeing the world. I am simply seeking an intelligent man with whom I can travel, learn from, be inspired by, and inspire. Why is it so difficult?

7
 

If He Still Lives at Home with His Parents, Don’t Bother
 

January 1999

As I mentioned before, deception comes in many shapes and sizes. It’s important to note at this junction that a person may not be purposefully deceptive if he is indeed deluded by grandeur. Obviously, each person has a different sense of the reality that surrounds him or her. Homes (like shapes and sizes) can be viewed differently by different people.

Todd’s e-mail seemed humble. Although he mentioned that he worked at a local power plant as a “troubleshooter,” his schedule was flexible. As a thirty-five-year-old, he claimed to own two homes, rent an apartment, enjoy hunting and fishing in the Poconos, and restore old Broncos from the eighties. He also noted that he found me very attractive and thought I resembled a young Catherine Deneuve. Periodically I would get compared to Stevie Nicks from Fleetwood Mac or the French actress Emanuelle Beart. Both, I took as a compliment.

At first blush, Todd seemed as rugged and outdoorsy as any of the previous candidates. Deception, however, loomed largely, later on in our brief relationship. Todd looked very attractive in the photo he attached to the e-mail. He looked like a darker version of the Marlboro man, without the mustache.

The first phone call went well. Because of the first, we spoke a few times the next day. The only thing that bothered me throughout the duration of these four phone calls was his insistence on talking about his mother. I don’t know why it bothered me, but it did. In my home we were brought up to respect our mother. Very infrequently, if at all, have I ever heard one of my brothers speak badly about our mother. As a matter of fact, when the matriarchal topic arises in conversation, my brothers are quite positive with their assessment about our mother. So why would this bother me? I finally decided to meet Todd at the Tick Tock Diner on 34
th
that I used to frequent (by the way, it makes the best Greek salads).

After two dates, I was mildly intrigued. The third date, however, did not go as well. We found ourselves en route to Home Depot. As an avid apartment dweller for the past two years, I rarely found myself at home centers. My shopping haunts were more on the department store level, so this kind of store, too, was new to me. Before I knew it, we were in the window dressing section, in an aisle full of vertical, Venetian, and even beautiful mahogany wooden blinds. Instead of consulting me on fabric or color or window treatments in general, Todd excused himself politely and phoned his mother. Although he was a good eight to ten feet away from me, I could hear every word he spoke. Occasionally, he glanced in my direction to see if I was listening. During those instances I pretended to fidget with the bolts of vertical blind fabric. His words included, “But, Ma, the dimensions of a window is height and width. Just measure the width of the sill and the length of one of the sides of the window. Come on, it’s not that difficult. Call me back!” “Isn’t that nice,” I thought. “His mother is helping him redecorate his apartment.” I wished we were all that lucky. He returned somewhat red-faced, apologizing politely. I said nothing. We exchanged smiles and browsed through the variety of blinds available. Less than five minutes later, his cell phone rang again. “Ma, again, just measure the width and the length! It doesn’t have to be perfect, just give me a rough idea of the opening.”

He looked over at me with head tilted to one side and smiled wryly. Ironically, an announcement over the PA system reported that a little lost boy had been found and was eagerly awaiting his mother at the courtesy desk. I couldn’t help but make the association regarding Todd. Nevertheless, I mentally plodded onward, trying to stay positive.

A week after the “Home Depot incident,” I found myself in a late-eighties semi-restored Bronco on the way to the Poconos. Todd alerted me that he had a lunch planned at his country home. He talked so much about this home that he led me to believe this was a quaint, warm, vacation getaway. Just then his mother called for the third time, and we hadn’t gone ten miles. “Yes, Mother, no need to remind me who owns the home. I know you and Dad purchased the home before I was born. You don’t have to remind me.”

Todd admitted at that point that he didn’t own the home; it was his parents’. Alright, a little white lie wasn’t going to interfere with this date. However, with a hundred miles to go, I estimated that his mother would call at least six more times. She actually called seven!

We finally pulled into a small rural town, one and half hours from New York City. What bothered me was the rusted sign attached to an even more rusted pole adjacent to the dirt road where we turned left. What confused me even more were the twenty or more rusted mailboxes under the Etonia town limits sign. As we pulled up the driveway of the development, I saw structures behind a group of trees. It looked as though someone was shooting a movie there.

I asked Todd, “Is there a documentary being filmed here?”

He responded, “What do you mean?”

“What’s with all the trailers?”

“Those aren’t trailers. Those are country homes.”

For the next ten minutes I observed the most bizarre campground I have ever witnessed—not that I am a great camper or anything. These were not quaint homes! They were trailers, damn it! No matter how hard some of the families tried to decorate the outside of these “homes,” the decorations still appeared contrived to me. My jaw ached. I must have had my mouth agape for ten minutes. When I finally mustered enough nerve to look at Todd, he was red-faced and appeared irked. His silence was deafening. At that moment, I felt that the appropriate thing to do was to apologize for my astonishment. No sooner could I mouth the words, then I was completely overwhelmed by not one, not two, but six enormous plastic pink flamingoes posed to drink from some nonexistent oasis in front of a metallic-type home. These trailers looked more like spaceships than did the rectangular-type box homes that we had passed over a quarter of a mile before. My consternation increased dramatically from this point onward. What would be beyond these otherworldly looking homes?

After what seemed like forever, we finally approached Todd’s “vacation home.” There were no flamingoes here, but just used car parts strewn everywhere, including tires painted white, with enormous weeds growing out of the middle.

Wildlife seemed to be hopping from one truck part to the next, and I hoped it was only squirrels. My jaw began to ache in conjunction with the migraine I was developing. As if in a dream, Todd appeared at the front door of the trailer. I didn’t even recall him turning the engine off, leaving the vehicle, and walking the fifty or so feet through the waist-high grass (damn daydreaming again!). The grass looked as though it hadn’t been cut since the previous fall. When I saw him gesticulating to me to get out of the car and come into the house, I wanted to run (in the opposite direction). God knows what was in that thing! All I could imagine was a variety of fishing rods and reels, hunting equipment, old newspapers, dirty dishes, and a television that dated back to the fifties. What I encountered next was far worse (if you can believe it).

Dodging at least a dozen of what appeared to be Sunday newspapers (yellowed from the sun and elements) and two extremely large transmission yokes, I finally made it to the front door. Todd was busy straightening up as I walked into the kitchen. I was right! There were dirty dishes, old newspapers, and open tackle boxes, and shotgun shells graced the kitchen table. As if things weren’t bad enough, then I noticed, above the sink, a cat’s hatch built into the kitchen window. In the corner of the kitchen were two litter boxes filled beyond comprehension. The stench was overwhelming to the point that I quietly gagged. It was incomprehensible why Todd didn’t go right to the litter boxes first, rather than removing the empty beer bottles on what appeared to be an old lineman’s spool. Doing the best I could to not look at the litter box, I proceeded down the hallway and found a trailer full of mango and avocado-colored leather furniture (definitely sixties), stuffed animals (and I don’t mean teddy bears), and that fifties television avec rabbit ears. I went to inquire about the squirrel and raccoon on smaller spool end tables, but Todd was nowhere to be found. It was at that moment I saw on the wall a certificate of completion from the Jarrett Taxidermy School of Greater New York. Great, another Norman Bates, right out of the movie Psycho.