Jean-Luc, The French pirate, is not named Jean-Luc.  He’s, also, not a pirate.  He’s a pilot.  For some reason, my roommate and I thought pirate was funny.  Calling him Jean-Luc was not meant to be funny, rather it was meant to be romantic.  His actual name is dull and American dull…like Barney or Fred.

When I first spoke to him on the phone, I detected a trace of an accent.  French?  Hispanic? Subsequent times, we had a bad connection and his accent got thicker – Vichyssoise.  When we arranged to meet, I was uncertain whether we were meeting at 4 or 5.  Were we meeting at Cocoa Beach, Cocoa Village or at Coconuts?  Somehow, I felt rude asking him to repeat himself and trusted in our cell phones to find one another.  I DID know which day.  I had that much narrowed down, despite the trace of Alsace.

We met at Ron Jon’s, the only place both of us knew we knew.  I knew he wasn’t going to stand me up, because we called one another, triangulating.  We were on the phone together as he walked up behind me.  ”Don’t park there.”  (I love a man in charge.)  ”The free parking is there.”  He pointed across the street and he got into the passenger seat of my car.  (Ack!  My car is a smelly mess.)

We walked towards the beach and along Alan Shepard park.  I asked where we were going.  Jean-Luc said he was following me.  Not good judgment on his part.  We stopped at a restaurant with live music coming from the deck above.  Things were going swimmingly.  He took my hand which normally makes me uncomfortable.  Somehow, a man with confidence has the power to make me give way.  I liked him immediately.

We talked.  We walked the beach.  We had dinner.  We hot-tubbed and cold pool’d.  Having no swimsuit, I just swam in my underthings, despite the security cameras.  J-L’s biggest downfall is a horrendous taste in movies.  We started watching an old Sam Elliott western – ‘Fight no never more…’ or something.  Fortunately, we didn’t finish it.

When I left I must have been doing something (muttering, playing with my keys, muttering.)     When I looked up, he was flashing those dimples and looking at me with amusement and affection.  For a moment, those twinkly, blue eyes Christian Grey’d me.  (My writing now is as weak as my knees were then.).  I remember his expression clearly.  I have no idea what I was doing that created the amused affection.

************************************************************************

Three days later – insecurity kicks in.  My imagination is working overtime – while I was at my job working overtime.  Jean-Luc was not a pilot/pirate, but works as a fast food drive-in cashier.  His French accent is faux.  Not even his dimples are real.  He’s blocked his profile.  His phone was a disposable like the ones drug dealers use.  I wondered had he existed.

I looked up his profile on line.  There he was; a middle-aged balding man.  I’ll give him his due — nice bod.  ”Shit!”  My looking up his profile becomes visible on HIS profile.  I feel like a nudgenik.  When he wrote me, it almost didn’t count.  He was prompted.  The message was canned.  My only weapon to write back a breezy note.  ’See how busy and happy I am?”

The moral of this story?  Who the hell knows.

I’ve had two dates – back to back.  One with a soft spoken sort.  The other a professional man.

The first burned itself out before the actual face-to-face meeting.  We exchanged a couple of emails on a Saturday.  On Sunday, we spoke for 4 hours.  Then calls:  good morning, good night, how was your day?  I tried to put the brakes on this crazy train, but it didn’t happen.  By the following Saturday, date day, not much to say.  I would have thanked him and excused myself, but he had his motorcycle.  The weather was divine.  D’oh — cat nip.  The ride led to dinner and dinner to a band.  Then blessed release.  Like a rehabbed dolphin, I was let back into the wild.  However, there is cell and internet in ‘my wild.’  He’s continued calling and writing to me.  I know I don’t want to book a second date.  Be direct or be blase until he gets the picture?  Neither option appeals.

My next date was the opposite.  We spoke briefly, agreed a meeting would have to be deferred.  A month later, I was invited for coffee in two days time.  T minus one day, I received a memo.  (Julie, Confirming tomorrow 4pm at the bookstore on SRXXX.  Bob)  The day of, Bob called to move the meet up one hour.  I agreed.  Very business-like.  Too business-like.  We met at Star-$$.  He took 4 calls and seemed distracted, except his persistence in getting an answer to the question.  I was not dodging the question.  I felt I answered it and answered it and elaborated.  I would have sung and danced the answer, if that would stop the asking.  The question was, “What are you looking for?”  This is the man equivalent to a woman asking,  ”What are you thinking?”  The woman hopes the answer is something about her or the relationship.  The man is hoping the answer will be casual sex.

In no particular order, some of my answers were:

• I don’t know.
• Like pornography – I know it, when I see it.
• I would rather be alone than date without a connection.
• I’m dating for the first time in my life, because I can.
• I’m not looking for a commitment.  I do think it will happen all the same.
• If you ask me once more, I’ll need to be ‘committed.’

This one’s too needy.  This one’s a work-aholic.  This one’s dull.  This one’s manic.    Where is Mr. Just Right?

Mr. Too Soft just called.  I was as gentle as could be without actually saying, “It’s not you.  It’s me.”  It was definitely him.

“The great question that has never been answered, and which I have not yet been able to answer, despite my thirty years of research into the feminine soul, is ‘What does a woman want?’” -From Sigmund Freud: Life and Work by Ernest Jones, 1953

Men ask me about the book in hushed tones.  Have I read it?  What did I think?  Some men believe they may have discovered the Holy Grail.  Could “50 Shades of Grey” for men be the key that finally opens the door to a woman’s sexual soul?  Lord knows they have stared through the keyhole of our minds without seeing the big picture.  I know several  men who have read it..  Are the secrets now available?  Can men calibrate accordingly?

Stephen Hawking, says, “There is only one enduring mystery of the universe I have found impossible to crack: Women.”  At least, this is what he told New Scientist magazine in an interview for his upcoming 70th birthday celebration when the reporters asked what he thinks about the most during the day.  ”They are a complete mystery to me,” Hawking said.

Read enough male cyber-dating profiles:  no drama needed, simple low maintenance woman desired, friend first.  When one talks to these guys the above is the last thing they want.  They want excitement, too, but how to move in that sexual direction without getting slapped down?

Visit self-help sections in a bookstore.  You could fill a mobile library with nothing, but tomes that woman buy to understand men.    Men are not as willing to sit down and read ‘Mars/Venus,’ but they are willing to buy into the notion that “50 Shades” is what woman want.  Because on some level they want this type of ‘relationship,’ too.  Millions of copies sold.  If it didn’t read like a soft core Harlequin romance, I would have been apt to think a man penned the book under a woman’s name.  Women and men both fantasize about surrender.

Women want to give ourselves completely over to a passive side.  What holds us back?  Social mores, convention, signals from ads that sex sells and we don’t want to consider ourselves on the market.  .A friend has this take.  Linda says, that the heroine represents a lot of woman who have sexual desires that culturally they are instructed to suppress.  The heroine isn’t allowed to have these desires unless she is overcome by a force more powerful than herself.  Christian Grey is apparently a man so perfect that a woman will submit to humiliation.  He is tall, gorgeous, successful, has plenty of free time, bright and surrounded by beautiful women he ignores in favor of the heroine. [ I didn't read enough to find out if Grey was funny.  I can't imagine this writer as having wit, so I'm guessing the character does not.]

I think “50 Shades” is trash.  Throw it in the dustbin.  Not because of the soft porn, but due to the sophomoronic nature of the story.  It, also, happens to be dreadfully written.  To claim the book has any merit literarily is to compliment with faint censure.

The writer, whose name occupies none of my brain cells, lost me on page 1.  The book is told in the first person.  ’I looked in the mirror and pouted.  Whatever could I do?  I was un-presentable. All I saw was a pert button nose, curly auburn hair and bright green eyes, set like Irish emeralds in my pale skin.’  Whatever can you do?  You can stop pouting into the mirror for starters.  Knowing the girl was going to get her swerve on for 3 books, this was a gag-inducing start.  ”The don’t hate me, because I’m beautiful” spokes-model was universally hated.

Why does the character have to disparage herself?  Go up to any gorgeous woman besides Heidi Klum and she will describe herself as average.  We’re taught to disparage ourselves and to disparage other woman.  Having self-worth issues, we tumble to the first guy who says we’re cute.  Or do we?

In my experience, knowing and talking with women, that as a group we “Gotta Have It” as Spike Lee says.  Lord knows, we talk about sex with one another more raunchily with friends than with our partners.  We want our partners to perceive us as deserving of respect which is at war with our fantasies and desires to experiment.

This contradiction occupies quite a lot of space in the Urban Dictionary:  A man with a Madonna-whore complex is a man who will sleep with and lust for a sexual and beautiful woman, but he will never respect her as “wife” material and he will never marry her. In his eyes, she is tainted, impure, unworthy of the status of wife—yet he may possess passionate and contradictory feelings for her. He may even be in love with her, but will never allow himself to be with her in any real sense.

He will look for a “good girl” to marry—usually a woman who is cold sexually but, for example, is good at “wifely” domestic things: cooking, cleaning, homemaking in general, etc. A proper, pure “Madonna” type woman who will bear his children.  This seems sophomoronic.  What’s a ‘ho’ to do?

Trying to work on social flirting skills – AKA, being friendly.  I did something tonight I’ve never done in my life.  When the waiter came to our table, I said, “You have the most beautiful blue eyes.”  He didn’t.  My husband actually does.  Bob has beautiful Paul Newman-blue eyes in a sun-burnt face.

I don’t know what prompted me to say this to the waiter.  I do speak impulsively, but rarely comment on a person’s appearance.  I don’t usually speak to people, unless I have something to say ‘in my pocket.’  Whether, it was the full force of my eye contact or surprise on his part, I don’t know. He was flustered and said “I do my best.”  Never got better service in a restaurant.

My friend, Linda, and I ate and listened to the band until a cannoli seemed in order.  I asked for one cannoli and two forks, chocolate sauce on half.  I don’t like chocolate enough to bother with the calories.   Mr. Blue Eyes said, “I’ll do my best.”   — referring to the ‘chocolate on half’.  ”My best…” is his stock answer?  I always forget cannolis have chocolate chips in them.  For some reason, I always think I’m ordering something else when I order dessert.

When “Mr. Blue Eyes” brought the cannoli he set it down in front of me..  When I went to take the forks, I grabbed his index finger firmly, but accidentally.  I was so embarrassed.  I really need to work on my flirting skills and hand/eye coordination.

So, I did a little research.  Flirting is natural.  In animals, it is instinctive:  The peacock spreads his tail.  Dolphins dance.  If we do not initiate contact and express interest in members of the opposite sex, we would not progress to reproduction.  (Not that I wanted to reproduce with the waiter – a sexy Tom Colicchio-type.)

Westerners are ‘civilized,’  It’s been bred out of us by cultural mores.  In Puritanical cultures, flirting has acquired a bad name.  I was always nervous that a man would mistake friendliness for sexual interest.  Some of us have become so worried about causing offence or sending the wrong signals that we are in danger of losing our natural talent for playful, harmless flirtation.  Flirting is socially acceptable in public settings such as a pub or night-clubs.  This is probably why so many people meet their partner at a bar.

Eye contact – looking directly into the eyes of another person – is such a powerful act of communication that we normally indulge in very brief glances. Prolonged eye contact between two people indicates intense emotion:  an act of love or aggression.

I’m happy to report, I did much better on my second try.  I went to a Western-themed ‘Ball.’  My date, my boss, for this work event got stuck on an island.  (I kid you not.  It happens when you live on the coast where people live on islands.)  I felt a single woman rocking a stetson and boots alone at a fundraiser seemed predatory. Fortunately, at the dinner, the partner on my left was a teenager.  We got to rating the who was hot/not in the room.  The seat on my right was taken by a lady when my boss couldn’t show.  Ms. To-My-Right was not so friendly.  It turned out she was working.  The Ball was her baby as she was on the Board of Directors and the Ball committee.  She had the success of the evening on her mind, until she went to sell commemorative T-shirts.

The man with which I socially flirted was definitely with someone.  His girlfriend/wife and he were very affectionate.with one another.  They were also placed directly in my field of vision when the DJ and speakers had the microphone.  Mr. Beige Stetson had his arm around his lady, but couldn’t seem to resist turning his head and briefly making eye contact.  Over the course of the evening it happened maybe 20 times.  20 glances on his part.  Each time I tried to hold his gaze a bit longer before dropping my eyes.  Guys:  it’s a coquette thing.

I wasn’t seductive.  I could see he was there with someone he cared about.  In fact, when I went to get coffee I didn’t want to walk across the dance floor.  I went out the door to the buffet set up and back in on the other side of the event room where dessert and coffee were.  I caught this Stetson and his prairie skirt practicing their two-step.  I looked at her and smiled said something inncouous like, “looking good.”

As far as Stetson goes.  It was just a nice encounter in a setting where people were expected to socialize.  No harm done.  But damn he was fine.

YUMMY LEGS

He doesn’t have a romantic bone inside,
instead it dangles lonely, peering outside.

On his silly eBay work he had better embark,
for he will never get a job writing for Hallmark.

And then he met a lovely, smart lady with Yummy Legs!

Everything changed in his narrow mind,
for how could he be so lucky to make such a find?

She inspired him to write about romantic and serious things,
but somehow, someway, he always veered back to eBay cha-chings.

And then he thought about her Yummy Legs.

How will he get to partake in their soft delicious endless frontier,
He must start at her toes and work his way up towards the rear.

Oh, she thought, enough of your simple A/B rhyme scheme!
Write a real poem, one that ends with a pleasurable scream.

And now he is kissing and licking her Yummy Legs.

This is much better… touching, feeling, kissing and caressing.
She is OK with her CUPID, she QUIVERS and begins undressing.

As he opens his mouth to say something foolish, she stops him with her lips,
he slips, they fall back and his tongue lands between her hips,

She is dripping and dropping in a heap to the floor
and they resume their lust, craving more and more.

This is not a penthouse letter, no, it is something far better,
It’s our 2nd date, so I hope it is making you wetter. (NEEDS WORK!)

And then she kicked him in the head with her Yummy Legs.

He fell for her, moaning, “more, more” – I must have your Yummy Leg!
She jumped on top of him on the floor and said “Only if you BEG!”

He begged and begged for another chance to touch her Yummy Legs.

She teased him mercilessly, but finally relented,
for she realized he was just horny and somewhat demented.

And that is their story, it is rather long, but not too gory.
He was just a strange man who was captured by the beauty… of her yummy legs.

Make a chart.  Keep a dossier.  Scribble notes on the back of an envelope.  You WILL be writing more people than you expect.  You will remember them from their profile picture and non de plume.  But when they show up on the cell screen under their real names – it will be confusing.  All the Toms, Richards and Bills were blank slates without my computer.  Meeting in a restaurant full of people will be disorienting.  They won’t look like their profile pictures.  They are moving, not static.  Look for someone alone; generally fitting the description.  Hopefully, you won’t get there first.

In one instance, a man called.  Didn’t introduce himself just launched into a conversation about something, not particularly revealing.  If they call, they all start with, “Hey, Babe.”  This time I knew it was Andy – well-spoken, Arabic accent.  I apologized for standing him up on our phone date and went along with a bit of what we’d last been speaking of.  ”Tell me my name,”  said the guy.  [Shit!  It hit me! It was Sam.  1/2 French 1/2 Egyptian - same Arabic accent.]  ”Sam,”  I said, not missing a beat.
“We had a date Friday?”
“Didn’t we?”  my voice rose at the end of my question and got squeaky.  What cops call, a tell.  Sam and I did go out and he did mentioned the incident more than once.  We only went out once.  Andy and I never went out and he never called after the first time.

Then there was David and David.  Even using the initials of their last name on my cell didn’t help.  I tried to be cautious after the mid-Eastern conflict.

Don’t answer your phone during dates, unless it is a number you recognize.  My cell rings so infrequently that when it rang, I answered.  I didn’t recognize the number and was curious.  It was awkward.  I was on a first date  (they’re all first dates) when a friend called who is used to a long chat.  I’m not swift enough to play nonchalant and started laughing – which  I do when I’m embarrassed.  I left my phone pal a message on his site the next day, but we didn’t speak for a while.  I regretted my thoughtlessness.

I was brought up to respond to notes and invitations with a speedy reply or RSVP.  This does not apply to Internet messages.  If someone sent a note, I would respond with something clever or not so clever, but I did answer.  This Southern etiquette put me in the predicament of being seen, not as polite, but as interested.  I then had all these men to weed out.  i tried to let them down gently.  A couple of the needier ones were hard to shake.  It was 2 months, before I figured I should ignore winks, messages and other initiations, if I wasn’t interested.  It’s really easier on everyone.  I send out initiating gestures in batches and lose track of who answers or doesn’t.  If someone doesn’t respond, I know that I’ll learn to love again.

On the evaporated milk can, it used to say, “Add one part evaporated milk to one part water.  This meets the USDA’s requirement for [regular] milk.”  In the case of most dates you can add one part alcohol to one part horny guy and it will NOT equal anything but a**hole.  They all want to meet in a bar.  They all want to move the date to somewhere more private:  the beach, the car, a hotel.  Make the first date a meet-and-greet.  You should both understand that you’re gonna hang out for 2 hours.  Separate to your own corner and talk another day.  Process the date before extending it.

If the conversation moves back to the dating site, after you have met then this is not a going concern.  He has your number.  He should be a person and call.  Theoretically for a second date.  I’ll have to get back to you on lessons learned from the second. date, when I have one.

Hello!  My name is Julia and I am a serial dater.  It’s a call and response kind of thing.  ”Hi, Julia!”  Like AA.  I was a serial dater, before I knew what one was.

Normally, my blogs tend towards what the man does that is problematic.  Commitment phobic, doesn’t re-book, juvenile sense of humor.  Recently, I had the ultimate in all three, when the guy sheepishly admitted he was married.

In this blog, I must own my responsibility and admit – I’m a serial dater.  Rather a recovering, serial dater.  I hope.  I didn’t know the term, until I was eyeing the profile of a promising man.  In all caps, he’d written NO SERIAL DATERS!  Moment of clarity time.

Like other addictive personalities there are types, levels of severity and mixtures of categories.  Basically this problem can be broken down into 4 kinds:  the player, the needy, the groupie and the hopeless romantic.

The Player serial dates for fun.  She wants the conquest.  The sex, if there is some, is simply the prirate’s booty.  If not sexual, then the high exists from another notch in the swashbuckler belt.  She knows someone wants her.  It’s systematic and a numbers game.  These people are  untouchable,  emotionally unavailable, emotionally detached with  commitment-issue types.  This person engages in internet dating, bar dating, long distance flirtations, phone sex, blind dating, expiration dating, one night stands, friends with benefits and personal ad surfing.  Expiration dating is where both people know they are hooking up for just the wedding, just the vacation or other limited, specified amounts of time.

The needy  feels as if she always needs a boyfriend.  Often, Serial Daters believe they are in love after dating for two days. These relationships usually last for about two weeks, followed by much moping and heartbreak until the next guy comes along two days later, at which point the cycle begins again.  These people are often insecure and need another person to boost their self-esteem.  Most commonly seen in high school girls.

The vengeful serial daters start the chain of love by dating a boy.  After breaking up with him, they proceed to date all of their ex’s friends. Once the serial dater has dated the entire circle of friends, the group realizes that they’ve just been serial dated.  Most commonly seen in college-aged girls.

The romantic is a person who goes on a series of first dates; hoping this may be the one.  This  is basically my type with underlying elements .  I typically go on a first date with no other purpose than to go on a first date.  I will not go on a second date when the first appears unsuitable in any way.  This means that I regularly go out with strangers for the purpose of entertainment. I date strangers the way some people watch films, read books or watch the ballgame.

On the first date site, I now regularly receive a message stating in ominous red ink:    ”Not enough local matches, defaulting to a state level search.”  I joined a pay site.

Had a great date last night.  Fun and flirtatious.  My gut tells me something is off.  My gut is always yapping.  I tease him about being mysterious, but dismiss it as a natural reserve.  Jaime is gentlemanly and being information appropriate.  I’m the one publishing the TMI Today.  He’s sharing in a way that is mature.  This I believe.

Jaime was a cop.  Again, he is vague about his time on the Orlando Police Department or OPD.  ”Who’s down with OPD?,” I sing.  He laughs and seems to enjoy that I am silly.  It offsets his observation that I have a bit of the investigator about me.  I demur.  Not at all!  I am showing a natural curiosity about what he’s telling me.  I’m not compiling a dossier.  He’s not in Witness Protection.

I don’t have to compile a dossier.  I am a good listener.  I remember most things I am told, even though I don’t remember the words used.  I can describe where conversations took place and under what circumstances.  I am jealous of Truman Capote’s documented ability to remember conversations word-for-word.  I’d do something drastic to have that ability.
One date said that it was scary that I remembered what he had said.  I believe it was scary not that I remembered his words, but the times I choose to bring it forward.  ”When we were at Millikin’s on Monday you said blah-blah.  Now you say halb-halb.”  It must feel like a cross examination, but really I just seek to undestand people and the things they say.  The things they do are another matter entirely.

Jaime tells me the most dangerous part of “taking someone in” is when you get past the gate.  The sallyport closes.  The police who are taking over the suspect need to be in place.  Most criminals know that the cops who just brought them in no longer have custody,  The sallyport closes and the criminal knows his arrest is for real.  The officers have to surrender their weapons.  I joke, “Do you have a Sally in every Port?”  He says, “Not in EVERY port.”  I’m not sure whether he is serious or playing along.

He writes later that night.  ”You are awesome.  I had a great time.”  Again he writes, “You are awesome.”  It has a sort of military “Sir, yes, Sir” cadence.  I wish him, “Sweet Dreams.”

Then this note appears in my inbox [redacted]:  ”Here is the thing about me that I omitted to tell you, I have been married for xx years and my wife.and I have NOT had sexual intimacy in the last xx years. I joined xxxx (dating site) to see and test if there was any chance that a guy could successfully meet new people and enhance his own life at all? In meeting you this weekend I realized that I could not continue with my charade without being completely honest. After our date, my friends helped me realize this when they asked me how things were going at home and I told them what I said about my intimacy relationship and they hinted that I should pursue a friendship outside my marriage. Anyways, I am sorry for not being completely honest and that explains why I was being so mysterious.”

I am disappointed and a little angry.  Then I realized this was bound to happen.  I made it out unscathed due to Jaime’s honesty.  I was right he was a gentle man and mysterious.

I write him:  ”I’m glad you told me.  I’m sorry your marriage is unsatisfying.  I hope you find a way to happiness.  Julie”  And this I believe…

My husband and I changed satellite companies.  My new package came with DVR.  I could tape Celebrity X’s show, his guest appearances and commentaries.  I was picky.   I never watched a re-run.  Started to notice that his analysis was non-committal.  His guest appearances often had the same content.  When he was asked to write for the Huffington Post, the piece was superficial.  Could the object of my obsession be unworthy?

For various reasons, I was working from home.  The situation made me isolated.  I became more dependent on the fan page for interaction.  It could be intense.  Fights broke out among the fans.  Cliques were formed.  They were contentious to vicious.  Often posts were very funny.  Some sentimental to the point of being hokey.

I never intentionally made anyone angry, but would find that I’d said something that upset someone.  The hair-pulling was always between two women who considered X as their territory. “Never trod on a sacred cow’s teat.”  My posts attracted ”incident like blue serge attracts lint” to quote Cornelia Otis Skinner.  I’d post about love and a donnybrook would result.  The thread turned to God, or stoicism or how much someone ‘loved’ Celebrity X.

I’d make a conscious decision to stop posting.  Back I’d go with some observation.  The more I’d post, the more I’d want to post.  My fix had to be feed and my posts went wildly off topic.  A cyber-friend got resentful.  I was a “wannabe journalist.”  ”A bullshit intellectual.”  My PM box would blow up with messages “to take her out.”  ”Cut her down to her knees.”  We’d been friends…privately, I knew she drank.  No one understood my reluctance to engage her.

Still I was invited to join a secret, secret page.  A place for 13 people to go off-site and say what they really thought. about X.  ”His eyes, his hands, his earlobes.”  Speculation was rampant.  How tall was he?  They shared their fantasies.  Cat fights occurred here.  I was always careful to be blase.  I didn’t want even them to know about my indulgence, although they shared it.  I was careful never to write anything that could be captured  A brou-haha ensued about an on-site comment I made.  I had thought it was a joke in the spirit of the original post.  I left the group.  Others left at that time, too.  A new administrator was brought in.  I was invited back to the secret, secret group.  I didn’t re-join.

Like the worst of addicts.  I did a lot to get my fix.  I went to his city of residence.  I tried to be funny.  I introduced topics to get his attention.  I wrote X a Christmas song.  Then the tide turned.  I began to ignore him on his own page.  I praised his competitors.  I tried to provoke a response.  The response was “meh!”  I was old news.

Celebrity X left it to his administrator to do the dirty work.  They’d delete my posts.  Take down my photos.  His “team” ignored people when they wrote anything that wasn’t X-related or related to the area of his expertise.  I began to felt he wasn’t worthy of my respect, until he was asked to participate in an event with heavy-hitters.

I was terrified for him.  He was out of his depth.  My feelings had become ambivalent, but I was as nervous for him as any mother at her’s child first play.  Would he have a role with lines or play a tree?  The event went well.  He was nervous, too.  As a celebrity and not practicing, he jumped in at the first opportunity.  He had something to prove.  I was listening on the radio.  When I saw the video days later, I saw eye-rolling when he spoke.  Some well-known participants didn’t – participate.   I expected X to push up his sleeve for access to crib notes.

I stopped DVR’ing his show.  It seemed light-weight.  One of the other fans invited me out for a taping of his show.  I accepted.  Then it appeared the offer was rescinded. I stopped watching his show altogether.  I still posted  a lot.  My posts got aggressive.  The positive posts were directed at other fans.  Poems, politics, religion.  Was I negative attention seeking or showing disdain?   X stopped “liking” my posts.  The rare comment he made no longer was accompanied by a winking emoticon.  He stopped posting my tweets.  It was coming up on 9 months of intensity and we were tiring of one another.  Well, he was tiring of me.

Part 2

My stomach lurches every time a suitor says, “Hey, Babe.”  It’s what my husband used to say and still does in his breathy tenor.  With cyber-dating guys don’t feel odd saying “UR sexy”, “UR hot” or “Hon.” ‘Hon’ sounds very husband-y;  not offensive, but misplaced.

I don’t have to worry about any of this familiarity with Travis.  He doesn’t go there – the endearments. His emails are long, newsy.  He’s moving to my area, when he finishes an oil rig contract in Scotland.  I don’t know what brings him to my area after the contract.  He may have said.  Mostly he wants to make some friends before he gets here or so he writes.

I meet him in kind.  I don’t ask questions.  I write about something funny that happened that day.  In one instance, I told him about writing a letter memorializing a woman with ‘she’ and it was a man who’d died.  The letter went out.  It was a Jean=Gene situation.  ”She will be missed.”  ”She was a generous contributor.” Fortunately, the bereaved woman wasn’t very put out with me.

I told Travis how my boss had given me a banned book for research purposes.  Travis was on an oil rig, and out of the loop.  I gave him all the background, the controversy of the bestseller.  How its banning had affected my job.  I told Travis how I never made it to the supposedly offensive sex portions because the writing was SO BAD.

LT2233 was a nice pen pal. Had something to say.  Some correspondents have zilch to say. LikingTravis2233 was easy enough.  Then the penny dropped.  His wife had died.  He was looking for a replacement and would I mind answering the following questions.  Every letter he wrote me always ended with, “Thank you!  Looking forward to your positive response.”  Travis had early on expressed his belief in being positive.  I was positive, from scanning the questions, his response to my response was not going to be positive.

There were perhaps 30 questions.  I like tests and I was waiting to see what my response was going to be.  I knew it would be honest, but how would I break complicated issues like abortion down for this guy.

Most questions were yes or no and true or false.  I liked some distinctions.  Not only did he  ask my favorite color but, also, what color did I look best in.  I thought that was interesting.   I elaborated where a short essay was requested.  Essays were required on religion, politics and child-rearing.

I took this task seriously, while also thinking he was bonkers.  My roommate came in.  She was….appalled.  Why take a test for this guy?  I explained that people ask one another these questions over time anyway.  Travis asked them en masse to find his replacement wife, and I had just let him know it wasn’t me.  Time saver!

Travis!  If you are reading this, you should have written back.  I knew I was flunking the test as I took it, but you should have thanked me for my time. You never gave me closure to our brief time together. No good-bye?