Would you like a little show with that?

So, my brave, weathered, and urban soul has ventured into dating again.  Yes.  Yes.  

I know.  

Many, perhaps all, of of you are shocked . . . pulling your mouth off the floor.  Well, to make it even better let me tell you a little story about dating in the new millennium (to so brashly steal half a line from Rent).  Oh yes, the rules are not the same . . . nor or they sane.  

1. Ladies, I say this with a deep, ingrained passion.  Use a dating email.  When you meet a handsome chap. . . give them the damned dating email.  Coyly say, oh it goes to my phone and it won't show up in my message logs (and white lie if you need to on the next part) as my work pays for my phone.  Yes.  Do not give out the real email or the cell phone.  Why? With an email and/or cell phone you can find out a life history.  You think I jest? 100 bucks says I can find your address . . . why yes, that's called puttin' PhD skills to good use there! 

In the past decade only one dude got my first and last name up front and my number.  Why? There was a business card involved before hand.  Yeah.  

2. No last names.  No last names.  I said it again.  No last names.  Last names happen after, ya know, you've seen in each in day light more than a handful of times or he's at least conversed about more than weather and time of day.  Why? Read on.  

3. People are crazy and prepare yourself.  Just prepare, take those expectations and drop them down about ten levels, and then . . . prepare yourself for the full onslaught of fucking crazy.  And now . . . now I give you the meat of the story.  I recommend a side of bourbon here, or some smooth scotch.  We already know I'm a longtime fan of Maker's and on scotch . . . I'm a Dewar's girl.  

Once upon a time a little lady decided to date again . . . yeah, you get the picture.  Yet, here's the deal.  In shops, bars, and personals the weirdos, creeps, and wanna be porn stars arose.  As in, once these dudes had the dating email the atonements of promise, love in the making, and lure began to flood in with such fury that . . . well . . . there are honest fears the NSA is going to swoop in and denote me and the dating address as a porn hub.  A PORN HUB.  

But, before we look at the porn hub how about we take a little vignette of the most insane proposal of love I have received.  This being better than the time some dude wanted me to meet his Mom at the end of date one.  As in this occurred in the past year.  As in, I was late dirty thirties.  Him: early forties.  I kid you not. 

In a 500 word email of sheer grace . . .  a dude of recent began "hi sweetie."  I learned that in the past year he dedicated himself to the gym and his business.  Fair enough . . . perhaps I can overlook that presumptuous sweetie thing.  I mean, he has not bought me dinner so what is this sweetie business? Then . . . then there was an oddly worded diatribe about being in similar shoes and not being crazy.  There was something about my not to have other guy friends, and that he and I needed to start out as friends.  

So . . . I ask--aside from the what the holy fuck is this shit--is . . . does this Dude know it is 2016 and women vote and work and live alone and  . . . yeah, dude.  Ask me if I responded? Wow.  I know.  

But, it gets better.  Yes, just like an after school special . . . 

Enter the dick pics.  

Yes, dick pics.  What's that you ask? Well, my dear, it is when a person of the male gender takes a picture of hard  penis and sends it to you.  In this case, ALWAYS unsolicited.  I'll let that set in for a second.  

It set in yet?

And now . . . it gets better . . . these dudes learn I'm a writer and they seem to take great pride in finding "cleaver" notes.  My personal favorite: When he decides to ask you out, knowing you're a part time writer, and says "I hope you don't mind the hanging participle." Yeah, you don't want that shit popping up on your screen . . . hence, email at least won't flash that retina burning display for Grandma and the boss to see . . . or that cute guy you are having drinks with . . . 

Hanging participle. Dear gawd.

And these picks. Men, boys, and in-between: women do not want unsolicited picks of your Christmas package. Really.

Though, contortions of the body leaves me wondering how in the hell people can do that! I can't even . . . can't even.  Though, Dudes: we totally know when you are catfishing the size of your dick.  Just as you know when a chick does it, we know when you adjust those camera angles and the placement of your hand around your schlong.  Just saying. 

But, really, why would you send those out as a way to lure a woman? I mean I get the whole sexting and such from time to time . . . that makes relative sense, especially if it is on both sides.  Sexting happens.  But, to just send that to a woman you just met (or haven't) yet? I mean . . . aren't you afraid she's nuts and will post that shit? Or what about if she tells you it's too small? It's funny shaped? Or . . . just not juicy enough? I mean, guys, this is basic logic of setting yourself up.  

I should pause here and note that I have never shamed some dude for this . . . I just delete as I'm usually busy picking up my eyeballs and popping them back into my head.  Though, as I keep asking friends bemoaning lousy days, "Want a cheer up? I'll dig through my digital trash just for you."  I never have any takers.  

With that . . . the amount of offers from men looking to cheat, do strange things (from judging what they do with their bodies in those pics), and--well--to apparently drop my drawers at the sight of a dick I worry about the state of humanity.  

In a recent conversation with an old friend I am certain that I have resolidified his marriage, as he near cried while asking "Wow, is this really what it is like out there?" He's one of four that got to see particularly disturbing emails.  I asked if he wanted some pics for a broader range of judgement . . . He said no, but I'm certain he'd rather die ugly and alone that attempt this digital world of dick pics.  

I'd like to think of myself fitting into this strange domain of modern dating, where a 40 year old, PhD, writer can find a happy medium instead of 60+ year olds looking for a younger gal . . . or the 21 year old asking me if I'd be his "cougar" and teach him . . . or the outright insane ones . . . or talks of marriage.  Oh my.  That cougar shit happened over coffee a few weeks ago. As in, I was having coffee by my happy self and he decided to join me.  I was jovial and polite until "you have such pretty eyes" started and then the "will you teach me and be my cougar" happened.  Can't make this shit up.  Can't make it up at all.   

In my mind I'd like to be like a favorite quote from a novel I worked with last year. As L.M. Montogomery said about Rilla, “There was something in her movements that made you think she never walked but always danced.” Rilla of Ingleside. Maybe that's why I've got such an aggressive array of suitors. Or . . . or . . . people are just fucking crazy. I'm gonna die ugly and alone. I'm fairly certain of that.

And, to cleanse your mental palate here's a favorite fall moment on a campus I teach at.