Brooklyn Dakota Washington, from Match.com -- a place for lonely people who aren't good at talking to find other lonely people who aren't good at talking to talk to.
When I walked into the Internet gaming cafe that I'd tricked Brooklyn into coming to, my heart skipped a beat. It does that sometimes. The doctors are baffled as to why, exactly, and my explanation -- that I'd taught my own heart to beat to the tune of Bon Jovi's "Livin' on a Prayer" -- did nothing to assuage their worries. Luckily, my lack of health insurance did that instead. When the blackness that forever lives at the edges of my vision receded, I saw an angel standing uncertainly between two chubby Koreans swearing at computer screens.
"I like my coffee like I like my women," I said, sidling up to her.
"I don't like where this is going," she answered instantly. God, she was sharp. She saw it coming early, and if her ass kept bouncing around nervously like that, she'd see something else coming early soon enough.
"Full of my own semen," I suavely finished.
"Yep. That was it," Brooklyn answered, then stomped her way out of the double doors at GameBryoz, and my heart, forever.
That was weird. That went exactly like every other date I've ever had with a normal. Are these "Internetizens" just as shockingly prude and standards-having as real people? No, no surely that can't be the case. I've seen the Internet. It's terrible. So it might just be this particular site; sure, it's the biggest, but maybe it's like the Playboy to hardcore pornography. And just like porn, I'm probably going to have to go to some weird, shameful, possibly illegal places before I get my rocks off. Somewhere like ...
Sandra Byrd, from Sugardaddyforme.com -- a place for very loyal or lazy whores to ply their trade.
"Did it hurt?" I asked Sandra when I first met her in the window booth at the Chuck E. Cheese's on 92nd. She'd agreed to the location in part because, no matter how the date went, it would at least make for a nice outing for her many, many stupid, stupid children, and in part because I'd offered to "make it rain in that bitch."
Right off the bat, I could see she looked nothing like her picture. She was a bit on the chubby side, and looked like somebody had rode Daryl Hannah hard, put her away wet and then hit her with a taser. The ass of her pants insisted that their contents were "Juicy," and I had no cause to doubt the veracity of that statement. I suspected she may have just pasted a stock photo model into a fake online dating profile. What kind of sociopath does that?
"Did what hurt?" she asked, without glancing up from her keypad. I stole a peek down at the screen. It was all rapidly cascading text, like hacking into the Matrix, but instead of code it was just the words "LOL" over and over again, repeating to infinity.
Looking back, I don't actually recall there being a recipient.
"When you fell from Heaven," I continued, with suavity.
At that, she finally tore her eyes from the pseudo-binary of endless LOLOL-ing, and flashed me a timid smile ... which broke the second I finished my sentence: "Surely, the G-forces from a fall like that would've shattered your femurs, at the least; it might explain why you walk like you do. It's like you've got rickets and hemorrhoids, like John Wayne with anal fissures, like you're trying to straddle a cact-"
She got up to leave, and I panicked a little.
"MONEY!" I shouted, whipping open my wallet.
She paused at the door and turned hesitantly back toward me.
"You want a provider, right? Check this shit out," I said proudly, thumbing through the thick wad of bills.
Her eyes went wide and a saucy little string of drool chased its way across her jowl (like, literally, though -- it was tinged with some kind of sauce). But when she got a closer look, she too scoffed, and turned to leave me.
"Those are Chuck E. Dollars! You can spend those on ANYTHING!" I cried. "Anything in the case! They got whistles and tiny combs and pewter skull rings and I think I saw some Gak in there!"
But it was too late. She was gone, and with her went a piece of my heart, plus I think she took my sunglasses too.
Something still wasn't right. I just wasn't finding the kind of amoral psychopathy that I'm accustomed to on the Internet. I wanted the kind of girl that wouldn't just be a lover, but an accomplice. The kind of girl that that would help you steal a wheelchair from a Goodwill because you twisted an ankle and it's a long way to the bus (but mostly because chair-wheelies are the funnest). The kind of girl who would love you -- not in spite of your compassionless resentment for everybody that's not you, but because of it.
Sandra wasn't that girl, but I think I knew where to find her ...
#3. The Atlasphere
Kaitlyn Purdy, from The Atlasphere -- an objectivist dating site. That's totally true, and way funnier than anything I could come up with here.
Kaitlyn brought a wolf for me to fight, and refused to speak to me until I'd bested it in battle.
I did so, easily. Because there are three things that I'm the tits at: Barbecuing, Mega Man 2 and finding lupine pressure points.
I thought we'd mack a little after that, but she just laugh-cried manically over the wolf corpse until her face turned purple. Also, she was driving an Aztek and that's literally my only deal breaker.
So the normals wanted safety, the whores wanted real money and the objectivists wanted to have their Wolf Duels and their living wolves, too. It seems like the main problem with dating these days is that everybody wants something. So what about the man who has nothing to offer? What about the man who has nothing valuable to contribute, say, think or do? Where is his place on the Internet?