I'm curious about something. You are a woman writing a dating column in which you talk an awful lot about how you're not currently getting laid. Seems to me that the natural response would be vast quantities of messages that, in essence, asked you out or offered sex or propositioned you. And yet I don't think you've mentioned getting any such offers.
Which leads me to wonder if you're performing some larger social experiment to see just which columns and topics provoke the most propositions. Either that or you're keeping all the messages to bulk up a Rolodex o' dates that won't run out for years. What's the deal?
Suspicious in Seattle
You sir, are correct. As difficult as it is for a shy, retiring violet like myself to admit, I do get a lot of propositions. And you're also right that, up till now, I haven't mentioned this fact. I'm ashamed to say that I've been hoarding these letters to myself . . . coveting them, collecting them, and cavorting with them in my own special way. Because, dear reader, I am a gal given to ritual— and few things are more fun than a little something I call Friday Night Fantasy Night.
First I shower and rub scented oils all over my body. Then I slip into my Friday Night Special—a sheer pink nightie with matching thong panty, fuchsia ostrich plume mules, and a delicate little tiara designed especially for me. Once (un)dressed, I teeter over to the fridge and grab a chilled bottle of Veuve. I saunter back into the bedroom and deposit the champagne in the ice-bucket compartment of my headboard. Then I gather all of that week's most titillating mail and spread the pages across my pink satin sheets (think Demi Moore in Indecent Proposal). I crack open the champers, plug in the Hitachi Magic Wand, and jump into bed. For a while I just roll around, um, enjoying myself and basking in the outpouring of love that almost literally drips off these pages. Once I calm down, I start to read . . . and now—for the first time ever—I'm going to give you, the reader, a peek inside my own personal mailbag.
Where to begin? Do I start with the R. Crumb wanna-be who keeps sending me badly drawn cartoons depicting dismembered Asian women? I'm not sure that a maladjusted loser's sad attempt at shocking me really counts as a proposition, so I'll skip that one. . . . Hmmm, here's one from Rich. Rich sends a very nice letter ending with "if you have a nice butt, I ask you out." Tempted though I am, Rich's loose grasp of basic grammar combined with my own insecurity that my ass might not pass muster leads me to place his letter in the "Maybe Next Year" stack.
Rolling over to refill my glass, I peel off a note stuck to my left thigh—damn, that Lovin' Lotion's sticky! Ooh, I like this one . . . this letter is from a young man named Ken. Ken's standards are a lot lower than Rich's, despite his apparent off-the-charts cuteness—well, if the number of gay men hitting on him is any indicator! Despite the fact that the last girl he made out with looked like a supermodel, Ken's only requirement for dating me is that I be "decent looking." Much to my relief, a quick phone survey reveals that I do in fact qualify as decent looking. Score!
I start to fantasize about the men who've penned these missives and pretty soon I get a little carried away. In fact, I get so carried away that I have to go change a fuse midfantasy. A valuable lesson has been learned, and I unplug several of the less essential appliances sucking power out of my bedroom outlet. Ah yes, back to my men. . . . A reader named Henry writes that he really likes the drawing at the top of my column and wonders if I might want to grab a cuppa joe sometime. The fact that Henry is attracted to an illustration troubles me. Besides, I don't drink coffee, so his kind offer is respectfully declined.
Reader Scott wonders if I'm as hot as I sound. I don't know. How hot do I sound? This sweet talker tells me that the only problem with my column is that it's too short and not published often enough. I like Scott. I like Scott a lot. Then I scan down to his last line: "You sound like a total babe with a personality to boot. Why can't you get any?" Gulp. I dispense with the formality of glassware and start swilling straight from the bottle. Good question, Scott. . . .
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