The Little
Things in Life
by Gil A. Waters
When the first
of my failed marriages came to an end, there was
only one thing I wanted: sex. Not passionate
lovemaking infused with deep emotion, but raw
fucking that leaves a really big wet spot. I
seriously entertained the idea of hiring a hooker
for her services, but I was a "high-end call
girl" kind of guy on a "toothless crack
whore" budget, so paying for sex was out of
the question. And, as a shy alcoholic who'd been
dry for less than a year, joining the inebriated
herd at a singles bar was unthinkable. So I
decided to try what was then a relatively new
option for desperate and socially isolated people
in search of companionship: internet dating.
Back in those
days, internet personal ads tended to be Spartan
in nature. Most people didn't even post pictures.
You simply indicated your gender, age, and body
type, and the gender, age, and body type of your
potential mate, then hoped for the best. In my
case, this translated into something along the
lines of "slim, 32-year-old man seeks anyone
between the ages of 18 and 55 who was born with
and currently has a vagina and is not suffering
from morbid obesity or an incurable sexually
transmitted disease." Degree of physical
beauty was negotiable. Intellect and personality
were irrelevant.
I responded
with too much enthusiasm to nearly every Woman-Seeking-Man
ad I found, and arranged to meet the first woman
willing to do so. After exchanging a couple of
brief emails, we decided to have a Saturday-evening
dinner at an Ethiopian restaurant in a trendy
neighborhood of the city. I arrived at the
restaurant half an hour early and stood out front,
leering expectantly at every woman who might fit
the description provided by my date: "short,"
with an "average" body type.
When I first
glimpsed the dwarf making her way towards me,
navigating through the long legs of the early-evening
throngs that filled the sidewalk, I felt a chill
shudder of disbelief. When she caught my eye from
a distance and smiled, my stomach nearly fell out
of my ass and onto the ground. It's not that I
have anything against dwarfs, but I would have
assumed a date might mention that she is just shy
of four-feet tall, with a disproportionately
large head and stubby limbs. While superficial
details such as these might not be relevant if I
were meeting a professional colleague to discuss
nuclear physics or medieval history, they do seem
relevant when meeting a potential sexual partner.
While I may be
shallow when it comes to romancing people with
pronounced birth defects, I am not rude about it.
I greeted the dwarf amiably and we embarked upon
a thirty-minute dinner that may have been the
longest meal of my life. I was in shock, so I
remember absolutely nothing about our
conversation.
After dinner,
as I bade goodbye to her in front of the
restaurant, a light rain began to fall. I
remember thinking to myself: "This is rock
bottom. It's Saturday night, it's raining, and I
just had a date with a dwarf." I returned to
my tiny rented room, had a good long cry, engaged
in a ferocious bout of masturbation, and then
rejuvenated myself with 12 hours of clinically
depressed sleep.
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