Thursday, May 01, 2008
(I saw my friend Amanda this week and she wanted me to post one of her favorite old Thrush TV blogs of mine, so here goes:)
I logged onto to some “dating” site a few days ago and promptly found an offer from "two very hot guys willing to satisfy one woman's darkest and wildest fantasies."
So I wrote:
"Yeah, I'll take you up on your offer. When can we satisfy my darkest and wildest fantasies?"
A bit later, I received an email:
"Whoa, not so fast! Let's talk a little first. Get to know one
another. How about all this snow?"
"Oh yeah, snow…crazy. When do you think you two can fulfill my darkest and wild fantasies?"
(Now, I realize this all sounds a bit forward but I was actually being pragmatic. The winter was bearing down and I felt the need to store up on sex, much like a squirrel stores nuts. And this way, I’d get twice as many nuts.)
"Wow, you're a real take charge gal! LOL. Okay, well, how would you like to do this? Your place or ours?"
"How about your place. Or better yet a hotel. Let's embrace the anonymity of it all. How about this Friday night?"
A few minutes passed by...maybe longer:
"I can do Friday night but not until after 9. I have a business party. Tom can't do Friday night at all because he's getting a root canal that day and doesn't want to be uncomfortable for our "meeting."
This was becoming what is referred to in the industry as a real "buzz kill." Root canal? Uncomfortable? What were we going to talk about next? Fabric softener? Flossing habits? Lactose intolerance?
"Okay, fine. What about Sunday night then? (Saturday night I was planning on...nothing. I just didn't want to look too desperate.)
"Well Tom can do Sunday night but there's an Oscar party that night I don't want to miss. Do you like the Oscars? I do."
I took a deep breath before answering:
"Actually, I don't give a rat's ass about the Oscars or Tom’s dumb old root canal. I do care about my darkest and wildest fantasies being fulfilled. And pronto. But its obvious you do not have the showmanship to live up to your promise. I wish no further contact. You're a mad disappointment."
They had the nerve to respond:
"Oh well...your loss."
"I think I'll live."
"You're a retard."
"It takes one to know two."
And that's how it ended. In a blaze of juvenile insults that included the word "retard."
I poured myself a glass of barely respectable wine and sat down on the living room couch and contemplated my situation.
I knew the next time I pursued a sordid sexual experience, it would be with two guys who would never tell me about their dental work. Or their love of the Oscars.
The men who I would meet one imaginary night in a blank and bare hotel room would have missed their mother's funeral for our "meeting."
They would be two strapping, bold and serious men who take their ménage a troises seriously. Is that so much for a girl to ask? For people to take their ménage a troiseses seriously?
It was to be a cold winter after all.