Dirty M. F.

“I AM NEVER DATING AGAIN! EVER!”

 

“You’ve said that before, ummmmm, like 1000 times!”

 

“I know, I know but this time, I mean it. This shit is real. I think James is a catfish!”

 

“WHA…” Overstreet says in a high pitched voice.

 

It started two weeks ago, I decided I would try to date on a new dating site. It was called something and bagels, Coffee and Bagels, maybe. This dating site was supposed to be different, this site was supposed to be wonderful for women. Single women. I download the app on my phone and it seemed straight forward enough. I, being a bagel or a coffee, I could never figure out which I was, would get a coffee or a bagel sent to my phone every day at lunch. This process sounds less confusing when you are desperate for a date. Hope springs several things including delusion. One of the other pluses about Coffee and Bagels was that you couldn’t get a profile of someone unless they liked you first.

I don’t know if I am trying to date again, because I am lonely or I just want to eliminate my boredom with an STD. An STD is Something To Do, according to Overstreet. I am excited to have a possible date with someone that “likes” me first. Cappuccino and Pastries, seems like a decent dating site at first but slowly it begins to irk me. I do get a few lattes a day but underneath their picture, is a disclaimer saying that they have not “liked” me. In fact, they have not even seen my picture. So what you’re telling me, pastry is that unlike your initial claims of originality, you are just like every other stupid fucking dating site.

I continue to stay a member of the site but rarely visit until I get several notifications that I have received a message, from a cappuccino/pastry.

His names is James and he wants to know how my day is going. He also wants to know what I am up to today? I quickly go to the website and check out James’ profile. He is very cute and has a bit of tummy pudge, which is always a good thing for a perspective date, that way he can never say anything about my tummy pudge.

I quickly give him my phone number because my need for an STD is strong. He texts immediately, his name is really James. I find that odd because most dudes on dating sites use an alias, like taco muncher or big dick for you. I am excitedly, texting James and Overstreet simultaneously. The irony is not lost on me or Overstreet that his names is James, being that my history with boys named James is very complicated.

James and I talk via text for a few days, he is sweet maybe too sweet for me. He is funny, in a dad sort of way, I am funnier but I am funnier than almost every boy I have dated. I have yet to drop the widow bomb on him yet because I am not ready for him to discover that I am anything but an easy breezy chick. After days of talking James finally decides to ask me why I am single.

“Why am I single?” The questions echo between my ears for a whole day. Somehow my choice of options doesn’t seem to be working…

“Single?, I’m not single, my husband is just outside gardening, he and I are just looking for a third, and now I’ve got ya!”

“Single? What does the word single really mean anyway? I mean, don’t we all die alone?”

“Single? Oh my husband’s just not around anymore, he’s certainly not dead or anything.”

I am hesitant to tell him I am a widow because I like him and if he responds in a way that I see as unfit, I have to stop talking to him. When I tell him why I am single his response, just like every other boy’s response has to be a perfect balance of compassion, understanding, distance and reverence, it’s tricky. And if his response does not contain these things I am unable to move forward in a relationship.

That night I grab my phone, find our conversation and type…My husband died four years ago.

A few seconds later the three dots pop up that tell me he is answering my text, the words pop up and he says…I lost my wife to cancer four years ago.

In my excitement for hearing James is a widower, I lose sight of that fact that he never did tell me, what kind of cancer his late wife had. In all of my life I have never met one single person who had cancer or who lost someone to cancer that didn’t say the exact type of cancer that was had. Still, I let those pesky doubts circle around and right out of my head.

Our conversations continue and James has now started to talk about kissing me, he asks for my address so he can come over and give me one special kiss. Ding, ding, ding. The bells that I had been ignoring finally go off in my brain. “One special kiss?” What the fuck, I’m not in a Disney movie and his “special” kiss isn’t going to awaken anything in me. I ask him again, how his wife died, he types “I lost her to cancer”. Now I am pissed. I start asking him specific questions about what type of cancer she had. Was it breast cancer, triple negative, did it metastasize, did she have chemo? Radiation? Both? He answers none of these questions and I know he knows he’s caught; like the dirty fucker he is. Our next text conversation goes something like

Me – “Who the fuck are you and what the fuck do you want?”

James – “I already told you, and my wife and I had a bad separation”

Me – “AH-HA! Listen you fucker, fuck, fuckity, fucker what do you want, sex or money? Plus you fucker you told me your wife was dead, DUMBASS!

J – “Yes, that’s what I meant, I lost her to cancer.”

I quickly try another approach, I calmly decide that I can reason with this catfish and discover the truth.

Me – “Ok James, who are you really? I really liked you (truth) and I thought we could have a future (lie).

J – “See this is why I don’t fuck with black chicks, always so paranoid and shit.”

Me – Listen here, you worthless piece of asshole, I was trying to be nice but you can eat a bag of dicks.”

J – “Bye black!”

His last words via text infuriate my soul. I am so anger I don’t know how to deal with it or him. My first thought is to report him to Latte and Paninis, so I go to the app and report him for being a dirty fucker. I then delete that app from my phone, deciding that I will never date again. EVER! I then go directly to Tinder, just to make sure I am not missing out on someone great.

I, then text Overstreet and give her a play by play of my last convo with James, who is now called the dirty fucker. She once again confirms that dating does suck, I once again confirm that I will die alone.

We both laugh uncontrollably at the thought of me dying alone because it’s sad.

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