My Fine Favorite

Boys. You knew I'd get around to that subject again, didn't you? Not little boys, BIG boys—with cars and jobs and attractive male equipment and the good sense to use them proficiently, or exactly as instructed.

One of the sites I'm on is Plenty of Fish (POF), but it really isn't any better than Match.com or Yahoo Personals, so as I'm looking at POF on Friday, just as I'm thinking, "this sucks, I'm done," I see his picture. Let me just say, "That boy is FINE!" I peruse his profile. Age appropriate, check! (I drank another gallon of Cougar-be-Gone, and I swear I'm in remission!) Height and weight proportionate, check! Spells and expresses himself with intelligence and grammatical efficiency, check! Looks FINE, check and double check!

So I "favorite" Mr. Fine. His profile link is magically transported to my Favorites folder where I can easily find him when—and IF—I return to POF. I have to actually get work done at work, people. I know, sucks. Serious dating perusal must wait.

Saturday, I go to the site and notice I have a few emails, which is not unusual. What is unusual is that I get an intriguing note from Mr. Fine. He has noticed I favorited him and wonders why didn't I take the next step and contact him. He says other stuff which you don't get to hear, but suffice to say, he captured my attention again. Since very few guys do—can I help it if I have standards?—I naturally respond in a witty and engaging manner—which of course he will fall for.

And he responds back. And I like what he says so I respond again. In fact, I start smiling when I get an email from him. I look forward to getting something, and if there's nothing, I have to slap myself and say go do something else. We message back and forth for a couple days, and I decide we have it: online chemistry. We shine on the compatibility scale. It's exciting. He gives really good email. In fact, I think I need a cigarette.

But you know what that means, right? The natural next step is: the telephone. (Otin, I hardly know the guy!) But I'm all nervous about it. I imagine regurgitating something totally whack or throwing out an F-bomb before I can gently break it to him that I cuss like a Ranger. My history proves that you can't suck that shit back in.

So why do you think it is that an experienced dater and flirt like me is suddenly all squiggly inside about a possible phone conversation? True, I'm a little out of practice, but I wonder, has so much talking via email stunted my extemporaneous social skillz? Have I lost the ability to think on my feet—er, on my arse with a cell in my hand? What if I burp?

Or is it that because I like this one, I have more to lose?

Maybe someone can pretend to be me on the phone so it's not actually me who says something stupid. Volunteers?

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Dating tip of the week: Guys, a picture of you kneeling over a dead grizzly with his bloody, pitiful head between your hands is not sexy, 'kay? It's more along the lines of "Holy shit, that's disgusting!" Seriously. That is not a picture that will get you laid by anything other than a big, mad, daddy grizzly. May your ass rest in peace.
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