Internet Dates From Hell

INTERNET DATES FROM h.e.l.l.

Trisha Ventker.

To my husband, Tom, whose constant love and belief in me have made this possible.

Acknowledgments.

Michael Gerhardt (Pulitzer Prize nominee author)-for marking up the first pages of this book and providing the necessary guidance and a.s.sistance so that I could navigate the difficult world of publishing, and also for being my mentor in this wonderful world of writing.

Becky Moran-for believing in me from the very first time I mentioned this project to you.

John Small (brother and adjunct professor of English literature)-for helping me to appear literate and making me look at the style of my writing in a totally different light.

Roger-for being there for me through all of these crazy dates and still being a wise counsel, best friend, and moral supporter.

Carolyn Sikora-for listening to my endless whining about Internet dating and pointing out what's important in a mate.

Isabella McClancy-for being my ray of sunshine each day at work and for making me feel that I am not as neurotic as I think I am.

Paula Crayon-for always making me laugh out loud and making me be as gutsy as you.

Gerald Lee (artist of the images in the book)-for the amazing talent that you possess and enhancing my book.

Peter Small (brother, aka "Seep")-for keeping an eye on me and protecting me throughout our childhood.

Patrick Ventker (aka Mr. Fantastic)-for always believing and saying exactly how you feel.

Kristina Leonard-for your constant support and friendship.

Pat and John Small (aka Mom and Dad)-for not freaking out on me after reading this book.

Maxie (my three-pound canine)-for your unconditional love and for keeping my lap warm throughout the endless editing process.

Past Internet Dates-for giving me material and inspiring me to write this book, and for our unforgettable encounters.

Preface.

Suppose you are a thirty-year-old single woman living in New York City-the coolest, trendiest city in the world. You would think that this location would offer you the greatest possibilities of meeting the man of your dreams. Well, think again. Even though there are millions of single men living in Manhattan, you really only cross the paths of a few thousand in a lifetime; unless, of course, you change your path and open up endless opportunities. I changed my path, and it truly changed my life.

Take what you want from my story. Whether you are a man or woman, whether you are in a happy relationship or not, whether you simply want a purely entertaining read and have entered the perils of h.e.l.l in online dating yourself, or whether you are just beginning the journey and need a few tips, my story is a outrageous account of how I became determined to find a mate through Internet dating.

There I was at my parents' house on the eve of my birthday, ready to celebrate. However, unfortunately, I wasn't in the mood. The candle on the Carvel ice cream cake was in the shape of the number thirty, and I was still single. Earlier that day, I partook in a series of self-deprecating comments after getting off the scale for the seventh time. "Why can't I ever get below 158 pounds?" I whined to myself. I wonder what the normal weight is for someone who is 510". "I'll never be able to wear those trendy low-rise jeans with this a.s.s!" I mumbled despairingly to myself. Who needs jeans anyway? I can get away with wearing long skirts. Why do most American women, regardless of their shape, rarely feel good about themselves?

My depression was also caused by the fact that I was turning thirty and still had not met a suitable mate. It didn't help matters that I taught kindergarten in a school in the suburbs where all males were either under the age often or married custodians. You would think that things might have changed when, only a few months earlier, I had moved to New York City. I thought I would have endless opportunities to date starchy Wall Street suits, hot bohemian artists, Renaissance men, aspiring actors, or Internet start-up moguls. Boy, was I wrong.

Let's step back in time. Let me explain how I ended up in Manhattan. I had grown tired of the endless strip malls and the same old local hangouts on Long Island, where I had spent my entire life. I was ready for the city-the "city that never sleeps." Due to the fact that I still worked on Long Island, I needed to be close to the Long Island Rail Road at Penn Station, so my daily commute wouldn't be horrendous. I called my best friend, Greg, who lived on 34th Street for guidance. Greg told me that it was virtually impossible to find an apartment in the area near Penn Station. Providing I did find one, the rent would be a small fortune. Every weekend, throughout the months of September and October, I scoured apartment buildings on both sides of 34th Street looking for a "For Rent" sign. Not one was in sight. This street separates Chelsea and h.e.l.l's Kitchen. Miracle on 34th Street was filmed there. Even a model, whose name we'll protect, had her face slashed in front of the Improv in this area, back in the eighties. Although the area was a bit seedy, it was real! For if I were to move to the Big Apple, this area is exactly where I would want to live to get the full experience.

After several weekends of unsuccessful searches, I decided to go visit each apartment building and introduce myself to the doorman. Isn't it always the doormen who know the latest gossip and juice of the building? And another thing-wouldn't the doorman know if there were any vacancies on the horizon? Before I entered, I'd put on my charm, brush my long hair, and refresh my lipstick. I even had my own business card to hand to him before leaving. It's not that teachers normally have business cards; I had actually made them on Broderbund Print Shop for tutoring purposes.

Finally, on the first day of November, when I had nearly given up hope, I received a call from Ralph, the doorman of Greg's building. He told me that an apartment was available on the 16th floor. This happened to be the same floor on which Greg lived. I thanked Ralph repeatedly after he had given me all the important contact information. I wasted no time and called immediately. Before I knew it, Greg and I were neighbors.

A few weeks later, I was a full-fledged resident of Chelsea, New York. I quickly learned that clubs and bars were not the places to meet a quality, marriage-minded man. Of course, living in one of the largest gay communities in the United States didn't help matters either. Nonetheless, I didn't want just any man; I wanted an intelligent, educated, thoughtful, self-sufficient, family-oriented man between the ages of thirty and forty. People may offer women like me a gratuitous "good-luck girl"; however, luck is not something to rely upon in this situation.

I had never experienced great difficulty in meeting men! "The One," however, simply never materialized. The typical "club type" ranged from twenty-three to thirty years old. Most of these overly confident shortsighted "clubbies" fell short of the mark. One could tell that their intentions were to get their dates comfortably drunk so they could proceed to their apartments for some self-indulgent fun. Many of these men were disappointed when they discovered that women who are determined to find a marriage mate typically drink little or nothing at all. In my experience, determination and alcohol are strange bedfellows, and a strange bedfellow is the last thing a woman like me is looking for.

The gym, like the bar, is not the best place to pursue a mate. To start with, any man who has to check his appearance twice as often as a woman does, begs the question "what the h.e.l.l is he looking for?" These guys aren't looking for wives! They're already married-to themselves. Another problem with these "gymbos" is that a large percentage of them are not heteros.e.xual. Face it: I didn't have time to convert gay men, nor did I want to! Conversely, the remaining percentage of gymbos seem only to be interested in the feminine loins or rump roasts that these meat markets attract.

Finally, the blind-date scenario. Sometimes setups were simpatico; however, most didn't run smoothly. The chemistry became forced, despite the shared intentions. How many of you have desperately tried to overlook the eighties throwback wearing jogging pants and gold chains, and claiming a "connection" with you, only to wish you were back home with your cat, Erasure CD, and incense? Or have you ever looked for an errant fork to stick in your ear rather than sit for another five minutes laboriously listening to one more sentence about gigabytes and the latest computer geek technology, while your date's unsightly excess hair gel drips onto his lavender polo shirt? I've held out this long; I'm not about to settle now. This is not how I was brought up by my parents.

I was born and raised on Long Island. My father made his living as a bread salesman, each day driving his truck from one food establishment to another selling baked goods to keep a roof over our heads. My mother was an elementary school teacher, much like myself. Graced with three older brothers (if you call that grace), I was the youngest in the family. I had a relatively normal life. I spent my summers at the town pool, when not riding the waves at Jones Beach. Winters were spent making snowmen, when not traveling with my folks to Disney World or the Poconos. Surviving twelve years of private school, I endured the capricious behavior and the overwhelming imposition of self-guilt by the "ladies of the cloth." After high school, I tried nursing school, but hated it. Subsequently, I attended both undergraduate and graduate school in education, earning a bachelor's and a master's degree. If that was not "interesting" enough-for nothing is more boring than learning from teachers who teach teachers how to teach. The juicy parts of my life occurred much later, especially when I decided to post a personal ad on the Internet. As Dante is warned before he enters the Inferno, "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here!"

Part I.

Internet Dates from h.e.l.l.

1.

Talk on the Phone At Least Once Before Meeting.

February 1997.

I became tired of clubs, bars, setups, and waiting for a "spontaneous meeting," so I began to surf the Web. In the search box, I entered the word "singles," and up came hundreds of singles sites! There were singles sites for lovers of cooking, golf enthusiasts, scuba divers, and ski b.u.ms. There were sites for Jewish, Christian, Asian, and Russian singles. Next I tried searching the word "dating." Since I was using AOL, "[emailprotected]" emerged at the top of the list. I clicked on the link and then scrolled through what seemed to be hundreds of ads with photos of both men and women. It looked simple enough, so I posted an ad that day. Since I didn't have a scanner at the time, I didn't include a photo. How bad could this be?

The next day I checked my e-mail, and twelve responses to my profile appeared! All of them looked pretty normal. However, the responses were from men much older than I. My request was for men between the ages of thirty and forty. Of the hits I received, some were from the Midwest, a few from Long Island, and several from New York City, but all were without photos. It now made sense. The sooner I attached a photo, the better the responses would be. From that point onward, not only would I attach photos to my ad, but I would also request photos in return.

Although in my spare time I dabbled in photography, where would I get a recent digital photo of myself? Also, how could I attach the photo to my profile? I had no scanner, nor did I know the procedure. This quandary was soon solved by a visit to my best friend and new neighbor, Greg, whom I've known for the past twenty years. Greg is not only technically proficient in the latest digital photography but is a self-described "Trekkie" as well.

After an hour-long photo shoot in Greg's apartment, he downloaded the best photos-a black-and-white head shot, along with a flattering full-body shot. I was satisfied. The moment I attached photos to my ad, the number of responses increased tenfold. In less than twenty-four hours, I had 144 responses in my mailbox! After reading each and every one of them, I came up with five potentials, two maybes, and 137 deletes.

Of the five potentials, the first was a thirty-year-old architect named Chris who lived in the East Village. Chris's interests included black-and-white photography, golf, cafes, listening to cla.s.sic rock, and mountain biking. His attached photo was in JPEG format, and he appeared attractive. He had spiky, short blond hair and was standing in front of a famous landmark (the cube on Lafayette Street and St. Mark's Place). Although the sungla.s.ses bothered me, I was intrigued, so I wrote back.

What ensued was an exchange of e-mails lasting a number of days. As a result, Chris expressed an interest in meeting me and suggested a Starbucks located in the East Village. Racked with antic.i.p.ation, I lay awake the entire night before the meeting. One good thing about that experience was I realized that putting off calling the plasterer was not an option. A once unsightly tiny crack had overtaken my entire ceiling! I realized that I had to tell the newlyweds who lived in the apartment above me that they had better cool it or they would come through my ceiling! Isn't love grand? How in the h.e.l.l did that ugly little nymph find such a good-looking, polite acrobat? Some girls have all the luck.

As I lay awake, my mind wandered. I hope he'll like me and be attracted to me. I hope he won't be put off when he sees that I'm not a size two. What would it be like to marry an architect? Most women engage in imprudent daydreaming; it is a fault none of us can overcome when the possibility of romance is in the air. I was planning our walk-in closets without even meeting him! My mind raced on. I was picking our style of home and community! In my case, imprudence is an understatement!

The next day, fearing tardiness, I barreled down Ninth Avenue to Penn Station an hour before our rendezvous. I was in luck-no sooner did I pa.s.s through the turnstile when a C train pulled up to the platform. Reveling in my good luck, I realized that I was heading north when I should have been headed south. I got off at the next stop and proceeded up the stairs to street level, bringing me to the corner of Broadway and took the 4 train and headed south. It seemed like an eternity before the little illuminated man instructed the ma.s.ses to walk. Did you ever wonder why it isn't an illuminated woman who gives us the "go ahead"? I scuttled down the steps to the southbound E train just in time, and was East Village bound. I got out on 14th Street and briskly walked to my transfer train. As soon as I was comfortably seated, my old nemesis arose again. d.a.m.ned daydreaming! Now, it was "Josh" if it was a boy and "Karla" if it was a girl! Ironically what brought me out of this next bout of surrealism were advertis.e.m.e.nts for Internet dating. This particular train car was littered with promos for a matchmaking service only a few blocks east of my destination. After what seemed like eons, I arrived at my stop at Lafayette Street. As I approached street level, I saw the cube (famous landmark), bringing me back to the initial photograph that started this journey. My watch screamed lateness! I briskly arrived at the coffee shop in a fashionably late manner.

As I entered the coffee shop, the aroma of myriad coffee beans filled my nostrils. The sensory overload was rudely overpowered by the loud noise permeating the coffee shop. I couldn't decide what was worse, the sound of the milk steamer or the useless chatter from a table of Goth teens sitting in the back. I chose the milk steamer, as I have been taught to forgive immaturity.

Not knowing Internet dating etiquette, I decided not to sit and wait; I got in line and ordered a cappuccino. As I waited, I turned to face the door. Several men came in, and each time one entered, my heart stopped as I nervously wondered whether each one was Chris. After a few minutes, my cappuccino was ready. Just as I received my change from the cashier, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

"Hey," the person said. The voice was female. I numbly turned around.

"Hi, I am Chris," the woman said. Confused, I replied, "I don't understand. I thought you were a guy!"

"I am not a guy, but if I told you I was a woman, you wouldn't have wanted to meet me."

"Well, you're right. I'm not a lesbian and that's your mistake." I was so p.i.s.sed that I inadvertently knocked my cappuccino all over the counter, and onto both of our shoes to boot! Realizing my stupidity, I scurried for the door while overhearing Chris yelling, "Don't knock it unless you've tried it!"

To think that I had stayed up late the night before plotting my next course of events and had lost sleep over this date! I felt like a fool. However, when one plays with fire, one gets burned. With Internet dating, the inexperienced cannot only get burned, but also scorched and charred, if not careful.

This concludes our first lesson. Talk to the prospective date on the telephone at least once before going out on a date. If I had done so, I would have detected a subterfuge. I also think I should have asked for a photo taken without sungla.s.ses. People who insist on wearing sungla.s.ses in photos normally are hiding something. When I got home, I wanted to take my ad down and forget the whole d.a.m.n online dating thing. And get rid of my outdated sungla.s.ses. Yet, as fate would have it, when I opened my inbox, 132 new responses were present! I guess the head shot worked! From this point onward, my technique would be different...

2.

Ask for a Recent Photo.

March 1997.

A month later I adopted a better procedure. Sifting through all the e-mails, I would first read the response and then download the photo. Based on chapter 1's lesson, if a person wore shades in the photo, I would request another photo taken without sungla.s.ses. A day later, I would contact the person by phone if he supplied his phone number. For safety's sake, I would call him from a blocked number. It's a good idea to leave only a few crumbs in the beginning of one's dating trail.

Some have even suggested using *67 to block one's caller ID. In today's world where ident.i.ty theft is so prevalent, using this method may be advisable.

If the person sounded eccentric or freaky, I would politely excuse myself from any further discussion. If the person was interesting to talk to, I would plan to meet him at a public place such as a diner or coffee shop close to my apartment, so I wouldn't put myself in jeopardy. Being within a three-block radius of your home is a great idea for a first date.

A stage actor named Paul contacted me. He described himself as a six foot one inch thirty-four-year-old living on the Upper West Side. He fit the requirements of my request. As did I, Paul enjoyed travel, biking, and museums. He included two photos of himself. The first photo, a black-and-white head shot, was reminiscent of a young Sylvester Stallone from the early Rocky films. This made me a tad apprehensive. I remembered the character as good-looking and dull-witted. The last thing I needed was another good-looking, dim-witted celebrity-like character. What's worse than waking up after five years of marriage to a husband with the intellectual capacity of a twenty-year-old? (Although haven't some of us met some very mature twenty-year-olds?) The second photo was a group shot consisting of a foursome outside the 19th hole at his country club. Standing third from the left with his arms around golfers' number two and four, he seemed gregarious, athletic, and jovial, which intrigued me. What bothered me was I couldn't discern the year the photograph was taken.

I wrote back to Paul telling him that I liked his profile and thanked him for his photographs (learning from my first mistake, I began to insist on at least two photographs to confirm gender). I also requested his phone number. It didn't take long for him to respond with an e-mail that included not only his cell phone number, but also his home and work numbers. I decided to call him at home in the early evening. After talking on the phone for more than an hour, I found out that the group golf photo was taken a few years back. Although the photo wasn't recent, I went ahead and planned to meet him the next day at a diner across the street from my apartment.

I got there early and took a seat in a booth facing the door so I could see him enter the diner before he would see me. I waited in antic.i.p.ation for what seemed to be hours, but only five minutes had pa.s.sed when a huge guy entered the diner, waved at me, and sat down next to me. "Hi, I'm Paul," he said as he picked up the menu. He didn't look anything like his photo. He must have weighed at least 280 pounds, and none of the additional weight was muscle! In the photo he was at least 80 pounds lighter! I didn't want to say anything about his weight, of course, but I had to say something. He also looked at least fifteen years older than in the photos, which perturbed me more! If this is what Internet dating was-deception-I needed to decide whether this was for me.

"Your eyes are even bluer in person," Paul shared. Just when I had generated enough courage to say something, a tired waitress interrupted the moment as she came to our table and said, "What will you have?" I imagined telling the waitress that I wanted the fastest way out of the diner, but instead I ordered a Diet c.o.ke. Paul ordered a cheeseburger deluxe with a side order of onion rings and a chocolate milk shake. I was sure his present weight was a direct result of frequently ordering healthy meals like this! I thought to myself, "Boy, this date will turn out to be over an hour long." Paul didn't even notice that I only ordered a Diet c.o.ke; he was too busy drooling over the food photos on the menu.

I casually remarked, "I didn't recognize you, Paul. Were the photos that you sent me recent?"

Paul immediately responded, "No, they were taken years ago. I look different now because I had to gain a lot of weight for a role I had to play as a Vietnam vet."

"Oh, what was the name of the play?" I inquired. He then told me that he did not remember the play's name. Of course, I knew the whole story was a crock of bull.

I don't believe that I am overly shallow. However, if I'm not attracted to the candidate, we might as well not even meet. I tried to give Paul the benefit of the doubt, asking him about any other roles that warranted a drastic weight increase or decrease to fulfill. To this day I'll never know if he heard my question or not, for no sooner did I ask him than he responded, "Would you reach over and grab that ketchup bottle from the other table? I think ours is empty."

After the date I went home very disappointed and found solace in binging on Ben and Jerry's Chunky Monkey ice cream while opening my e-mail. I counted my responses over the first week. I had received a total of 840 responses and had met two deceitful people-but as I was learning the ways of Internet dating, I realized that there was much more to the equation.

3.

Don't Meet Your Date in a Foreign Country.

March 1997.

A few weeks later, I again perused the subject lines in the sea of e-mails. Here are a few examples: "You Are Hot!," "Nice Knockers," "Hey Babe!," and "Are you a natural blonde?" Just to get a laugh, I opened a few. The rest I deleted right away. I included a sampling of some of the more outrageous responses in Part IV (just in case you need a laugh, too).

While scrolling through my e-mail, I discovered one with this subject line: "Englishman in New York." I was compelled to closely examine this response. This respondent claimed to be Simon, although after my first experience with Chris (from chapter 1), I was a little leery regarding "name sincerity." Since the response appeared charming and witty, I responded.

His profile read as follows: "I am a 6'1", thirty-eight-year-old, buff, blond, blue-eyed writer...residing in a quaint cottage in a hamlet within Kent, England." His occupation (although quite obtuse at first glance) was a writer (of what, I still do not know to this day). Although this intrigued me, for I consider myself somewhat well-read and a fair-to-middling writer, I was skeptical because he never mentioned the nature of his writing. Novels? Biographies? Children's books? Self-help books? Comic books?

As a hopeless romantic, I was intrigued by foreign lands and foreign literature. This seemed perfect! However, perfect is a relative term. But I am a sucker for the exotic. Once again, more celestial than earthbound, I neglected to consider the main ingredient-distance! To the Brits, four thousand miles is a "skip over the pond"; however, to us mortal Americans, that is a five-to six-hour plane ride across a turbulent Atlantic Ocean. Not to mention the $2,000 plane fare. Since he gave me a toll-free phone number, I was curious; I decided to call the next morning.

His English accent pulled all the right strings and seduced me. Stating he was only two hours away via the Concorde, he said he would fly in a heartbeat to meet me at JFK. What would I have to lose? We spoke on the phone several times during the next couple of weeks, finalizing the plans for his trip to the United States. I was to meet him at the gate of the flight from Heathrow to JFK. If he was half as attractive as the photo indicated, then this would be a great experience!

I finally discovered the essence of his writing talent during our telephone conversations. He claimed that he wrote political exposes regarding the White House and its internal affairs, as well as other political issues. Wow! A far cry from the comic books I feared he wrote. Although as a child I loved Archie, Veronica, and friends, unfortunately Jughead is the character I most resembled before this debacle ended. I didn't really delve into exactly what he did; I just got caught up in this "James Bond" type and was hooked by talking to him.

When I saw him in the crowd of pa.s.sengers, he looked exceptional! Staring at his radiant smile, flowers in hand, I nearly fell over someone's carry-on bag. After a polite peck on the cheek, which I felt proved his gentlemanly manner, we collected his bags. I drove him to the Marriott Marquis in Midtown as we exchanged small talk. After introducing him to a few friends, we headed to Central Park for a picnic. Since this was not his first time in the United States, or in Central Park, he knew exactly where to go-Sheep's Meadow. I was impressed! I was so relieved that I had worn my light blue sundress that day, because it was perfect. Although I had an itinerary planned, he took the reins; this too impressed me, for that's exactly what I needed at that time of my life-someone to take control.

By the end of the weekend, his control was dominating. At the airport, Simon bought a first-cla.s.s round-trip ticket to London for me to use a couple of weeks later. Talk about hook, line, and sinker. I was netted and gaffed before I knew it.

For the next two weeks, I couldn't think of anything but Big Ben, Piccadilly Square, and fish and chips. I even went so far as to listen to old Elton John alb.u.ms, just to get into the British mind-set. Even the Oxford English Dictionary looked good, for I needed to brush up on my British terminology. Did you know that the English call an eraser a "rubber" and a cigarette a "f.a.g"? I didn't. Nor did I know a bundle of sticks is a "f.a.ggot," an apartment a "flat," and a wastepaper basket a "dustbin." Odd!

Minutes before landing, I put on my spectator pumps once again, which matched my stylish sailor dress brilliantly. When I landed at Heathrow, Simon was at the gate, looking exceptional. How he got his teeth so white, I'll never know. We loaded my luggage into the car and spent the remainder of the day in London. We even stopped to "take" high tea with scones and fresh cream. At that point I felt strangely like a Charlotte Bronte character, except that I had everything I wanted.

But nothing could have prepared me for what came next. After a wonderful day we went back to his so-called "cottage," which was actually an English Tudor mansion! I was so jet lagged that I went to sleep in one of his many bedrooms, which was actually an apartment containing a dressing room, a parlor, a lavatory, and a view of the veranda. I was thankful that he truly was the gentleman he portrayed.

The next day we enjoyed muesli and cream and took a ride to Canterbury, where we experienced the beauty of the cathedral where Chaucer's pilgrims journeyed, the burial site of Saint Thomas a Becket (the blissful martyr), poet's corner, and a plethora of enchanting country roads and village shops. Before we knew it, even Simon admitted we were lost and I believed him. You might think this was the oldest trick in the book, like an American high school boy running out of gas to cop a feel or, as the British put it, steal a peck. Nevertheless, we were indeed lost! As we veered down one country road after another at a very comfortable speed of forty miles per hour, I never felt apprehensive or worried, because both Simon and the Jaguar were handling the situation brilliantly. The bucolic scenery was breathtaking.