(Mrs. Hot is coming home from her adventures. The latest inspiration, titillation and transformation returns next week.)
IN WHICH I BECOME ACQUAINTED WITH THE IN-YO-FACE SCHOOL OF MALE COURTSHIP.
While recuperating from the lower facelift surgery, I immersed myself wholly in the pursuit of a virtual male, amassing quite a bit of experience with the intricacies of online dating. For one thing, the number of torso pics demonstrating ripped abs and sculpted pecs never ceased to crack me up: Really? Much as I wanted to date such a torso, in fact, well, the notion that putting that cheesy tackiness up as a personal ad was just beyond.
Besides, what about the all-important face? The suspicion was unavoidable – the face, gift of the birth draw, didn’t measure up to the body, gift of the gym. This was proven over and over again by those coy ones who asserted reasons of privacy but turned out to be, in fact, just plain ugly, when they emailed pics or put them up quickly just for me. NEXT. Plus sometimes the torsos weren’t even hot, firmly placing the male prospect into delusional territory. Tighty Whities with a side of love handles? Really? That’s sheer visual violence, pure and simple. I mean, how am I, Mrs. Hot, supposed to unsee that?
And what red-blooded female, pray, could resist the elegance and nuance of user names like “HardDickNine?” or “PussyEater4U?” And let’s not forget ”MakeYouWet,” a username as cheeky as the close-up of his definitively uncheeky, bony ass. As much as I craved a hot meal of male, would a glimmer of subtlety — nay romance — be asking too much?
Then there were the actual dick pics, as ostensibly irresistible to women as two dozen long-stemmed red roses. Illegally posted until busted by the OKC staff, not unlike the torso pics, these specimens were not necessarily long on attractiveness, the clueless poster alone, apparently, convinced of his preternatural priapic propensity. Some apparently normal ones, even — with law degrees, for example — when messaging me, after careful rumination, settled on the compellingly magnetic opener, “I want you to sit on my face all night long, baby.” Umm, as if.
Okay, a romantic evocation of Shakespeare’s sonnets or Lord Byron’s poetry might be asking too much. But must you be so in my face about being on yo’s?
Yours truly,
