Meeting eligible singles in the 90s – good God, make that the tail end of the 90s – is tough, to say the very least.  Of course there are the singles bars, fitness clubs, coffeehouses, and grocery "super" stores – and now, the hot spot, constantly growing in popularity – enticing new computer-literate clientele by the minute – the swivel chair in front of your very own PC, the Pre-millennial Courtship aid.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. . .this next utterance is directed toward those of you who have never used your PC for anything other than writing a term paper or balancing your checkbook:  I know what you are thinking.  Believe me, I never thought that I – an attractive, ambitious, funny. . . hmmm, thirty-ish, educated, quasi-professional woman – would be sitting in front of a glowing computer screen, mouse in one hand, heart in the other, looking for . . . for what?  I guess just some plain, old-fashioned companionship; I figure all the romance in me hasn't died, it's just been downloaded into another folder – a folder into which I have a hard time gaining access because I continually forget what I've named it.  So, during those (recently more frequent) moments in which I feel the tug of Eros, I can be found searching my "recycle bin" for that elusive file.  Whether 'tis nobler in the mind . . . arrgghhh.

At large as an adult human now for a decade (more or less, depending upon who you ask), I really haven't had much trouble finding people with whom to interface – male people (and I use the latter term loosely), in particular. I have met, and continue to meet, all manner of men: psuedo-intellectuals, wanna be philosophers, meatheads, GQ jesters.  Alas, poor Yorick, I knew him well.  The particular problem is not the meeting of men, it is the fact that I just don't seem to meet any of the "right" ones.  I could define that enclosed term, but, ultimately, it's all subjective and – herein lies the rub – if I could actually pinpoint the evasive elements that make a guy one of the right ones, I'd probably be a step closer to meeting him.  Slings to the right of me, arrows to the left of me . . .Alas, a lack.

Do I sound bitter?  Let me just clarify: I am not a bitter woman; I am merely cynical and pessimistic – a distinct character trait (flaw? Media advocated malaise?) embodied by an entire (over-generalized) generation -- which also makes fin de siecle dating difficult.  So, naturally, as I contemplated tapping in a response to an instant message I received from a fellow "surfer," I assumed that cyberspace would be no better than, or different from, the taproom, the weight room, the java jungle or the ever-popular produce aisle

I suppose one of the reasons, of which there are many, (but the download time on that file is just way too long to bother with now) my cynicism in light of love in the 90s is so readily apparent, is because of my dating experiences thus far.  Because of the way I appear on the surface – at least I think that is what it is-I tend to appeal to the "players"-and I'm not talking about first basemen here – of our pre-millennial period.  I often wonder if this somewhat lamentable circumstance is a result of something that I do (or do not do, as the case may be).  Do I exude some kind of numbnut nectar or, perhaps more accurately, am I surrounded by some kind of invisible nimbus which acts as a tractor beam pulling in the free-floating male detritus in my orbit?  Hmmm . . . one can only wonder.  There is, however, another distinct possibility . . .maybe I'm a magnet mantled moron.  The latter explanation, somehow, seems more plausible and, besides, I like the alliteration.

Weeknights, the temporal equivalent of cyber spam – delete, delete, delete – I am home from my ultimate hypocrisy: my job "working for the man" at a downtown law firm by 11:15 p.m., "surfing the net" by 11:30.  On one particularly lionesque March evening I am just settling in for a long, sterile evening of cyber disenchantment when a little, artificially bleating window appears on my computer screen: "You have an instant message from someone who, for the purposes of protecting the innocent and, the not-so-innocent shall remain anonymous."  Whew . . .as far as "screen names" go, that one is pretty bad and terribly long.  So, for the sake of the story, let's just call him Cyberius.  With that devilish little detail out of the way, we return to the tale's immediate dilemma: To respond, or not to respond . . .that is the question.

First, being the seasoned surfer that I am, I check Cyberius' "profile:" His world, according to him.  All right now, Cyberius seems – and seems is the operative word here – he seems to be a pretty interesting character.  A rugby jock, hmmm . . . immediately my mind drifts onto a fantasy field laden with young toughs and testosterone sans bulky, body obscuring protective gear -- not bad, so far.  As my imagination does its dirty deeds conjuring images of manly, muscular legs springing from sport shorts, sprinting forth only to be entangled in a hyper-masculine mass of muddy roughnecks, Cyberius and I continue to "chat."  The man is not only an athlete and an aesthete, but an intellectual to boot.  The instant messages he is sending are superlatively witty, intelligent and literate . . . hmmm.  The only thing screwing up this slightly sci-fi illusion is my own cynicism . . .I can't even fantasize without my own internal "virus scan" poking me on the shoulder and saying, "Quit, escape, end task, sign off . . . now."  Like an annoying, buzzing neon sign outside of a crummy, flea-ridden hotel window in which the reluctant romantic in me has the misfortune of trying to get back to sleep after a rude awakening, a mental marquis blinks, continually, on and off: TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE . . .TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE . . .TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE.  But still, like the would-be hotel sleeper, I turn my face from the flashing neon, put a pillow over my head to muffle the fluorescent hum, and try to re-enter the dream.

Eventually, naturally, predictably, necessarily, the very cerebral conversation Cyberius and I are having on the information highway veers into on-coming traffic and has a head-on collision with the physical.  Bleep . . . "Instant Message from: Cyberius." Cyberius: So, do you have a picture you can send me? Me:  Well, sorry to say that I don't, but I am practiced at the art of description.  Do you have a pic? Cyberius: Yup . . .but you have to promise to give me that description. Me:  Okay.  Here goes . . . . . . .

The moment of truth.  Now the exterior aspects of the interior selves we have technologically transported and represented to one another will be out there for all to see.  Thank God I strapped on my cynic's seatbelt.  An ounce of prevention . . . Bleep . . . "You've got mail," the mindless voice announced.  I download and open the attached photos Cyberius has sent.  I'm afraid . . .this is usually where the fleeting fantasist in me is completely overtaken by the perseverant pessimist.  But, wait a second . . .wow!!Cyberius is very cute and, some might even venture to say, sexy.  My first thought is "Can this be the same guy I've been talking to for the last forty-five minutes?"  Naturally I don't trust that it is-but I pretend.  I tell him what I think and he responds to my description of myself in kind. I'm sure he doesn't believe what I tell him, but he too pretends.  We are both intrigued . . .the mental connection is firmly established, now the physical is tentatively so.  What is left?  Will we ever make each other's physical acquaintance?  Who the hell knows?  It is really a cyber crap shoot.

We goofs in space cyber jabber on into the night . . .till about 3:00 a.m.  Very cool conversation.  We learn the basics about one another.  Bleep . . . "Instant Message from: Cyberius." Cyberius: So where are you taking me Friday night?" Me:  Hmmm . . .perhaps something can be arranged.

I am one cool, collected and coy cyber chick.  I give him my email address at the office and . . .we leave it at that. Cyberius emailed me at work-I see by the header that his message was sent at 9:02 a.m.  A mere six hours after sign-off last night and a mere fifteen minutes after he stepped into his office.  Obviously he enjoyed our conversation as much as I did.  Cyberius left his office phone number in the email.  To call, or not to call . . .that is the question.  I do not dial the digits; I send another email instead.  I tell him that there is a happy hour at my office that evening so I am not sure if I'll be up for doing anything other than that.  I've got to keep the options open; and my mystique in full flower--this is the pessimistic, cynical, opportunistic nineties, after all.

To make a long story short, I go to the office happy hour and proceed to get pretty damned happy.  Now, my little head-filled with a bit 'o' the bubbly-suppresses the pessimist and starts its evil (quasi-optimistic, alcohol induced) process.  I check my computer, seeking the ghost in my machine.

Cyberius responded to my email.  Something about a headlight burning out . . says he would be home around 8:30 that evening.  He left his home number. Now that I am buzzing I have no qualms about giving this fine fellow a ring. But, I email back first . . .just to let him know that things are starting to look good for a meeting-and not strictly of the minds this time

Friday, 8:30 p.m.-Pick up the handset and make the call.  One ring, two then the most amazingly sexy, deep and masculine voice speaks into my ear, "Good evening."  God, he sounds every bit as luscious as I hoped he would. We arrange a meeting-halfway between here and there-he gives me directions that act as a starting gun.  Bang!  And, they're off!

Friday, 10:00 p.m.-I'm happy in my car, singing, watching the darkened, beheadlighted cars whiz by in the opposite direction, travelling to destinations unknown.  I wonder if anyone in any of those other vehicles is going to meet a pretty stranger?  Yeah, I'm excited, apprehensive, conflicted, but most of all intrigued.  Heading into the homestretch, it's Adventure and Romance running neck in neck . . . it looks like we're gonna have a photo finish . . .

I get to the Border's Bookstore in front of which we are supposed to meet. First I just sit in the car and watch every guy who walks up to the front door.  Several minutes pass and I decide to get out of the car and stand in front of the bookstore.  I wait and I wait growing angrier and angrier. Finally I call the guy's house, get his answering machine and proceed toleave a short, yet effective, message.

"I'm here and you're not-thanks."  I slam the receiver back onto its hanger and walk out of the shop and out of my euphoria.  I drive back to DC at high speeds, a good 30-minute trek-time enough to hurl a plague or two at his house (perhaps some frogs, locusts, who knows), and I call a friend.  By the time I roll up to my friend's house, I am in tears and not exactly sure why.  I don't know this guy, never even seen him, and yet . . . .Ahh, fuck it.  The pessimist in me is pissed . . .I dropped the ball.  I fumbled and gave in to that most optimistic of sensibilities--Hope.  Yuck.  The pessimist in me, my very own Y2K bug, pokes me on the shoulder and says, "See, I told you so."

Ahh, shut up.

Saturday-I swivel before the glowing screen, just to check the email this time.  Lo and behold-a message from Cyberius.  I wonder what the sadistic stranger has to say for himself.

Dear Lisa,

I am sorry about the mishap.  I told you the directions might not be foolproof.  Believe me, before I got home and got your message, I cursed your name.  I'm sorry . . .maybe we can try again?

I signed-off and called the man.  As luck would have it, he was there.  We talked and patched things up.  It was a simple mistake-we both ended up at two different Border's Books, which happened to be at opposite ends of the same street – only in America.  Anway, it all came down to dumb luck-that is the nature of the crap shoot, after all.  No big deal.  I didn't tell him how upset I had become, although he gathered that I was angry.  We didn't make any plans for the weekend.  He was playing rugby – in hindsight I suppose I could have gone to watch him roughin' it up with the boys, but I didn't.  We continued to talk over the next few days.  We made a date to meet here, in DC, at one of my favorite haunts.  At least there I would feel a little more in control.  Not that I have to be in control, but sometimes you wanna go where everybody knows your name . . .

Wednesday, March 10, 1999-Garrett's Tavern.  Georgetown.  I walk into the dark, rather quiet, barroom and spy my girlfriend, Steph, almost immediately.  A couple stools down from her sits Cyberius-I know, immediately, this is he, but I pretend.  Steph instantly starts questioning: "What's your guy's name?  Come on, what is his name?"  I tell her and she points to the guy and says, "That's him."  She knows this because she was planning her method of attack as I was arriving.  The girl is good; she's very good.  Steph can sniff out the eligible guys and their respective Achilles' heels and she runs with the knowledge dangling from her jowls. Release the hooouuuunnddss!  I can't help but admire her instincts.  But, I digress.

Cyberius is utterly adorable – his photos don't do him justice.  I walk right over to him and extend my hand; he was not surprised in the least – apparently he knew I was I, as I had known he was he.  And, as an added bonus, it seemed as though he liked what he was seeing.  But, I think, rather I know, I am socially inept; I feel funky, forgetting how to be in situations with potentially romantic overtones.  Therefore, I took the aloof, standoffish approach.  Duh!!  So Steph and Cyberius stood there talking. They are both jocks and I am far from that . . . not to mention, again, Steph's uncanny abilities.  Anyway, they appeared to have a lot in common; I felt slightly out of sorts.  Jeez, with this guy, it was one thing after another. If this wasn't an act of cosmic prohibition, I don't know what is.  Be that as it may, I was ultra-cool and I did the grown-up thing.  I offered him to my girlfriend – as if he were mine to buy and sell as I pleased!!  So arrogant, but so me.  Damn, she would've taken him too!!  But, the tables turned and I won a throw . . . Steph went to the bathroom.  I took this opportunity to tell Cyberius that he shouldn't feel obligated to me, if he was making a love connection with my girlfriend, well, so goes it.

Grinning, Cyberius enunciated, almost erotically, "I think I've given you the wrong impression."

  "Oh, yeah.  How so?"

"Well, your friend is a lot easier to talk to. You seem to have this standoffish thing down to a science."

God, if I've heard that line once, I've heard it a thousand times.  He was right, of course.  That is just one of my classic defense mechanisms. Confucious say: It's easier to act like you don't care than to appear to give a shit.

Steph came back from the bathroom and saw my cyber pal and I hitting itOff . . . finally.  She pulled me to the side and said, "What the hell is going on here?"

I told her what transpired while she was in the bathroom, and she just looked at me with a weird, little smirk on her face.

"What is this guy's deal?"  Steph pretty well howled.

Hey, man.  Hell if I know.  I simply shrugged my shoulders and smiled. It looked like he was interested in me, after all.  I cannot tell a lie. Iwas pleased.  After the drinking and talking for the night was over, we three left the tavern together.  We each had separate vehicles so a definitive decision would have to be made, and it was strictly up to Cyberius to make it.  He opted to come and talk with me.  Steph left – and then there were two.

Cyberius hopped into my passenger seat and I drove him to his car, which was parked a few blocks away.  We sat in my car talking for awhile; we ended up kissing.  Ohh, yeah.  Cyberius certainly knows his way around a pair of expectant lips.  I could hardly tear myself away.  I'm sure he was waiting for an invite to my place – an invitation that was never forwarded.  I was sorry, but I wanted to see him again, so I wasn't going to take any chances on ruining his initial impression of me.  You know, double standards, social inequality, what's good for the gander is certainly, unequivocally, not so hot for the goose.  Blah, blah, blah.  The fundamental things apparently apply, even at the turn of the millennium.

Thursday, March 11th, 1999-I talked to Cyberius in the morning.  He seemed to be as pleased with our meeting as I was.  We made arrangements for me to join him at his place after I got out of work that night, in which case, I would not arrive on his doorstep until midnight.  I was nervous about this, since I did not really know him, but I agreed.  That's right folks, I live on the edge.  (That is, the edge where I give Steph his full name,social security number, selective service ID number, his roommate's vitals,the address, his employer's address, the phone number, my glamour shot and,of course, my dental records).

Well, that was about eight months ago.  Cyberius and I still see each other once in a while, we still chat on-line, actually we communicate several times a week.  I have determined that Cyberius may not be the right one for me but he is one of the "right" ones. That is not what is really important, however. He is a handsome, intelligent, clever man and I enjoyed (and continue to find pleasure) in the time I spend with him.  So, the lesson in all this is as follows:  There still are a few good men out there, and I'm certainly not referring to the Marines. 

So, my advice to all the disillusioned women like myself wandering the wastes of singledom is this: whether you happen to bump into him as he's tipping brewskies, curling dumb bells, sucking lattes, squeezing melons or surfing in space, you'd be wise, and a lot more comfortable (and maybe even happier), if you'd knock that pesky pessimist off your shoulder and take the chance, 'cause cynicism ain't all it's cracked up to be.  Besides, it could be worse; it could be raining.

How has meeting people on-line been for you? Guys? Girls? Discuss Here

Copyright © 1999 Lisa M. La Falce All Rights Reserved