Sample

Alan
2001
(Gaelic). Cheerful harmony.

     Move the s and they become lions straight out of C.S. Lewis, but Alans have been fairly thin on the ground so far in my life. Alan a Dale? I read mum’s old Robin Hood book (Errol Flynn version with yellowing colour plates avidly).
     So he’s a big guy. I like big men, especially since my husband, providing they’re not fat - (flab is an entirely different matter; imagine trying to balance on a gross huge beer gut) with attractive big crinkly brown eyes- so two criteria met. And I’m on a bench by the water, drinking lager, the sun on my back. Soporifically assessing this as a pleasant situation, possibly even romantic, when I hear the words “I’m crap at sex”.
     “I’m crap at sex?” Just confirming that’s what he really said. What kind of man utters words like that on a first date? Does he really believe it, or has he gone off me already. Is he trying to put me off? And what am I doing sitting in a riverside inn talking to a guy who feels impelled to tell me he’s crap at sex?
     My Alan experience was close to the beginning of the Internet run. I had been having a really lean time with men since returning from the Philippines and my travels in 2001. I wasn’t meeting anyone and didn’t want to go down the same old routes again. I was getting into my meditation at that time and heavily into goal setting. So I set an important goal: to meet more men and endeavour to visualize heavily. To create the right image of my future existences. I sounded out all and sundry and Neil I and Neil II (more of them later) both, separately, advocated the Internet. No longer the equivalent of a social pariah to computer-date, actually promoted in all the current magazines. It didn’t seem a bad idea. I theorized that men on the Internet had to be PC literate and might therefore possess a modicum of intelligence. They might also have well-paid jobs and not represent the I can see why you’re still single stereotype lurking subliminally under the Dateline banner.
     Neil I quoted the astounding success rate of a friend of his (doubly elated because she was an ex and it got her off his back). Apparently she was even now in New York cavorting with a wealthy surgeon as a result. Neil II had personal achievement to report and was still dating (sporadically) one Sarah from a not very Francophile website called No More Frogs. Enthused by Neil I’s references, I posted my details on two websites. Age was the pressing issue. I really do look a good ten years younger than my genuine (at the time) 48, and the Neils and I spent a long time discussing what to say. I can’t cope with the all too prevalent middle aged in spirit. And so many guys seem to want younger women. More chance of perpetuating the genes. Most people then put me at late 30s or even mid on a good day! The Neils decided on 39. I knew I’d have to cough up the truth at some point, but at least my prospectees would’ve have had a look first and I wouldn’t go into the immediate reject pile because I sound over the hill! If guys have a problem because I’m older than the age on their want list, even though they like me, that’s their problem isn’t it? Isn’t it?
     I am required to supply more details – advised to be different and sincere. What do I want? I like the Ibsen Test. Men who have some knowledge of Ibsen might be considered cultured enough to be worth a little further investigation. (Dropping Ibsen casually into the conversation isn’t very easy. Ibsen? He built houses, didn’t he? Ignorance, or a very witty response? Who can say?)
     And a photo. Of me. Neil I’s job. And it takes a huge number of shots before I get one where I look remotely human. Witty caption - It’s cranberry juice in the glass. Well, it is.
     So I soon establish a routine for safe Internet dating. I exchange a few e-mails, but not too many. And I discover some men are content just to write. Over and over again. What did you do today Daisy? A meeting seems much too threatening. I demand a photo and eliminate anyone who looks like Jack the Ripper or who is less than 5 foot 8 (being very generous here in the hope that they have a stunning personality). Then onto the phone. Some guys only hand out cell numbers or work numbers. Interesting - who’s at home that they don’t want me to know about? In some cases it’s just mother. At 39! When the phone test is passed a face to face meeting is called for. Sometimes I have to hint. Some guys are too happy to prattle away on the phone, filling me in on their dole payments and their depression. At that point I contrive it so my mobile rings; it must be urgently answered. Oh dear, someone’s breaking into my car. Gotta go.
     Others are more entertaining, if no less depressing.

     Well I know I said my name is Jim but it’s really Gary.
     Can’t send a photo as I haven’t got one.
     Well actually I’m married but you won’t let that put you off will you?

     And so to Alan.

Hi Daisy,
     Just a friendly mail to say hello - where are you now? Hope things are going OK
     I have just got back to the UK from Trinidad - may need to go back again next week. It’s my mother’s 80th tomorrow, so had to be back in the UK for that.
     Had another look at your ‘profile’ - yes, we really must meet up soon!
     How’s the trip going - how long have you been on the road - lots to talk about - hope to see you soon.
Alan
    

Daisy,
     I will arrive back in the UK on Friday Aug 17 (?) and will be there for a few weeks, before returning to Trinidad.
     I think you get back this weekend - dying to hear your travel details. I have to go to Brighton soon after I get back to meet with a friend who is getting married - shall we do it?
     I realise you have now checked the details - so I hope you don’t say no now.....having had a chance to ‘check me out’
     Have a safe journey - hope we get a chance to meet.
     PS - the mobile doesn’t work here in Trini, so will only be able to speak when I get back (unless you send me your number)
Alan
    

Daisy - have tried to call, I think you must have gone already...
     OK, so I am back in the UK for a little while - hope we can meet up
     Speak soon
Alan

     Big business man, offices in the city, villa in Trinidad, buying property in the Caribbean, a scuba instructor. Very few preliminaries, he wants to meet straight away. Grammar a bit suspect, but otherwise it sounds promising and we meet for lunch. Meeting procedures confirmed, I tell friends where I’m off to. So they can ensure due justice is done if I’m subsequently hauled out of a ditch. And in return they get a debriefing later.
     Yes, nice eyes. I’m rashly being talked into alcohol. I’ve recently been told I’m allergic to it and not to have any (another of life’s little jokes) and so, my willpower being what it is, we’re sipping lager on a riverbank on a sleepy Sunday afternoon. He’s pleasant, fun, but defensive. I’m rapidly under the table. And we’re talking about sex. One of my favourite subjects. But it is a little early, even for me.
     “Do I like it?” he inquires. Big brown eyes wide open. (As all the best novels say).
     “Um, yes. Course I do.”
     “Well, I’m crap at it.”
     “What makes you think that?” I’m still hopeful that he’s teasing.
     “Things women have said.” The big brown eyes are now shifting. He’s counting the blades of grass.
     “Such as?”
     “Well, comments. Like ‘Is it in yet?’”
     He’s not joking.
     Alans. Guys who are affluent and capable. Guys who e mail to say:
     I had a lovely time can I see you again?
     Guys who then don’t call. Guys I probably shouldn’t see again anyway.
    

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