What’s worse than dating strangers when you’re fifty? The prospect of spending the next fifty years celibate. My friend, Sam, tells me to take care of myself, but let’s face it, there’s not much mystery in romance with a vibrator.I say to Sam, “My dating problems would be solved if you’d go to bed with me.”
He says, “Sex puts a hex on everything.”
“Sam-mule!”
He won’t budge. Drives me crazy. Sam is not my boyfriend. We have non-dates: eat, watch movies, exchange books, but S-E-X is out. After his divorce, Sam donated his bed to the Salvation Army. Every night he rolls out a sleeping bag in the middle of his living room, and his bedroom is now his office.
That’s why I’m on the internet again seeking Mr. Right. I’ve filled out questionnaires that delve into my psyche, hoping to hook my soul up with its mate. I’ve been fine tuning my profile, testing-driving my photographs. It’s paying off. I’m attracting a higher caliber of applicants—men seeking a relationship, instead of losers looking to get laid.
Of course, getting laid is my main motivation, but I want the whole package, the real deal, “the one.”
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