Text can show a lot of things about a person. When someone sends an email, it shows the reader three very important traits.
How articulate they are. Email requires thought in order to expand on thoughts and if the message is short then the person can’t even think their way out of a shirt.
Effort. If the person writes a long message then the person has a lot of diligence and it shows that he can stay on task and get things done.
How deep their head goes. A long email shows more than what they want to reveal, such as how deep their well is for example. Short messages usually translate into “there’s a lot of hot air in this blimp”
But Email can’t show you everything about a person and this is why that initial phone call is important. This next contestant in my quest to find my forever catches me on a Sunday.
Sundays are dangerous days for me, but not nearly as dangerous as my wandering fingers when I’ve exhausted all work and have no video games to play. My boredom, or hormones, finds me goggling at brown abs and bulging arm muscles in the wee hours of the afternoon. I’m looking at a stomach the color of brown sugar pulsating with biceps when a message flies into my dating inbox. It’s very rare this happens so I eagerly click into the message. The spelling and grammar is as flawless as a tax-free society but the message is very short – waving red flags at me that I don’t see.
“Hi. My name is Jason. I recognize you. You’re a journalist. Love your work. I want to chat more, Babe. Is that okay? Please say yes. I think we should. I think that’s fair.”
I can hear the eagerness behind his message so I check him out. His face is brown, as I hoped it would be, and it sports a smile that’s brimming on being cute. He has a balled head, and I can see that he’s 10 years older than me. His smile is wide though and this tells me that there are guys who enjoy having fun outside of the bedroom. Because the fridge is being unusually quiet tonight I dish out my cell number like it’s a lottery ticket and wait for the winning call.
Not even a minute later my phone vibrates. I answer it almost expecting Denzel Washington to greet me and propose but what meets my ear is a husky mesh of needy and overwhelming clinginess. There’s also slurring in his voice that I don’t pay attention to because it’s deep, and a baritone always gets me going. The pleasantries are out of the way very quickly and we know a bit about each other. Before long, we’re discussing what kinds of sexual acts we like to do, and then we focus on each other and what we’d do to one another.
The entire time this is happening I try and throw in questions where he’ll have to give me a detailed answer but he somehow doesn’t hear them and proceeds to tell me what an inspiration I am with a slur behind a few syllables. I notice how frequently the slur happens. A lull in the conversation comes when he admits that he’s not a man’s man. He also keeps asking me if random points he’s made are fair, like we’re having an argument over the remote and he needs Jerry Springer to tell me that he knows the buttons better than I do.
“Really?” I say, not shocked at all given the way he’s been telling me that I’m good looking for the past 45 minutes.
“Yeah. I’m not a mankind of guy. I don’t attract them very much. I want to listen to you more. Is that fair?”
I don’t understand the question but I plow on before I idly remember that I really should be turning in for the night because I have an important meeting to get to in the morning.
“That’s a definite shame. I hate to be a prude, but, I have a meeting I have to get to in the morning and I need my sleep.” The reply slams into my ear with quick bursts of syllables, as if he’s dying and my voice is a resuscitator.
“Listen, babe… I know you don’t like me, and I get it, no one does, but please baby, I want to talk some more. I think you’re hot! Just stay and talk. I want to talk. Is that fair?”
“It’s not you. I don’t think you understand that I have a meeting in the morning that I can’t sleep through.” There’s a heavy sigh on the other end, followed by the unmistakable swigging of a bottle. I then realize that he’s been drunk this entire conversation. I make even louder noises about having to go, but the crying reply makes me stop and gape.
“Please… baby, I’m an alcoholic, I get it, but I think that we deserve to talk things over, is that fair? Is that fair? I mean, we’ve both been alone so…” there’s another swig. “We need to cuddle with one another.”
“You know what? I agree!” I gaily squeal, and begin doing a Google search on my computer. The slur is emphasized as he asks me where I live. I tell him the address to Alcoholics Anonymous in Chicago, and I give him their number instead of mine – he’s forgotten mine already.
“Please call me tomorrow baby. I love you.” I say, hanging up the phone knowing that I will never hear from this diplomat again. Given the last hour, I’d say that’s pretty fair.