I think Chemistry.com is tired of me. I keep pushing the "not really" button when they send me new contacts and I don't give a reason because my reason is never on their drop down list. I don't see options like "the space between his front teeth is too wide," or "he says he's 59 but he looks like an old fart." The end result is that I'm not getting my promised five new prospects a day. They dribble in one or two at a time. Okay. So I'm a finicky bitch. Did they add that in some invisible ink on my profile?
I checked in this morning and saw that "Robert noticed me!" No photo. How can they call themselves chemistry.com and not allow photos? Robert was a "builder" (one of their profiling titles) who barely wrote English. I'm an "explorer" who writes. "NOT REALLY." Another wrote and said to contact him if I get bored. I don't get bored. I get curious.
This morning I used two hands to squeeze the last of the toothpaste out of the tube as my long brown hair fell into my face. My espresso moka pot bubbled away on the stove as the sun broke over the Purcell Mountains and I opened my trailer door to let Teak outside. I like my own company. I don't get lonely but I do have longings. I've been told my body tastes real sweet. Olfactory has everything to do with how I respond to a man. And their smile. And their eyes. And the way they walk. And the cadence to their voice. And here I sit, staring at a computer screen looking at the size of their hands through blurry photos.
I'm in the midst of a mysterious transition. When I close my eyes I see a cabin by water and aspen trees in full autumn color. A partner to love and rowdy around. I know my next book is called Naked Outside and I'm about ready to start writing because it's waking me up in the middle of the night with ideas. I won't go beyond my one month experiment with the online dating world. I opened a window and someone may yet come crawling through. A pilot in Boise popped up on the screen yesterday, the same day that I changed my mail/male forward to Boise in preparation for my southern migration. Perhaps we'll get together. Meet for a walk along the river or an iced coffee at a sidewalk cafe. But Boise ain't Paris.
Meanwhile, I'm having fun with emails from "Wood tick-Butch," a Montana Kerouac who keeps me laughing from a distance. Perfect, for now.