looked at my calendar just before Gabby arrived and realized I hadn’t had sex in nearly two years. With my fellowship training and traveling for interviews, it just hadn’t happened. So no wonder I was ogling a young stud like Tyler Connelly. I was suffering from a severe case of vaginal cobwebs. It must be like an old, abandoned subway tunnel down there.
Gabby moved the mouse around and clicked on a little bell that said “Create your profile.”
“Don’t forget my list,” I said.
“I’ve already forgotten your list,” she answered. “There’s a questionnaire. Let’s just go through that, and we’ll get to all your requirements that way. Even the stupid ones.”
“But I’ve listed them in order of importance.”
Gabby shook her head. “I had no idea you were so compulsive. I’ll be sure to mention that charming little personality gemstone in your profile.”
“I’m not compulsive. I’m decisive. I don’t want to waste time with someone who doesn’t meet even my most basic of requirements.”
Like Tyler Connelly.
Gabby clicked away on the keys, ignoring me.
“OK, speaking of basics, let’s start with those. What’s your preferred height range?” she asked. “It goes from three to eight feet.”
“Seriously?” I tried to imagine either extreme. Then I tried to block those images away.
“That’s pretty broad,” Gabby agreed and took a chug of wine. “How tall are you?”
“Five two.”
“OK, so no offense to the guys under five feet, but I think we can find you somebody taller without much effort. Let’s say five five to six two. I dated a Goliath once who was six eight, and the sexual mechanics were a hassle. Plus he didn’t fit in my car. Don’t go that tall.”
“Would that be the guy with the overly large penis?”
“That’s the one.”
“Duly noted.”
The idea of working out sexual mechanics with anyone suddenly felt very overwhelming. Yes, I wanted to be scientific in my pursuit of a suitable mate, but certain things, sex in particular, shouldn’t be dealt with in such a clinical fashion. It was very Masters and Johnson-y.
“How about fitness level?” Gabby asked. “Looks like the range here is from couch potato to the guys who can’t get change from their own pockets because their biceps are too big.”
I took a sip of wine and blocked more mental images. “Is there a spot that just says physically active? Like enjoys jogging or something?”
Gabby’s fingers did more clicking. “Yep, I put your preferences right in the middle here.”
We continued through the profile questionnaire, eliminating men who smoked, lived with their mothers, had an excessively high number of ex-wives, or had done hard time for murder or extortion.
“OK, here are some questions about you,” Gabby said, her hands poised over the keyboard. “What do you do for fun?”
“Fun? Fun is on there?” I set my glass down and scratched my chin. “Um, well, I work, which is fun for me. I read a lot. I like to jog in the park when I have a chance.”
Gabby made a snoring noise and let her head fall back against the sofa cushion. “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got? You don’t need a man for that kind of crap, Evie. You need a basset hound.”
“That’s not a very nice thing to say. I’m not going to lie on my personality profile.”
“Then you’ll be the only one who doesn’t. Look, I’m not suggesting you lie, but this is a marketing exercise. You have to come up with stuff a guy would actually want to participate in. Any man who gets excited by watching you read is a pervert. How about sports? Do you like any? Or better yet, do you play something, like tennis or volleyball or something? Or golf?”
“I used to be pretty good at badminton.”
“Badminton? You mean with the little rackets and the rubber birdies?” Her tone was as dry as the beach in August. Maybe I should have done this alone after all.
“It’s a sport,” I said defensively. Maybe that
Gabby moved the mouse around and clicked on a little bell that said “Create your profile.”
“Don’t forget my list,” I said.
“I’ve already forgotten your list,” she answered. “There’s a questionnaire. Let’s just go through that, and we’ll get to all your requirements that way. Even the stupid ones.”
“But I’ve listed them in order of importance.”
Gabby shook her head. “I had no idea you were so compulsive. I’ll be sure to mention that charming little personality gemstone in your profile.”
“I’m not compulsive. I’m decisive. I don’t want to waste time with someone who doesn’t meet even my most basic of requirements.”
Like Tyler Connelly.
Gabby clicked away on the keys, ignoring me.
“OK, speaking of basics, let’s start with those. What’s your preferred height range?” she asked. “It goes from three to eight feet.”
“Seriously?” I tried to imagine either extreme. Then I tried to block those images away.
“That’s pretty broad,” Gabby agreed and took a chug of wine. “How tall are you?”
“Five two.”
“OK, so no offense to the guys under five feet, but I think we can find you somebody taller without much effort. Let’s say five five to six two. I dated a Goliath once who was six eight, and the sexual mechanics were a hassle. Plus he didn’t fit in my car. Don’t go that tall.”
“Would that be the guy with the overly large penis?”
“That’s the one.”
“Duly noted.”
The idea of working out sexual mechanics with anyone suddenly felt very overwhelming. Yes, I wanted to be scientific in my pursuit of a suitable mate, but certain things, sex in particular, shouldn’t be dealt with in such a clinical fashion. It was very Masters and Johnson-y.
“How about fitness level?” Gabby asked. “Looks like the range here is from couch potato to the guys who can’t get change from their own pockets because their biceps are too big.”
I took a sip of wine and blocked more mental images. “Is there a spot that just says physically active? Like enjoys jogging or something?”
Gabby’s fingers did more clicking. “Yep, I put your preferences right in the middle here.”
We continued through the profile questionnaire, eliminating men who smoked, lived with their mothers, had an excessively high number of ex-wives, or had done hard time for murder or extortion.
“OK, here are some questions about you,” Gabby said, her hands poised over the keyboard. “What do you do for fun?”
“Fun? Fun is on there?” I set my glass down and scratched my chin. “Um, well, I work, which is fun for me. I read a lot. I like to jog in the park when I have a chance.”
Gabby made a snoring noise and let her head fall back against the sofa cushion. “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got? You don’t need a man for that kind of crap, Evie. You need a basset hound.”
“That’s not a very nice thing to say. I’m not going to lie on my personality profile.”
“Then you’ll be the only one who doesn’t. Look, I’m not suggesting you lie, but this is a marketing exercise. You have to come up with stuff a guy would actually want to participate in. Any man who gets excited by watching you read is a pervert. How about sports? Do you like any? Or better yet, do you play something, like tennis or volleyball or something? Or golf?”
“I used to be pretty good at badminton.”
“Badminton? You mean with the little rackets and the rubber birdies?” Her tone was as dry as the beach in August. Maybe I should have done this alone after all.
“It’s a sport,” I said defensively. Maybe that
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