A tale from the wild-n-wooly days of the internets

I met Bonnie in the early days of usenet mail groups. She came to my defense as I was being viciously flamed by an asshole who was, he said, a published author, a lyricist for a rock band: a self-promoting digerati jerk of the highest caliber, involved with a lot of rapidly developing Internet issues, a self-proclaimed shaman, and always had a sig file that quoted J.P. Barlow, founder of the Electronic Freedom Foundation. Do I think it was the great Bloviator himself? Yes, but I can't prove it. As I said, the guy was too chickenshit to reveal his identity. More about Barlow some other day.

In her well-written defense of me, Bonnie mentioned that she wore size five underwear, was 28 years old, and was a single mom living in New Jersey and that the anonymous guy who was too chickenshit to reveal his name could pick on her, too.

I was impressed, in more ways than one. 

I wrote her and thanked her, generating a correspondence. Fuel for fantasy. I was certain my Higher Power was sending me my life-mate through this incredible new medium, the Internet. Then came phone calls. A month or two of several calls a day and five hundred dollar phone bills.

Picture exchange.

Pictures can lie.

Finally, I sent her a ticket to come visit for a long weekend visit.

As Bonnie walked off the plane, a split-second reading of the crackling nimbus of wrath that haloed her visage telegraphed to me the dreadful, Manichean certainty that I had made the kind of mistake I would never forget and, worse, the kind of mistake my friends would never let me forget.

They haven't.

It wasn't the fact that, even though she could indeed fit into a pair of size five panties, she had shoulders like a linebacker. No, my droogies, I am not that shallow.

I knew, from our correspondence and conversations, she had issues with her alcoholic ex-husband, issues around hurt and anger.

Now the issues were manifest and solid as I stood there in the onslaught of her breezeway approach. From ten feet, her eyes shone with the demonic energy I would normally associate with the A-list crackheads in my neighborhood. As Bonnie grew closer, grinning berzerker, her pupils jittered wildly, back and forth, jumped, and jangled, as if a small and raging, rabid furry thing were in there darting around behind her eyes, trying to gain purchase to command a view against attack, or to identify prey, I was not sure which.

Small talk.

Very small talk.

O thank God for small talk!

All the way home and into the heart of the night.

I had to have sex with her as we retired to my bed, certain that, if I didn't confirm lustily her desirability as a sex vixen, she would kill me in my sleep. She was the only woman with whom I've had to fantasize about someone else in order to perform. I told her the next morning as kindly as I could that the chemistry I had imagined between us was not there. Bonnie seemed to take it well. The rest of the weekend, she went through my money like a dotcom gold-digger on a crack binge: shopping, spas, shopping, restaurants, shopping. And I was more than happy in my compliance here: anything to avoid being alone with her and being forced into having sex with her again (this did happen, unavoidably, I am sorry to say).

I finally got her on the plane home after two or three more excruciating nights ... oh blessed blessed day!

Gracious time occludes memory, as I believe it does for women to forget the pain of childbirth. Then her emails began, alternately imploring and pleading or demanding and insulting. After several weeks of back and forth, I told her that I had tried to do the honorable thing, had flown her out to find out if we had something real or imagined, that I was very sorry it hadn't worked out. Please stop bothering me.

Bonnie wrote and told me she had gotten pregnant during her stay. I reminded her that I had gotten a vasectomy after the birth of my second son. She replied,"I suppose it was from the guy sitting next to me on the plane?" [I've never quite figured that remark out.]

Told her I was going to the doctor for a test. She said don't bother, I've already taken care of things. Doc said you're no daddy, Knox. I let her know. The last I heard she was notifying AOL and my ISP that I was lying about my vasectomy on the internet. I never heard from her again.

To my knowledge, they don't tell internet dating success stories like this one in the mainstream women's magazines.

Comments (3)

women's magazines
written by gensing, August 20, 2007

depends on the magazine shmoopy.

"Some Guys Get All the Luck...Some Guys Do Nothing But Complain.."
written by Anonymous Male, August 20, 2007

Hmmm...so lets see:

1. She had a troublesome personality.

2. You were "stuck" with her for a few days.

3. During that time you got laid at least twice.

Speaking as someone who has not had sex in 11 years, I'd say you made out like a bandit.

Oh Dear
written by --Y--, February 11, 2008

These face to face meetings can certainly be strange.

I've sort of been there and sort of done that.

Someday may figure out a way to write about it--but for now until enough poems.

You know it's expectations that are difficult to mesh with these things and what the REAL meaning of the words "I love you" are.

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