Considering The Possibilities

20 08 2012

Time seemed to move slowly while I was waiting for the lawyer to read my blog and deliver his verdict. We kept up our email communication, but we did not see each other while he was digesting the information here on My Dating Prescription.

In the meantime, I had a distraction as my communication with My Stalker/Super Fan increased. Although I didn’t have the slightest clue who he was, he didn’t frighten me, so the stalker label didn’t exactly seem fair. However, unlike my other readers, to my knowledge, he never commented directly on the blog, and opted instead for sending me emails. They were slightly dirty-minded emails just funny enough or well written enough to skate the edge between sexy and creepy, but this alone seemed reason enough to let him retain the stalker label for the time being.

Regarding his identity, all I had to go on was a name, a zip code, and a bunch of emails that made me laugh out load, and not LOL, but REALLY laugh out load. My Stalker/Super Fan is hilarious. That’s one thing I do know about him for sure.

As I mentioned in Man #100, My Stalker/Super Fan and Therapy Thursday, as our emails increased I found myself more and more intrigued by him. I wanted to find out more, but because he seemed to like playing this mystery game with me, I found it difficult to ask the questions I wanted answered. And yet, there were times when he provided tangential personal information while still remaining anonymous.

For example, there was the time I questioned whether or not he was using his real name, and he scolded me for questioning him.

“I can’t believe you have the cojones to call me out on my name. I accept your nom de plume and your anonymity. My Mom’s name is …, [and he included her phone number] if you have any questions about her Dear Son…”

I’m sure he was bluffing. He knew there was no way I was going to call his mother. What would I say?

“Yes, hello Mother Stalker. My name is Wilma, and I’m calling because your son, My Stalker/Super Fan, gave me your number so I could call and ask you questions about him. You don’t know me yet, but you will, because in a couple of years when I finally finish dating 100 men on this prescription that my crazy therapist gave me, your son has hatched an elaborate plan to make me fall in madly in love with him.

Yes, uh huh. That’s what he said,…madly in love yes. I wouldn’t make that up. No. I see. He’s always had an active imagination? Ok.

Well, he gave me your phone number, and I was wondering if you could please confirm some information for me. No,…no, ma’am, I’m not a telemarketer. No, I can’t actually take your number off of the Do Not Call List, because I don’t have the list…No ma’am. I would never ask for his social security number. I was thinking more along the lines of how old he is and what he does for a living. Is he a good son? Does he call you regularly? …What’s that?

He has other people call you?

Strange women named things like Wilma…I see. Well, thank you for your time. Have a good day. Yeah, you too. Ok. Ba bye now.”

Yeah,…no.

He knew I wouldn’t call her. I did, however, do a reverse look up of the number on 411.com and confirmed that the person living at that number had the same last name as My Stalker/Super Fan.

See. Tangential. I think he totally expected me to do a little research. Apparently, if I want to know who he is I will have to work for it.

I started to consider all of the possible scenarios. You can get an email address for any name you want these days, and identity theft runs rampant. Once he had the email address, he could just look up a phone number for people with the same last name on the internet.

As the information we shared via email became more personal, however, I started to worry more about the fact that My Stalker/Super Fan could be anyone. What if he was someone I had already dated who was trying to mess with me? What if he was one of my classmates from my MBA program? Or worse. What if he was one of my professors? He could even be a husband of one of my married friends, and I might never know. The point is, I don’t know who he is, but I started running through all of the possibilities.

Over a year ago, I had tried to inquire about his age, and the only information I got was,

“I am older than you, and can teach you much if you are willing to listen Grasshopper. I’m number 100. Boys first, men last.”

See, funny, but the mystery is frustrating to say the least.

Recently, I asked him his age again, and he finally told me he is 63 and old enough to be my father. However, he added that I didn’t need to call him Daddy.

Great. Thanks.

He is actually several months older than my mom. To be fair, my mother was pretty young when she had me. I am 44.

I’m less concerned about chronological age and more interested to know about his health and joie de vivre. As some of my recent dates have proven, while one man can be my age and seem like a grumpy old man another could be active and a lot of fun. I tried to ask My Stalker/Super Fan for more information on this, but he seemed annoyed by it, and replied,

“Have I given you reason to question my cognition? I do 45 minutes of cardio daily at a heart rate of 85% of max for 30 year old. Perhaps if your questions were more specific. Like…CAN YOU STILL GET IT UP?”

I explained that, yes, besides the fact that I had dated some men younger than him who were fuddie duddies lately, I was also very interested to know, when date #100 finally came, if I would be able to ride him like a pony without giving him a heart attack.

I mean, just because I haven’t had any sex lately doesn’t mean I don’t like sex. I’m just picky about who I have sex with. In fact, at this point, I have a lot of pent up energy, A LOT of pent up energy. I could seriously hurt someone, especially an old man with a shoddy ticker.

His response,

“Fuddy duddy? I’m strong, fit, and tan. You can do chin ups on my hard on. I don’t need Viagra. Besides, do you have any idea what that shit’s made of? It’s half Miracle Grow and half Fix-A-Flat.”

See. Funny, but it also put an end to my inquiry.

One of my friends was mortified when I told her his age, and said, “He should be dating women my mom’s age, but my mom says all the guys her age want women our age. The 80 year old men are the ones interested her, and she says all they want is a purse or a nurse.”

My mom and stepdad were less concerned and cited successful relationships they knew where a similar age difference existed.

Sam and Really Really Nice Guy had opinions too.

“Tell her about your stepmom,” Sam said.

“She’s 57 and my dad is 75. They’ve been together for about ten years,” Really Really Nice Guy said, “but now my dad has Alzheimer’s.”

“So she’s taking care of him,” I asked.

“Yep.”

“Well, My Stalker/Super Fan told me he’s really fit,” I said, and I told them what he said about his exercise routine.

“Well, my dad was really fit too,” Really Really Nice Guy said, “he ran every day, and every morning he ate oatmeal. He’d make his bowl of oatmeal, line up thirty different vitamins on the counter, and put lecithin on his cereal. Now, look at him. He doesn’t even know who his wife is.”

“Wow,” I said, “So, what are you saying? That even if My Stalker/Super Fan has the endurance to stick around to be Man #100, I’ve only got 10 to 15 good years with him tops?”

“Yep, probably,” Sam said.

I had to think about that.

I want to know what you think.

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Therapy Thursday

2 08 2012

I’m sitting in the waiting room at my therapist’s office. There’s this bubbling, gurgling Japanese water fountain in the corner. I think it’s supposed to make me feel more peaceful. On the end table, between two of the waiting room chairs, there’s a miniature Japanese Zen garden. You know the ones, those little square sandboxes with the miniature rake. It’s supposed to be calming to rake the sand around in different patterns. All I can think is that I want to draw obscene pictures. Maybe it’s some sort of Asian Rorschach test and my therapist will realize that I’m some kind of twisted. I decide to leave it alone.

I settle for the latest New Yorker instead. I don’t know why I always make this choice. I can never get through an entire article before my therapist calls me into  his office, but I always choose The New Yorker. What can I say? I like the writing.

My therapist is funny, and by funny, I mean funny weird. You can have your shoes on in the waiting area, but you have to take them off before you enter his office. The other thing that he does is he always asks me, “what’s new and good?” It pisses me off. Every time I go to see him I have to figure out what’s new and good. I figure it’s just one of his methods for making the weight of his job a little less dreary. I mean imagine having to listen to everybody’s problems all day long. It irritates me though, because sometimes, like today, it’s a real struggle for me to come up with something.

The angry couple I heard behind the wall leaves and it’s my turn. My Jewish doctor/Zen master calls me into his office. I slip off my sandals at the door and take my spot on the sofa.

“So, what’s new and good,” he asks.

Here we go.

“Um, I wore slip-on shoes today?”

“No, there must be something. Come on. What’s new and good?” he says. He’ll embrace my inner child but not my inner smart ass.

I don’t fucking know. I’d been wracking my brain all the way over to his office in my car, and I couldn’t come up with anything. Now, he waits. He sits there and waits. He’ll wait at $120 an hour until I come up with something, which is why I usually try to come up with something acceptable in the car.

Oh for fuck sake.

“Um, I’ve made it to all of my personal training appointments, three times a week, for the past three months?”

“Great! How does that make you feel?”

“Strong. Strong and still fat.”

“Strong is good.”

I can tell he’s trying to work with me here.

“I’m stronger than I was in my twenties.”

“That’s good, especially considering where you were last year.”

It’s true. A year ago, I was still broken, physically broken from a bicycling accident and emotionally broken from my divorce. I had done the right thing. I got a trainer for my body and a therapist for my mind. Things were looking up.

“What else is going on?”

“Well, I think I’m obsessing.”

“About what?”

“Well, there’s this guy I’ve been corresponding with through email…”

I start to tell him about My Stalker/Super Fan. I tell him how he’s charming, funny, intelligent, and…a complete mystery.

“He says he’s #100.”

“Do YOU think he’s #100? What does #100 mean for you at this point?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything about him. He could turn out to be a hairy troll beating off in a basement for all I know. The scary part is that I find myself looking forward to his emails and thinking about him during the day…and I don’t even know what he looks like! It’s ridiculous!”

“What is it that you like about him?”

“He’s hilarious. I laugh out load when I read his emails, and there’s this, sort of, in charge, kind of charisma that seems to come through in his emails. For the most part though, I feel like the rest of it is just one big Cinderella fantasy that I’m making up in my head, like he’s going to come sweeping in at the end of this and whisk me away to live happily ever after or some shit…Mr. 100. Whoo hoo! That shit NEVER happens to me. My life is never a fairy tale. It’s more like tragedy and comedy…or a horror story.”

“I hear a couple of things going on here. First, you need to base your decisions and feelings on reality, not fantasy.”

“I know. I know. I know. I need to reign it in. I know I’m falling into that fairy tale bullshit I was sold as a little girl. You know, the prince comes and saves the princess and they live happily ever after. I have a business degree for crying out loud. I can choose between two separate investments based on their net present value, but I can’t seem to evaluate a good guy from a bad guy. It’s like I’m hoping this guy will be my knight in shining armor or something and it’s bullshit! I know it’s bullshit!”

I can hear myself getting louder, ranting and rambling, and I stop and look at my therapist.

“I’ve just had really rotten luck with men,” I finally admit in defeat.

“I know. You deserve a man who loves you, but that love has to be based on fact, not fiction. Just like any of your other dates, if you’re really interested in this guy, you need to take the time to get to know him. Ask him questions. You’ll have to ask a lot of questions and meet face to face before you decide if what you’re feeling is real or not.”

“Yeah, I know,” I sigh and look out the window.

“But, that brings me to the other thing I was going to say, which is, do you think you could believe that something good could happen to you?”

“Oh,…well,…I don’t know.”

The question floods my mind with thoughts of how in love I had been with STBex and I have to fight back tears. Look how that turned out. How was I going to love again and be able to trust those feelings after I had been so betrayed?

“I hear you building this guy up to be a prince and then, just as quickly, writing him off because you don’t think he’s going to come through for you. What if you took time to get to know him, and he actually turned out to be a good guy?”

“That would be nice for a change.”

“And, that would be a good thing, right?”

“Yeah, it would.”

My therapist goes on to suggest exercises to refocus my attention when my fantasizing about My Stalker/Super Fan gets out of control, and, again, he reminds me to slowly figure out what’s real and what’s fantasy. I realize that waiting to meet My Stalker/Super Fan until date #100 is probably a good thing. You gotta admit: it’s slow. If Man #100 is really going to wait to date me, at the rate my dating is going, it could be another two years before we meet face to face. If My Stalker/Super Fan really believes he’s Man #100, he either has incredible perseverance, is unusually goal driven, or maybe he’s the one who’s fantasizing. There are long odds on Man #100.

I slip my shoes on as I leave my therapist’s office and exit into the sunlight to head to my car. My mind feels more clear…at least for now.

Photo here.





Man #100, My Stalker/Super Fan

29 07 2012

You may have noticed that today we’re going out of sequence. I’ve been holding out on you, dear readers, about something, which could prove to be important to my future physical or emotional well-being.

I have a stalker/super fan.

It all started quite a while ago, last year in March, in fact, the night I placed my Craigslist ad. I received a ton of emails, and amongst those emails I had a message from a man informing me that he couldn’t possibly date me at Man #4, because, quite frankly, I would fall hopelessly in love with him and he would screw up my therapy.

He also asked if I knew what I was getting myself into by placing a Craigslist ad, and if I was ready for my inbox to be flooded with a thousand penis pictures. He said he had considered providing a picture of his own, but the last time he had tried to send a picture of his penis the internet had shut down for 2 hours because of the file size.

You may recall that I suspended any further communication with him, on that particular night, because I feared I was only one email away from receiving a naked picture of his package.

Anyway, after my Craigslist Crap Shoot post, I heard from him again.

“I just read your blog! How cool you mentioned me, and referred to me as a “gentleman”. Now I must say my feelings were slightly hurt (being the touchy, feely, metro-sexual that I am) when you “feared” my next email might contain pictures of a graphically gratuitous nature.”

And, as I feared, this email contained a picture of his cock (seen below), and he signed his email with “#100.”

I couldn’t help but be intrigued though. He obviously had some of my favorite characteristics in a man.

Confidence. I like that. In My Stalker/Super Fan’s case, I had no way of knowing if his was the delusional self-confidence of a sociopath or if his confidence about making me fall in love with him was based on some sort of actual charisma, which I would find utterly irresistible.

Sense of humor. Back when I was tracking my dates in an Excel spreadsheet, the attribute that most often appeared in the men I liked and wanted to date again was a sense of humor. Check. I am such a sucker for a sense of humor, and humor appeared in every one of his emails. Some of them even made me laugh out loud.

Intelligence. Let’s face it. A sense of humor of this caliber takes intelligence, and he writes well, which, as you know, is a big thing for me.

A dirty mind. This, coupled with a sense of humor, is, apparently, one of my favorite combinations and could also explain why I’m always picking the wrong men.

Anyway, for all I know, he could be a 3 foot tall, 80-year-old man with Morton’s toe, and yet, I find myself looking forward to his emails.  Over the past year, I have heard from him periodically after traumatic dates or big events. (Getting my MBA) He almost always makes me laugh, and, at times, has shown a more serious side. Basically, he’s cyber seducing me, it’s working, and anyone who has done online dating knows this is dangerous, dangerous territory to get into.

A few nights ago, in an email, he said he was going to have dinner at a local restaurant, and I found myself fighting off the urge to go to the restaurant, park my ass on a seat at the bar, and see if I could figure out which patron might be My Stalker/Super Fan. I did not follow through however. I wussed out.

In an ironic twist of fate, I am becoming My Stalker/Super Fan’s stalker.

Seriously. What the fuck is wrong with me? I know better than to start fantasizing about this guy. Just a couple of weeks ago, on Dr. Flora Brown’s show, I was warning listeners not to get their hopes up for anything but a first date before actually meeting someone. It doesn’t matter how amazing the emails might be. When you meet in person, there may be no chemistry whatsoever.

And yet, I’m falling for him.

I am a sick puppy……and my therapist worries about me now more than ever.

Photo here. (Note love rule #2.)

My Stalker/Super Fan’s Cock








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