What are you looking for?
“Hmm, that’s a hard one.” Daniel inhales sharply as he does his best to think through the cloud of alcohol.
“Oh, I know. Write this,” Rebecca says in her throaty, I’m-as-drunk-as-a-skunk voice. “Vagina or dick, short or tall, waxed or hairy, preferably hot.”
“So basically”—I point to him with my wineglass—“you’ll take anything.”
“In a nutshell,” Daniel replies as he types something in. “Scratch the preferably.”
I laugh as I lie back; the room is beginning to spin. “I have to go to bed.” I sigh. “I have to work tomorrow.”
“Not so fast,” Daniel says. “We’re making you a profile next.”
“I am not getting on a dating website. For your information,” I slur, “there isn’t a man on earth who could impress me in writing. And besides, I’m way too inebriated.”
“Yes,” he insists.
“Not right now, the timing isn’t right.”
Daniel types furiously. “You have to fill these things out while you’re drunk, and there is no time like the present.”
“What if someone found out it was me?” I asked, horrified. “I would never live it down.”
“Nobody cares about dating apps, everybody does it,” Rebecca scoffs as if I’m clueless. “Don’t use your real name, then.”
“Wouldn’t that be weird, though?” I say. “Like I told him a fake name and then we’re on a date and I have to say, sorry but this is my real name now, and I’m actually a liar.”
“Well, you don’t have to tell them straight up,” Daniel says as he types. “You keep the fake name until you know if you like them and then you tell them your real name.”
I smirk into my wineglass as I watch him and Rebecca go through the profile.
Daniel is fun.
He hands me my laptop. “You fill in the rest.”
“Huh?”
“I filled it out for you, answer the next question.”
“What?”
“We made you a profile,” Rebecca informs me. “Just humor us, please.”
Name
Pinkie Leroo
Height
5ft7
Weight
Just right
Appearance
Gorgeous
Hobbies
Gym and working out, laughing
Favorite pastime
Eating out and having sex
Profession
Computer analytics
Hair color
Sandy blonde
Eyes
Brown
Skin
Olive
What are you looking for?
“Pinkie Leroo?” I scoff. “Who the hell is that?”
“That’s you.”
“What?” I laugh. “You couldn’t come up with a better fake name? I sound like a cheap bottle of wine.”
“Men love that shit,” Daniel replies.
“But, do they?” I read through the details they’ve added. “I thought we were lying on this thing?”
“We are.”
“Well, I do like eating out and having sex, so . . .” I shrug.
“The gym and working out part?” Rebecca raises an impatient eyebrow.
“This is ridiculous.” I slam my computer shut and stand. “I’m going to bed.” I go up on to my tippy toes and kiss Daniel’s cheek. “Goodnight, naughty boy.”
“Night. Fill in that profile, I’m checking it in the morning.”
I roll my eyes as I begin to walk up the stairs. “You just worry about your own profile, or more specifically, how easily pleased you are,” I call. “You really should work on that. Up your standards a bit.”
“Don’t knock it till you try it,” he calls back.
“Ugh.” Rebecca winces. “I am never going down on a woman. Like fucking ever. It’s just too . . . in your face . . . literally.”
I get a really bad visual and I screw up my face with a laugh. “Stop,” I cry.
Half an hour later, I lie on my bed. I’m wrapped in a towel after showering and Daniel’s and Rebecca’s words from earlier are running through my head, and more importantly my words: I wish I was more like you.
Who am I kidding, I am free.
I don’t know where I get this notion that my hands are tied. It’s men who have preconceived ideas on what they want; they’re all just looking for the next Barbie doll.
I read over the profile they created and I smile as an idea rolls around in my head. I’m going to prove just how shallow and fickle men really are.
I open my computer, go back to the profile, and I change my answers.
Name
Pinkie Leroo
Height
On point
Weight
Pretty face
Appearance
Below average
Hobbies
Playing with my twelve cats
Favorite pastime
Washing my hair
Profession
Taxidermies
Hair color
Pink – notice my name (insert eye roll)
Eyes
Star struck
Skin
Pasty white
I go onto the internet and search for a picture of a cat, find an image of a huge fat one with bulging eyes. It’s the ugliest cat I ever saw.
“Here, kitty, kitty.” I smile as I upload it as my profile pic.
I read the question again:
What are you looking for?
I inhale deeply as I think, hmm . . . I want to write something that will show me what I already know, that nobody interests me at all. I twist my lips as I contemplate my words.
I’m looking for someone who is only one color, but not one size. Stuck at the bottom, yet easily flies. Present in sun, but not in rain.
Doing no harm, but feeling no pain.
I smile and hit submit: that will weed them out.
Nobody will respond.
It’s Thursday, and it’s been the best week I’ve had in a long time.