Catching up

My first boyfriend and I slept together the first time we met. It happened between recess and the obligatory cookies and juice hour. We were 5. His name was David, he had blonde hair and we held hands. That's all I remember of him. Next came Billy, a shy, handsome boy with a spray of freckles across his nose. I adored him. On the playground I kissed his cheek and he kicked my shin. It was that moment I realized that while beautiful and fascinating, men could also be hurtful and dangerous. Keep one eye open for danger and the other watching for the new boy to come along. I was hooked by the opposite sex. Over time I developed a love for men that has spanned decades, never waxing or waning, even during my stereotypical experimental college years.

In my early teens I became what was affectionately termed "boy crazy." I didn't mind. Sure there were other interests, and I often reveled in being the pet of many teachers, but my attention always turned back to the boy with the mop of brown hair in the first row, or the tall lanky one brooding in the corner. It was during this time that I began to realize my allure to them as well. They'd carry my books between classes. Write poems on wide-rule notepaper. Call, hang up, then call back immediately.

But while I rejoiced in their adoration, I always kept my distance. Many of my close friends were boys--a breath of fresh air from all the talk of make-up, hair styles and, well, boys that permeated the minds of so many girls in my classes. I didn't want to admire them from afar, I wanted to be near them, talk with them, understand them.

As I matured (as only teenagers can), I began to tire of the boys that had been surrounding me for the last while. Most of them enjoyed the same things, didn't care about college, and wasted their time celebrating "the best years of their lives" in high-school. What was a reasonably attractive girl to do? Like others before me, I set out on a quest to meet the highly-desired "older man." And so I did. I was 18, he was 27. He was wealthy, well-read and liked having a pretty girl on his arm as we wandered the near-by city. He wined me, dined me and made me feel like a star. I never asked for anything, had money to pay my own way, yet he wanted only to pamper his young love. He was my first sugar daddy. Though it eventually became clear I wasn't the only girl in whom he was investing. Scoundrel. Oh I'm not opposed to dating several people at once, far from it, but lie to me and you're as good as dead in my book. (Turns out he later became an art thief and is now in the custody of the FBI. Go figure).

College was a series of ups and downs, loves and losses. Towards the end of my academic tenure one relationship did rise above the rest, and lasted for what amounted to nearly seven years until it died the death of the dull. That was when I ventured into the then-new world of online dating.

Online dating is something I enjoy and am not ashamed of in the least. In fact, if a man makes reference to his willingness to "lie about how we met" in his profile I will simply skip to the next. I receive upwards of ten emails a day from interested suitors, and enough winks to keep an optometrist in pleated khakis for life.

After what seemed like my 736th first-date, I began to realize that there was a pattern emerging amongst all of the various men with whom I'd shared countless martinis, coffees and risottos. I had made the conscious effort to not continually date the same type of guy over and over again, and yet other types kept making themselves known. It was after this *ahem* careful analysis that the idea for this blog was born.