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Ignoring my better judgment, I spoke again to Mr. Smooth Vagina.
Cut him some slack, I told myself. After a long dull marriage, he’s in the first heady rush of sexual exploration. He just needs to find his sea legs. He’ll be fine.
With those hopeful thoughts in mind, I eventually scheduled a coffee date with Mr. SV for a week in the future. In the meantime, we continued to make each other’s acquaintance over the phone and on instant messenger.
One evening he related a tale about a woman who’d recently contacted him through the very same pervy dating site where we’d met. She was gorgeous, he gushed; she was intelligent and sexual and had a fantasy that she wanted some help in fulfilling. He proceeded to tell me the fantasy. I will allow that her fantasy was hot. Quite.
Mr. SV seemed anxious to convince me that this new woman was real and not one of the “fake” women our site is occasionally rumored to deploy as bait for its more gullible members. He showed me her profile. He showed me semi-naked pictures she’d sent him. I ooohed and aaahed at appropriate moments, all the while vaguely questioning his judgment in sharing such seemingly privileged information with a woman he barely knew.
One final picture popped up on my screen. Blurry at first, it quickly resolved into a page of text followed by a head shot and some smaller script. “What’s this?” I asked Mr. SV.
Before he could answer, I had a chance to scan the image. It was a biography. It was a professional biography, a screen-shot taken from the web page of a large local company. Aghast, I recognized the woman from the semi-naked pictures he’d just showed me. Next to her businesslike face was listed her company title and contact information.
Stunned, I questioned Mr. SV. Oh yes, he breezily assured me, she’d shared her full name and work information with him on the first night they’d spoken online. See, he told me. She’s totally real. Isn’t she grand?
The sudden call of work was a convenient excuse for ending our conversation.
If I were an evil person (er, a more evil person?) I could have composed quite an interesting email to the woman. I could have included a detailed rendition of her fantasy, along with her semi-naked pictures and dating site handle. I could have addressed her by title and full name. I could have sent it to her work address.
At the end of the email I could have written something along the lines of, “Woman, use some sense!” But I didn’t.
I briefly contemplated excusing myself from the coffee date with Mr. SV on the grounds of babysitter troubles, but ultimately I decided against it. I explained in an email that I was uncomfortable with the amount of information he’d shared with me about his other potential date; I said that I didn’t want to find myself on the receiving end of that kind of poor judgment some day.
He never wrote back.
In the past I would have had coffee with him. I would have prepared a short lecture on privacy, respect and online common sense to deliver at some appropriate point in the evening . I would have hoped that he would learn to straighten up and fly right.
This time I didn’t bother. It’s not my responsibility. And it felt awfully good not to bother.
A
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