Following the bigtime mother fuckin’ heartless dumping by Greg, I went into a period of non dating. By a period, I mean a little over ten years. No dates, no drinks with a guy I liked, nothing. I kept my ass at home and figured that was that. For the first year, I slept and went to work. That was it. Then I branched out and became obsessed with reading and television.

Then, in 2003, I discovered the internet.

At first it was simple browsing, but soon I discovered the wonders of chat. Oh baby, that was one slippery ass slope that I never recovered from. Now when I first started chatting, it was in a reality show chat room and things all seemed pretty innocuous. So I figured if one room was good, then several to be better, right? Soon I was in rooms with names like “Tops and Bottoms,” “Master’s boi,” and “Take it ’til your eyes bug out,” and chatting like a madman. Funny thing is, I had no idea what most of these rooms were really about.

As I learned, I began weeding out the rooms where I was being courted for forced enemas or K-9 breeding, and focused on the rooms where at least a few of the men seemed interested in something resembling conversation. In one of these rooms, I met Donald, a 50 year old widower with a penchant for men who enjoyed cuddling and watching movies. Seemed harmless, right? A hug and a movie…how bad could that be?

So we chatted once. Then again. And again. And then he asked me to call him. And I did…on a calling card. And he had a fantastic deep, masculine voice. So we talked on the phone for a few weeks and that went pretty good, so he decided it was time to take it to the next level: dinner.

That’s when I got a trifle nervous. I wasn’t sure I was ready for that.

“Why?” he asked.

“Honestly? We’ve chatted online and talked on the phone, and while you seem like a very decent guy…it could all be an act and frankly, I am not looking to get Buffalo Bill-ed.”

“Buffalo Bill-ed? Would you be so kind as to clarify that for me?”

I sighed. “Ever see SILENCE OF THE LAMBS? The guy that was trapping the fat girls in the pit in his basement and skinning them to make a lady suit was nicknamed Buffalo Bill. I don’t want to wanna be that fat girl.”

The other end of the phone went completely silent. Then I heard laughter. “You seriously think I would kidnap you and keep you in a hole in my basement?”

“I’m not saying you would…I’m just saying that I don’t know that you wouldn’t...”

He laughed some more. “If I promise to leave my fake cast and panel van at home, would you please reconsider and meet me for dinner?”

That was certainly not what I wanted to hear, but he persisted and I finally relented. But first I made him give me his license plate number and a complete description of his car. Then I made him choose a restaurant and agreed to meet him there. Once that was done, I e-mailed the info as well as his phone number to two friends and called him back and told him what I had done, so if he was planning on making me into a barcalounger or something, his plan was now totally fucked.

He just laughed.

The big night came and I met him for dinner. He was much shorter and heavier than he had portrayed himself. Not quite what I expected from the (obviously much youner) pics I had seen but I’m no hunk myself and I am more about the inside shit anyway. He was sweet, smart, and very funny and that is really worth more than anything. If a man can make me think and make me laugh, that’s 90% of it right there. Of course, copious amounts of body hair make up the other 10%. (Alright, I’m a shallow bitch at the core, so sue me already.)

We were having drinks and waiting for our meal, when he whips out a small gift bag. Oh no, I think, it never even crossed my mind to buy this guy a gift. I mean seriously, what do you get for the man that…well, that you don’t really know?

Feeling very uncomfortable, I told him I didn’t have a gift for him and I really couldn’t accept this one. No, no, he insisted, this is something I want you to have. Reluctantly, I agreed and removed the tissue paper from the top of the bag and looked inside. Then I looked up at him. And Donald had this really weird, glazed look in his eyes and a cock-eyed grin plastered in his face. And in the half light, I noticed –no lie– that his teeth were sort of decaying on the right upper side. I remembered him saying he liked my smile and needed to get some work done. I suddenly felt very ill.

“Go ahead,” he urged, “take it out.”

I forced a smile and reached into the bag and removed a small metal bucket. With a trial size tube of lotion in it.

“It puts the lotion in the basket,” he grinned. “Like in the movie…?”

“Uh-huh,” I said through clenched teeth, putting the creepy lil gift back in the bag and setting it as far to the edge of the table as possible. “Cute.”

“I was thinking after dinner, we could go back to my place and watch that movie,” he cooed. “Good one for cuddling.”

And that is when it hit me: the sick son of bitch wasn’t fashioning a lady suit (or in this case a boi suit), he was looking to create a false set of pearly whites. This dude was gonna chloroform me in the parking lot and take me to his house where he would proceed to go all MARATHON MAN on my ass.

I looked at him across the table and he smile that creepy fucking decaying smile of his. I smiled back. Oh I am on to you, you crazy tooth groupie, I thought, you just tipped your hand, you Bundy wannabe.

Once our meal arrived, I scarfed mine down while he sat there actually telling me that if I would consider moving in with him, he would make an honest man of me. Yeah, an honest man who has to subsist on applesauce and broth. From my new home in the pit in the cellar. No fucking thank you, Jame Gumb.

When the check came, and I whipped out a twenty to cover my half. Oh no, he insisted, this is on me. I explained that I did not like to be beholden to anyone. He grinned and all I could see was them sassafrass colored canines.

“I like the idea of you being beholden to me…” As he spoke, I could see the wheels a turnin’ in his sick dental fetish head. “Be nice to have a favor to call in some day.”

Suuuuure. I could just see it: me drugged and strapped to a chair ala uber hottie Jay Hernandez in HOSTEL as he leans in and coos, “Dirk, remember those breaded chicken strips and the baked potato I bought you? Time to pay up, bitch. And I’ll take remittance in incisors and bi-cuspids…”

“Donald, that is a lovely offer…it really is,” I said as I again pushed my twenty across the table, “but my dating rule of thumb is ‘always leave them wanting more’ so I am going to have to pass on the movie this evening. I mean, really, my shroud of mystery is all I have and if I drop it all at once, where’s the fun in that?”

Donald looked disappointed and asked if I would have dinner the next night instead.

“I’d love to,” I blurted out, full of fake enthusiasm. Seconds later, I kicked it into my Christian Slater mode and began emoting all over his ass. “Oh shit, Donald…I forgot. Tomorrow is Friday right? I can’t. I have dialysis in the morning and ‘Nelly Boys for Christ’ in the afternoon. I’m going to be quite taxed. Hmmmm….can I call you?”

“Please…I really want to see you again,” Donald replied, his eyes trained on my teeth, mentally brushing them and thinking about applying whitening strips. I felt so dirty.

When we got to our cars, he leaned in for a kiss. Oh ho! Nice try fella, I thought, but I know where this is headed: a quick kiss where you use your tongue to shove a knock out drug down my throat like a $3 polynesian whore at a Vegas pole dancing bar and I wake up in a bathtub full of ice, missing a kidney and all my teeth.

Instead, I gave him a brief “you creep me out and make my ball-sack shrink up” hug and promised to call soon. I got in my car –actually a friend’s because I didn’t want him to track the plates and show up at my door if this went badly –a good plan in hindsight– locked all the doors and then took a circuitous route home in case he was following me with his bag of dental instruments and a do-it-yourself upper plate kit.

And so endeth my one and only date with the Donald. He never called or e-mailed again, but sometimes, in the middle of the night, I wake up in a cold sweat from a dream of Donald huddled in a closet, Secret Squirrel pics of my smile plastered to the walls, caressing a pair of pliers and whispering, “Soon, Dirk, very soon…”