TMCnet News
MY SEARCH FORTHE PERFECT WOMAN...ONTHE INTERNET(The Mail on Sunday Via Thomson Dialog NewsEdge)This must be a joke. It has to be. I am in the middle of a flirtatious and witty email exchange with a 32-year-old Korean girl called Denni. Despite the fact she hasn't posted a photo of herself on the web, I'm intrigued by her and keen to meet up. We arrange a venue and, when I enquire what sort of girl I should be looking out for, she replies 'like Lou Ferrigno, the Incredible Hulk'. A few days later I am standing on Charlotte Street in Central London on a warm spring evening. Suddenly, I spot a hulking female ambling down the road towards me. Coincidence? No, she's Korean. How on Earth did I end up on a date with a woman who resembles a muscle-bound monster? The story begins a year ago in a meeting with Simon, the editor of the health magazine I write for. 'I think you should try internet dating,' he says. I look at Simon. He is 37, the same age as me. Unlike me, he is happily married and has a baby daughter. What he's really saying is that I'm a great big loser when it comes to love. 'But the kind of people that go internet dating are weirdos,' I bluster. 'You're single. You want to meet someone serious. I think it might make an interesting piece if you see what's out there,' he says. 'Women with sideburns, that's what's out there.' 'Let's put it another way. You work for us. This is a commission.' In many ways, I still love being a single man, being able to do precisely what I like and having no one to shout at me for eating Scotch eggs from the local garage while playing poker online. At five in the morning. But I am approaching 40 and running out of peers to party with. Many of my friends are now married with children. I've got most of my own hair and teeth and even a decentish career. I'm not entirely mad. And yet I'm single. Where are all the millions of women who must, statistically speaking, be simply bursting with desire to meet me? 'OK,' I say to Simon. 'I'll try it.' Back in my Bloomsbury flat I start my research. I start with a website called Udate.com because it seems so big (4.5 million subscribers) and another, Datingdirect.com, because it promises the widest choice of British single women. Internet dating is a modern phenomenon. It's been reported that up to seven million Britons now use dating sites each month. It's socially acceptable - two out of five single people between the ages of 21 and 50 admit using or planning to use the internet to find romance. The typical punter is male and aged 35 to 49, but the gap between the sexes is closing. Access is easy. Millions of women are just a few clicks away. The dating sites charge an average of GBP20 a month for full membership - a small price for a possible lifetime of happiness. I write a profile of myself and post a photo online. I use one of me at a party where I won an award and stood next to Mick Jagger for about a millisecond. In the picture, Mick and I come across as bosom pals. Browsing the sites, I'm puzzled. Why are there so many beautiful 22-year-old blonde girls online? Lots of them seem to live close to me. I email a selection. Within a few minutes, I get three replies. The first reads: 'Thanks for your email. I am available between 16.00 and 04.00. Call this number... ' The second says: 'Thanks for your message. You can call me on ... ' The third is similar. Checking the girls' profiles, they all say the same thing: versions of 'I really like older men' and 'I think lesbianism has a lot to offer'. How many hundreds of lovely young girls who are into both lesbianism and older men can there be in the same postal district in the West End? Ah, I see ... Next day I start again, this time trying to avoid the prostitutes. This is the email I send out: 'Hi. I look like Earl Spencer on a bad hair day. I review Lego for amazon.co.uk. I live in a fabulously located but pitifully small Central London flat. If you would like to chat about Lego, or perhaps talk about [insert her favourite hobby here], do get in touch.' Very soon I hear from 'Bongowoman' who is 32 and describes herself as good-looking. She is 5ft 9in and works in publishing. Likes opera and pop. She characterises her drinking as 'light'. This makes me pause. How many people, when asked by a dating agency, would deliberately characterise their drinking as anything other than 'light'? 'Hi, I'm a Sagittarian and I drink until I get violent.' Still, Bongowoman, whose real name is Suzanne, sounds appealing. We arrange a date at my local pub. From her online photo, Suzanne looks rather cute: vivacious, with gorgeous eyes. Will she live up to my expectations in real life? 'Sean?' she says. 'Suzanne?' She nods and smiles. Two hours later we're chatting like we aren't actually having our first semi-blind date at all. Suzanne is great company. She is indiscreet about her job and wittily acerbic about past boyfriends. I like her and I think she likes me and I'm going to try to kiss her. I make my move. For a nanosecond I see a wave of panic cross her face and have a horrible vision of her struggling and barmen rushing over to pull me away. But a fraction of a second later we're kissing. Fortune favours the brave. And the slightly drunk. The rest of our pub time is spent in a much more relaxed fashion and as the pub is about to shut she says: 'Do you ... ?' 'Yes. Soon as possible,' I reply. We both laugh. We're going to date again. I love internet dating. And I really like this girl. It's when we rise from the table that I realise that she is just two inches shorter than me. Strange as this may sound, I find that girls have to be shorter than me by about five inches for me to fancy them. Sexual desire is so tediously basic. The next day, hiding my doubts, I arrange my second date with Suzanne. We meet in a wine bar. She looks lovely - and I just don't fancy her. 'You're not very comfortable, are you?' she says. I can't say a cruel 'yes' but I can't honestly say 'no' either. She leans across, pecks me on the forehead and says: 'Thanks for the wine.' Then she's gone. What now? The internet dating shop is open 24/7, so back at my desk I notice someone called Lizzie has put me in her 'Favourites' file. She's 5ft 4in with a pretty face, dark hair and a goofy smile. She's a 'consultant'. Over the next few days we exchange emails of increasing candour, culminating in her telling me that she likes dancing around nude in her flat to heavy metal. I am not sure whether to get excited by the nude dancing bit or appalled by Lizzie's taste in music. Nonetheless, I suggest that we meet outside Hampstead Tube station. She shows up precisely 57 minutes late, three minutes before my absolute time limit for leaving. She's gorgeous. Running up to me from the ticket gate she says breathlessly: 'Sean? Oh God I'm sorry, but my cat went into a thing and my flatmate was away and I had to call the vet. I'm so sorry, shall we go somewhere then?' On the way to the pub she explains why her flatmate is away. And why her cat was ill. And why she likes heavy metal, astronomy, Los Angeles, rugby, Provence and monosodium glutamate. She may be nervous or maybe she talks like this all the time. Either way, it's fetching. But inside the pub she shuts up completely. Have I done something wrong? Nothing obvious springs to mind. There are a couple of guys chatting in the corner. Over in the other corner four guys with moustaches and tight jeans are laughing. And on the table next to them two suntanned guys in tight white T-shirts are singing along to Tina Turner. 'I've brought you to a gay pub,' I say, morosely. Lizzie laughs. 'Shall we go somewhere else?' Three hours and seven cocktails later, we say goodbye at the Tube station. I wonder whether to kiss her but remember the over-enthusiasm of my first date. Instead I shake her hand in a daft way. 'Call me,' she says. I manage to wait a few days before calling. She enthusiastically agrees to a second date. We go to a gastropub. Lizzie laughs a lot and a crackle of sexual static seems to shoot between us. And something else too. I could be falling for this chubby, funny, sexy girl. Why shouldn't you fall for a girl on the second date? Afterwards, outside, Lizzie says: 'I've got to get up early tomorrow.' 'You want a cab?' 'Yeah.' My heart sinks. Second date and no invite back. Just as a cab pulls over, Lizzie says: 'I had the most wonderful evening,' and then we are kissing. It's a proper kiss. As her cab zips off she is waving at me. The next day I text my friends about Lizzie. 'This could be the one,' I say. And then I open my email box and see the message. 'I'm sorry, but I don't think it's quite right. Sorry. Lizzie.' I read it again, and then once more. Then I reboot my computer as if it could be some kind of software glitch. But the message is still there. The heartbreak lasts about four hours. By teatime I feel a lot better. Over the next few months I have a series of dates with unsuitable girls. Among them, the thirtysomething architect-who informs me that she met her perfect man just two days before but thought she 'should still come along'. She spends half the evening exchanging text messages with her new man. We split the restaurant bill. Then there's that smart Iranian girl, from Qom via Cambridge University. We go to a pub and she tells me that she dislikes men because they are lying and weak. I don't bother taking her phone number. I go out with a Russian girl from Smolensk who barely speaks English. We meet in Kensington and, as we walk down the streets, she marvels at everything: the cars, the bins, the pavements. 'It is all so clean!' she says. 'Not like Smolensk!' But after a couple of drinks she gets maudlin, saying she misses her parents and the way they would all sit in their flat, living in the same room, too poor to wash and eating pickles. Two days later she emails me and tells me that she is returning to Smolensk. I meet Denni, the Lou Ferrigno lookalike. We actually have a fun time but the carnal biochemistry isn't quite right. Even so, we part on good terms. I may be lacking in success - and any sexual contact whatsoever - but I am meeting some interesting new people. I have also learned that the people of Smolensk put carpets on their walls during the winter. But on the downside, I have had several internet encounters that petered out to nothing. For some reason, people find it easier just to disappear brusquely online. In cyberspace, people just leave without a word. I strike up an email correspondence with Lenina, a cute blonde with a penchant for the film Flash Gordon. We exchange the usual wry, mildly flirtatious emails - and then she just disappears. So I find Lenina's profile again. I read through our exchanges and see how our emails dwindled. In desperation, I decide to use a method I have long considered but always dismissed. I'm going to Tell The Truth. I'm going to email Lenina and tell her the Real Facts about myself. I send Lenina a long email explaining that I have a wildly varying income, that I can be moody and impulsive, that I am a nitwit sometimes but romantic other times and so on. The next morning, I have a message. 'Lenina has read your email.' A week goes by and then one Saturday morning I access my inbox to find a message from her. 'Well,' it says, 'never had an email like that before. Not sure I want another one. But I'm intrigued. Do you want to meet? L x.' We meet in the pub near my flat where I first met Bongowoman nearly a year ago, at the beginning of my strange online dating adventures. Lenina's real name is Claire. She looks like a chipmunk in blusher. She also looks lovely: 29 years old, smiling, nervous, curious, talkative, keen to get a little tipsy. I ask her about her job in advertising. She asks me about my flat and I tell her. I ask about hers and when I do, I brush her knee by mistake but she does not flinch. We drink a few more glasses and she asks why I sent such a nutty email. I try to explain but she says: 'No, I liked it. I get loads of messages from . . . you know.. . ' 'At least I could spell?' 'At least you could spell. My friends all thought that I should be careful, or not even meet you.' She glances at her mobile phone. 'They'll probably call in a minute, to find out if you are actually a kidnapper.' 'And?' She looks at me. Her eyes are a distant, sad, amused Hebridean blue. She shrugs and smiles. I lean nearer. We've only been together for three hours but I already feel an odd sparkle in the air. Four seconds later we kiss. Then we both laugh. We drink and joke and at the end of the evening, on the way to her taxi, she squeezes my hand. Watching her taxi disappear, I get a strange sense of juvenile excitement. A few days later we have a date in a pub in Islington. We spend the night laughing. We have lots in common. Again, I feel the giddy optimism rising fast inside me. In fact I have the impression that God is saying: 'I'm bored of screwing this guy over, let's just give him a break.' Claire and I are getting on so well. Surely it will all go wrong? Surely a really nice relationship with a really nice girl can't actually be happening? This next date we meet by the river. I notice Claire is wearing her first low-cut top. This is terribly shallow of me - but then I notice that she has a marvellous bottom, too. This is even more shallow of me, but I am now verging on happiness. The happiness is confirmed when we embrace on Blackfriars Bridge, with the stars twinkling above London and the streets and palaces and towers all gleaming down the river. That night is the night. We make love and it is far from awkward - sensual, relaxed, delicate, and cherishable. In the morning I wake up smiling. I am in love. One day, six months into our relationship, I tell her this. That I love her. Glory be - she tells me she loves me, too. Now comes the marriage question, the commitment bit. One warm summer evening we're sitting on the roof terrace of my flat. I turn to Claire and I say: 'Will you marry me?' And she says: 'Yes.' As I write, Claire and I are still together. In fact, Claire is now six months pregnant. I am happy. I'm happy because it's still there; the feeling, still there after quite a long time. It's good and slightly frightening. I've never felt quite like this before. Anchored, harboured, tranquil. I'm glad I made the fateful step. What do I think about love and the internet after all this? I think it's a wonderful thing. The internet is a revolution, a whole new way for people to interact, an astonishing advance in socialisation. It's more important than the telephone, maybe as important as printing or writing. Like those other inventions, the internet can and will be used for evil things, but the potential it has to add to human happiness is virtually limitless. But what about online dating in particular? How could I not be in favour? Online dating helped me fall in love; I'm sure it can do the same for anyone. And that is, surely, a good thing. When you are looking for love, you are shooting for the moon. Who cares if you get there in a gondola or in a minicab? Just get there. How to spot a mad gold-digger In my experience, there are certain words and phrases women will often use when describing themselves on the internet. With a little thought, you can decode most of their descriptions, but here's a list of the common ones to get you started: Curvy - Tubby. Cuddly - Huge. A cat lover - Desperate for kids. A traditional homemaker - I'm looking for a meal ticket. Fun-loving - Drunken, possibly a crackhead. Scatty - Bonkers. Adventurous - Fond of unusual sexual practices. Demanding - Impossible. Sensual - A good kisser. I'm from St Petersburg - Marry me. I like rugby-playing types - Dominate me. My favourite things include the theatre, clubs, dancing, restaurants, sport, reading, football and walking - I can't think of anything else to say. I will send you a photo privately - I am married and I don't want my husband to know I am doing this. I'm Rightwing - You'd better earn more than me. I hate cruelty to animals - I'm predictable. I'm tired of the singles scene - My looks are going. I've got a pierced navel - Honky TonkWoman! |