[Continued from "Christopher (Rhymes with) Spammer, Part 1."]

If I hadn’t already figured it out, the message which contained this was an indicator of the largest proportions:  “Do you have a problem taking charge. I mean, I’m not submissive, but would prefer if you had the ‘date’ planned out for us. There’s not much I would object to.”  Me thinks thou doth protest too much.  Yes, he was submissive; no, he didn’t want to have to worry about taking charge.

I took charge.  I told him what we would do on our date.  His true colors truly shined then.  He suddenly forgot how to use his brain.  In general, subs are a needy bunch.  I don’t have the patience nor the inclination to tell someone, step by excruciatingly detailed step, how to do anything.  He asked if he should take BART.  Take it or drive, not my concern.  I told him that if we got along we’d go to the Hot Tubs.  He told me he thought they were dirty.  He asked if a hotel room wouldn’t be better.  He asked how much hotel rooms cost.  He hadn’t seen me, so he didn’t know I look nothing like a fucking San Francisco tourism board.  Though he was emailing me, he had forgotten how to use the internet to check on hotel prices, etc.

He then wanted to see photos of me.  I referred him to the various places all over the internet where my photos can be found.  He still had trouble finding my photos because he had forgotten how to use the internet.

The night before our planned date he emailed saying he wouldn’t be able to make it, but that that night was free.  Too bad.  I had scheduled him for the next day, not that night.  A full two weeks later he contacted me again.  More than once he sent me emails titled “Tomorrow?”  No, not tomorrow; I plan ahead.

Finally, one night worked for both of us.  I told him where and when … and he flaked.

Between early February and mid-April he repeatedly contacted me asking if I was available that night or the night following.  I repeatedly told him that if he wanted to meet me he had to plan ahead.  When we did make a date, he flaked, again.

This guy’s pattern – which was probably helped with some liquid courage – was to email me saying how much he wanted to meet me right now, and then to flake when it came time to actually meet.  This happened even after I gave him my address and told him to just show up with booze in hand.  He was scared of “getting jumped” on BART because he would have alcohol on him.  Uh, they have these things that not only conceal the identity of what you’re carrying, but also make carrying much easier than holding a bottle of booze aloft.  His excuse that night?  His mother had unexpectedly stopped by.  Sexy!

Lest you, dear readers, think that I don’t give a guy a chance – or, in this case several chances – I again scheduled to meet him.  He texted whining about traffic.  I told him where to be.  I waited on the corner in front of the bar.  I texted.  I left.  I texted again, asking if he was that rude.  His response was that he didn’t see the point in walking up to me, saying, “You’re not my type,” and leaving.

And I agree, there wouldn’t be a point in doing that.  But how about saying hello?  How about sitting and talking over a drink?  Seems pretty silly to not even say hello after over three months of email wooing and several failed attempts at meeting.  This kind of bullshit is why I only meet someone for the first time in my neighborhood.

His tweet following our non-meeting:  “I’m such a dick! Don’t think it would have worked out. My bad”

Worked out?!  Meeting over a drink only doesn’t work out if the drinks are shitty, or spilled, or in some other way unable to be consumed.

I’m not so naive to not know he was referring to sex.  He saw me – if he saw me, and I have my doubts – and decided that he couldn’t have lowered his standards to a chubby/curvy woman of average height.  A woman who doesn’t wear high heels on a regular basis.  A woman who doesn’t wear shimmery lotion.  A woman whose scent choices are not sold at Victoria’s Secret.  A woman who is not a stripper.

I have nothing against strippers.  I’m not one.  I couldn’t be one for the reasons above.  Also, I’m too old.  Strippers, er, exotic dancers, work hard at being unattainable fantasies for their clients.  They’re tall and thin and wear heels and smell girlie.  And they’re off-limits.

Silly me, I was all average and attainable to this guy.  He didn’t know what the fuck to do.  If I liked the guy I would have fucked him, and I think he knew that.  Strippers, on the other hand, are not putting out for this guy.  Instead, he goes to strip clubs when he’s horny and fantasizes about the women who are way out of his league.  Because they’re doing their jobs well, he feels like he has a chance; he has a glimmer of hope that a woman as hot as a stripper will sit on his face and generally take charge in bed.

Only it doesn’t happen because he’s too afraid.  The ones who will actually fuck him aren’t hot enough for him, and the ones who are hot enough for him won’t actually fuck him.  Poor guy, he’s doomed to be unfulfilled and ashamed.  Fantasies are never the same as reality, that’s why they’re fantasies.  I should have known when he had a T-Shirt Hell t-shirt logo as his Twitter photo.

I’m not tall and thin?  You won’t be able to see shit when your face is being used as a seat so don’t worry your simple little brain with that one.

One of his tweets:  “Why do I want to try fisting someone so bad? Damn, I need a dirty whore, QUICK!!!”  He’s not willing to pay, he’s not willing to “settle” for less than his physical ideal.  He doesn’t need a dirty whore, he needs his mommy.

I swear.  True story.