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The Online Dating Chronicles
Episode 3: Traci, with an i
Episode 3: Traci, with an i
TRACI, with an i
The w4m ad on craigslist had a photo of a pretty hot woman with medium-length brown hair, sparkly cat eyeglasses, and wearing a low-cut white shirt highlighting her pushed-up breasts. She was hot in a “hot for teacher” kind of way.
The ad read innocently enough:
30-ish woman looking for fun. Let’s talk first, but I am open to almost anything. Only looking for fun! Text me: (phone number)
Straight and to the point. Great! None of the hoops to jump through like on a dating app. I just wanted fun and, finally, a woman who just wanted to have fun, too. At the time, I had an apartment overlooking the Williamsburg Bridge in Brooklyn, and there was plenty of room for fun.
I sent this “hot for teacher” woman a text:
Hey, I saw your ad on cl and was wondering if you wanted to get together tonight.
The three dots of her reply appeared immediately:
Absolutely. What were you thinking?
I dunno, you come over here and we have a drink and take it from there.
Ok. That sounds good to me! What time?
Perfect. Text me the address.
I sent her the address and proceeded to clean up a little. Even though this was shaping up to just be a “zipless fuck” I didn’t want to seem like I was a slob.
By the time I had cleaned my place a little and taken a shower, it was almost 6:30. Even though I had a real hankering for Indian, I knew that was a bad idea before a guest. Especially a guest I was going to presumably have sex with.
I opted for a Guinness and watched a Seinfeld re-run.
Around 7:15, the buzzer went off. I checked the camera, and it was my date, so I buzzed her in. A couple minutes later came the knock. I opened the door and soon discovered that the craigslist picture did her little to no justice.
She wasn’t hot in a “hot for teacher” kind of way. She was hot.
Still wearing the low-cut shirt from her picture, with her breasts pushed up and the shirt unbuttoned to the exact spot where your imagination begins to run amuck, and you can feel the tingly feeling. She had on a black skirt that hung to just above her knees and a pair of black Chuck Taylor high-tops.
It was the Chuck Taylor’s that tipped the scale.
She smiled and asked: “Can I come in?”
I opened the door a little more: “Oh yea, yea. Sorry. Come in,” and as she walked by me I caught the sweet smell of whatever she was wearing.
“Thanks.” As she walked into the room, the view hit her: “Whoa! That’s a view, huh?”
I closed the door and called out from the entry: “Yea, not too shabby,” and walked in to catch her walking over to the sliding glass doors. She had a perfectly round ass that was tight enough to bounce a quarter off of. While I never really understood that idiom, I thought I might want to try that with her if she’d let me.
As she looked out the glass doors, she pointed to the right: “Is that the Lower East Side over there?”
I had made my way up behind her: “It is.”
“Dude, this is so awesome.”
“Thanks. You want something to drink?”
She turned around: “Sure. Have any bourbon?”
“I’ll have that then.”
I turned around and then back again: “I’m Keith.”
“Cool. I’m …Traci, with an i.”
In hindsight, the pause was a little weird, but then we were just getting started.
I walked into the kitchen and pulled a glass from the dishwasher and put some ice and poured a heavy hand of Bulleit over the ice, and grabbed a bottle of Rolling Rock for myself. I walked back to her, handed her the drink.
I held up my bottle: “Cheers, Traci …with an i.”
She pointed her glass my way and smiled before turning back to look out the glass doors again. Traci powered down her bourbon before I had time to get two good pulls from my beer.
“Where’s your bathroom?”
I pointed the top of my bottle in the bathroom’s direction.
“Cool. You left the money on the toilet, yea?”
Not sure that I heard her, I asked: “I’m sorry, what’s that now?”
She grabbed her purse and continued walking: “The money. 200 dollars.”
“200 dollars for what exactly?”
Traci stopped and turned around: “For the date.”
“Yea, what did you think this was?”
“I thought we were just gonna hook up.”
“Well, we will, as long as you pay me.”
“Um, I didn’t realize this was that kind of date.”
“Didn’t you get my text?”
“About leaving the money on the toilet?”
We both took out our phones. After I checked, I looked up to see a look of horror on Traci’s face: “Oh shit.”
She looked at me: “I sent the text to my father.”
It was tough to hold in the laugh: “Well, that’s going to be a little awkward.”
“FUCK ME!” and she walked back and plopped down on the couch. She pointed her feet inwards and released a giant sigh. She looked incredible, and for a brief moment, I even contemplating asking her if she had PayPal (Venmo wasn’t a thing yet.)
“I guess by now you’ve determined I’m a sex worker.”
I wanted to say: “Not a very well organized one from what I can see.”
But it came out as: “Yea, I pieced that together.”
She looked so defeated sitting there, so I asked: “Do you want another drink?”
“Do you mind?”
“No. Not at all.” I grabbed her glass and walked away, saying: “But just so we’re clear, I’m not paying you 200 dollars.”
“I know. I figured.” She sighed and whispered a defeated, “fuck.”
I came back and handed her the drink: “How long have you been doing this?”
“I’ve only done it three times.”
“No, not today. In the past week.”
“Why do you do it?”
She took a sip of her drink: “I don’t have a job, and I can’t get a job.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a dental hygienist.”
“Ah,” I sat down across from her.
We sat in silence for a minute or two until she spoke up: “You must think I’m an idiot.”
“Besides not giving you 200 bucks, I hadn’t given it much thought.”
We sat there for another drink, and I listened to Traci talk about her life. And while it wasn’t a sad life, it was definitely one that had hit some bumps. The stalled economy wasn’t doing her any favors either.
Finally, she said: “Well, I guess I should go now.”
Traci stood up: “Haha. No. I think I’m going to give this up.”
I couldn’t help myself: “But you’re just getting started. Any entrepreneurial endeavor takes time.”
“Oh, you’re hysterical.” She walked towards the front door: “You’ve got a nice place here.”
She turned around when she got to the door: “You seem like a good guy.”
I shrugged: “There are those who would say otherwise. But thanks again.”
“Can I kiss you?”
“What’s that cost?”
Finally, she laughed: “It’s on the house.”
Traci leaned in for a kiss. And it was the type of kiss I had hoped it would be — warm, wet, and welcoming. There was a genuine tenderness; it wasn’t the kiss of a sex worker …or what I imagined a kiss from a sex worker would be like.
She pulled away from me and looked me in the eye as she took her left hand and with her palm open, hit me in the chest three times: “Yea. You’re a good guy.”
We looked at each other, and I felt myself smile, and then I saw her smile.
She nodded: “Okay, now I have to go explain to my father why I sent him a text asking to leave 200 dollars on a toilet.”
I laughed: “Good luck with that.”
She nodded again: “Thank you. Well, you have my number.” And with that, she turned to walk towards the elevators.
At the end of the hall, she turned around: “You’re not going to call, are you?”
“I’d like to, but ….”
She held up her hand and interrupted me: “I get it. I do.”
I watched her turn the corner and waited for the “bing” of the elevator before closing the door. I went to the refrigerator, grabbed another Rolling Rock and found another re-run of Seinfeld.