OMG, Martin Dawson of Broker’s Gin phoned our house yesterday, and do you think my mum bothered to wake me up? No!!! She blundered through the phone call on her own, trying in vain to sound less hick-like, no doubt audibly intimidated by the cultured British voice on the other end of the line. She did not even consider waking me. Of course we would have had to set up a Skype connection so I could gesture (my usual mode unless my thoughts are being channeled directly), which I’m sure Martin wouldn’t have minded.
I demanded to know why she hadn’t roused me for this important call, to which she responded: “Well, it’s fairly normal to be up by 6:00 p.m., so I assumed you were lurking around the empties and I didn’t want to disturb you.”
Good grief! My mother knows how long I’ve been chatting up Julia Gale, the Business Development Manager at Broker’s Gin, and that I had every intention of organizing a drunken get-together with that fine company’s owners when they flew into Vancouver to meet with the BC Liquor Board. This aim, which my mum describes as “both squalid and naïve,” has been my treasured wish for several months.
What a time for my mother to try to handle a social task. She actually thought Martin was her uncle at first and immediately adopted the daft tone she always does when she encounters an English accent. She didn’t even bother asking where I could get a small bowler hat.
More importantly, I had no chance to reassure Martin that I haven’t been getting too fresh with Julia. Although she’s disclosed some amazing things about herself, including a penchant for gyrating frenetically to the B-52s, she has not taken my suggestion that we decide upon a mutual safe word. I wanted to reassure Martin, just in case he’s worried that I might encourage Julia to run off to Canada to explore her animalistic side, that my intentions are light-hearted. I thought I would tell him about my Plenty of Fish profile, since it demonstrates my pursuit of more realistic love options.
Today I viewed the user names of women POF recommends as a good fit:
OMG!! This actually frightened and depressed me. No wonder my user name hasn’t been flushed out of the system. What’s a “LiquorstoreBear” among all these horny, 69ing dominatrices?
But are they real people?
Like any company that trades in big promises, Plenty of Fish has its share of haters (for example, PLENTYOFFISHSUCKS!). Negative reports include:
- Male profiles being deleted prematurely because POF uses its higher female proportion as a lure for male members (which sounds sort of contradictory, doesn’t it?)
- Match-ups with drug addicts, psychotics and stalkers who—even after being reported—remain in the POF system
- Inaccurate photos (almost a given)
- Response rate of less than 3% from potential dates
- Populated by attention seekers of both genders looking to get as many responses as possible instead of actually using the site for dating
- Rife with sexist stereotypes while objectifying women (“Find Hundreds of Big Busty Women Who Are Attractive, Fun and Aggressive”—Yikes!!)
- Generally hurtful to the self-esteem
I’ve had fun bouncing around POF this week, but I’m beginning to feel a bit soiled. Check out these insights directed at women (if any) seeking to seduce me:
You may be tempted to be as impulsive as Liquorstore Bear can sometimes be.
Liquorstore Bear may well push your own boundaries or comfort level. So… Don’t engage in anything you may regret, whether it’s too soon, too risqué, or too… Do show tolerance and maintain a healthy sense of adventure.
Don’t assume that Liquorstore Bear, who may be a bit neurotic or narcissistic in nature, is 100% into you and only you.
Playing a little “hard to get” and pacing your interactions can actually heighten arousal and desire.
(Fabulous! Way to reinforce one of the stupidest dating myths ever!)
Far more useful:
My favorite conversation topics:
My least favorite conversation topics:
At least those are all true.
Still, it’s a little hurtful to see that nobody wants to get with this.
My mum says I’d have a better shot at love if I went for a washing-machine ride. I am still really mad at her, though, so it’s a no go.