365 Days of Online Dating

by Pam Widener

Despite the fact that my profile specified that I was looking for a serious relationship with someone who lived within five miles of my zip code, I soon fell into a heated, erotic correspondence with a man who lived 3,591 miles away—an American-born journalist living in Spain. After two weeks of regular emails in which we shared our personal histories and love of good grammar, we turned our attention to sexual fantasies. There was something about the forbidden quality of the relationship—the fact that we knew we couldn’t be together— that made these letters especially arousing. Our inboxes became intensely intimate spaces. When he suddenly announced that he was coming to New York on a business trip, I was excited by the idea of meeting someone who knew exactly, in detail, what I desired.

When we met at his hotel, I immediately knew that I wasn’t attracted to him. As we sat in the lobby bar trying to gloss over reality with a few stiff drinks, he suddenly seemed like the stranger he actually was. I replayed scenes and sentiments from our 78 emails, trying to remind myself why I trusted him. Despite our obvious lack of chemistry, the idea of acting out our sexual fantasies was irresistible. We proceeded to his 40th floor hotel aerie to play out an awkward reenactment of some of our more memorable email moments. Looking through the room’s rain-streaked windows, I became entranced by a blinking neon sign glowing from a building two blocks away. The view provided one of those rarefied New York perspectives one is seldom privy to. I was grateful, at least, for that.

The driving rains of spring gave over to the dog days of summer. My attire became skimpier and my expectations more relaxed. When I met a sexy economist who said he was attracted to me but not interested in “seriously relating,” I realized that I was not as adverse to “play” as I had previously assumed. In May I had turned 38 and soon my “adorable 2-year-old daughter” would become my “adorable 3-year-old daughter.” I realized that I was in the catbird seat: I had acted on my overwhelming procreative urge in my mid-thirties. If I fell into a serious relationship, there was still time to have another child. If I didn’t, that would be OK too. I arranged a play date for my daughter then went out to meet the economist for a “play” date.

On a chilly late autumn night, with the one-year anniversary of my foray into Internet dating looming large, the two-and three-dimensional worlds finally seemed to come together. Three weeks earlier, I had begun a correspondence with a painter whose letter writing was spectacular (we exchanged 110 emails in three weeks—a record). In person, the physical attraction was undeniable; there had even been sparks on the tennis court. On our third date, we met at a dark romantic lounge, where our unrestrained mutual lust almost got us arrested.

The next day he backpedaled. “I’m afraid I have to put things in a holding pattern,” were the actual words of email number 111—words that sent me reeling away from my computer and into a fetal position on the bed, unable to believe that our relationship would not be moving forward. “The events of the past three weeks are swirling about,” he wrote. “I want to let them settle before I move.”