Kill Cupid: Internet dating just got dangerous
Read Kill Cupid: Internet dating just got dangerous Online
Authors: J. Brandon Best
A True Story
Table of Contents
Bronte had to lean against the large stainless steel door to the men’s room. Dragging a suitcase, a carry bag and after hours of travel, he felt like this shove to open the thing would sap the last of his reserves. He only had the use of one arm, and now the validity of that was questionable. He’d sworn before not to travel with more than a single change of clothes and a light carry on. Now dragging all manner of wardrobe and baggage, he promised himself that next time he’d act smarter. The vast expanse of white tiles, chrome and stainless steel was deserted which was good and to be expected. After all it was midnight and few travellers were to be seen in the terminal. Now he could stop, face the mirror, drop his infernal luggage and take a reasonably long look at himself in the mirror. It seemed like weeks since he’d been able to do that with any degree of privacy. For a man like him, it was vain to inspect himself too closely in a public place.
The truth was he couldn’t help feeling betrayed by the mirror. The young inner man wasn’t the one reflecting back at him but rather, the middle aged he’d become. Avoiding his reflection avoided this stark reality. The dark circles under his red eyes, his thinning hair, the touches of grey appearing in his two days growth – and the bruising and cuts on his face a sobering reminder that he was lucky to be here, lucky to be alive. These last days had been a sordid journey of discovery. A game he had not considered even existed had just featured him as the principal player. The holiday to meet his internet sweetheart had been a flirt with corruption, deception and death. For the umpteenth time recently, he wondered about his unwitting ability to wander into the unthinkable. Seemed discovering the absurd had become something of a troubling habit lately.
He unzipped a bag, rummaged and found a clean shirt and underwear. He still had six hours before his departing flight early in the morning, then another 26 hours before finally touching down in Sydney. With one day of travel ahead, he didn’t wish to become a bio hazard on the plane. He hastily grabbed a towel dragging entrails of clothes from his bag. He cursed his impatient act and ducked into the large white shower recess and closed the door. The sheer size of the cubicle and quality of the fittings asked a lot of the nineteenth century conditions he’d just endured a thousand kilometres up the road. For some moments he stood motionless, the warm water running over him like the elixir of life. He revelled in lather, cleansing from hair to feet as the warm liquid cascaded over him. Perhaps if he stayed there long enough, the trials and memories of the past ten days might be washed forever from his thoughts.
Suddenly the eerie silent hum of the air-conditioners and the occasional spit and hiss from the toilet hydrants were blasted by the ring of his mobile phone.
“Where are you?” It was the deep, languid voice of his brother back home. It may as well have been the voice of The Almighty such were the deeper implications of his question. The older brother had a way with words - never more than about six at any one time, particularly when it came to questions. Anyway he didn’t have to ask questions, he could make the sort of comments that demand more information.
“The appropriate place… men’s toilet… Moscow airport, I’m waiting for my flight.” Then the reply came as expected.
“Everyone’s been very worried. No one knows where you’ve been or what you’ve been up to.” That made sense, Bronte hardly knew either.
“Yeah, well I’ve been worried about me too, but it’s a long story… too much to tell now... I’ll tell you when I’m home.” He hung up. It was good to get out of that conversation. He shoved the items back in his suitcase, gingerly took hold of his luggage and headed for the exit.
As he approached the door, it swung open and a younger man held it for him while he exited. The man smiled broadly and with an American accent, said
“How you doin’ man?”
_____________________________________________________________________________
Six months earlier
On an unseasonably warm November afternoon, Zhana scrolled page after page of prospective males from internet dating websites. She joined a marriage service on a promise they would help her find a good foreign man for a serious relationship. This was reasonable given that like many locals, she had no internet and no computer at home. Now 28 with a son 5 years old, she’d made up her mind months before to fall in love with a man from a better place than hers. Back then, that didn’t seem too difficult, but now? She stretched and sighed audibly, already page 6.
Her former marriage to a police officer left her a widow with no money and equally few prospects for herself and her son. Her husband got on the wrong side of some nasty group and since the collapse of the USSR, nasty groups were not too hard to find in her city. She also knew that men wouldn’t turn their heads for a second look for too many more years. And her son, now almost five, had been deprived of a father long enough. She should act sooner than later.
Zhana hated coming to the agency. She considered herself of above average looks so dependence on this place was like an admission she was incapable of meeting a suitable local. Problem was good men were just too damn scarce in these parts. She took refuge in the belief she deserved better and anyway, her son deserved better. She scrolled pages of males from all over the western world until she’d looked at so many thumbnails of men’s faces she started to think they all looked the same.
How do I know who to write to
? She asked herself, sighing with a hint of frustration.
Are the good looking men really bastards, the ugly or dull men a better prospect and more genuine?
By the time she had enough of searching, scrolling and reading, she’d earmarked five men. She’d read their profiles and each one seemed decent and interesting - by his own assessment. Her plan was to write one letter and send it to all five - One to Germany; one to Belgium; one to Canada; one to France and one to Australia. A novice at this internet dating game and unsure of what to write, she decided to speak simply of her life, her son, her situation and her day. That afternoon she had been punished at the dentist, a
lmost beaten up
she thought as she carefully placed her long manicured nails on the keyboard and began to slowly punch away in much less than fluent English.
---------- * * --------------------- * * * ------------------------ * * -----------
Twenty Thousand kilometres away, Bronte sat at his computer reluctant and unenthusiastic about turning the thing on. The previous month he rushed to check email, like an automatic response after waking. He’d fall from bed, stagger through the kitchen, turn on the kettle, into the office, switch on the computer, to the bathroom and wash, make coffee then check email. Almost exciting in a curious kind of way, the internet made meeting all sorts of strangers possible without the initial drama of face to face contact. And thoroughly uninspired by local bars, clubs and renowned meeting places, the internet suited his lazy stay home modus operandi.
Divorced Bronte joined a large, popular dating site where members pay a ludicrous amount for tokens to write to each other. Whoever owned the thing was a lot more interested in money than member’s love lives. And monetary loss turned to despair when paid for contacts answered in the negative, or not at all. A lot of years had passed since he’d played the singles game. Now, computer dating brought an unfamiliar situation he’d never known... How to meet girls on the internet? He needed to be a writer, not a good prospect! A Google banner ad, ‘
How to write a Babe catching email’
was increasingly appearing an intelligent read
.
Considering the exponential growth in internet dating, at this rate it seemed the world would be full of cheap romance novelists in no time.
His initial experiences with internet dating were unspectacular. There was a forty eight year old biker with tatts followed by an overweight mother of 4. Then there was Jodie, a bright and youthful blonde he arranged to meet in a café. After pleasant first impressions, Jodie spent all date resolving her teenage kid’s crisis via a mobile phone conversation. By the time they bid farewell, he figured a relationship with Jodie would be like taking on a removal truck full of luggage.
There was also coffee with an attractive, successful forty two year old attorney. By the end of the date Bronte felt completely bashed. For the first twenty minutes she spoke at great lengths entirely of herself. The next forty she spent elaborating in professional detail things she didn’t like in men - and to his horror, most all of it applied to him! Had she known and kept score on his eligibility, he knew the result: Financially secure: Fail. Reliable work/career: Fail. In bed by 10.30: Fail. Prefers going out to staying home: Fail. He felt lucky she didn’t mention character, he might have passed. In his situation, Bronte should have been out trying to meet a rich woman. But what secure woman would wish to meet a liability like him? Pity, because the one thing he could guarantee was that he could be faithful. He hadn’t once cheated on his wife, even though he was the first to admit he loved attractive women.
However, too often the attractive mature women on the net were intent on dating men younger than themselves.
A new nation of love goddesses, where older men can’t keep up and younger men are richer and smarter?
He wondered. Seemed youth and success with women were hand in glove. He cursed the ads featuring sexy guys with abs and the damn rowing machine still gathering dust in the spare room! It wasn’t surprising then that Bronte’s enthusiasm for who or rather what might want to love him were waning. A couple of days prior he’d received mail from a transvestite. She claimed to be of glamorous appearance, great in bed and faithful.
Scary thought
he muttered as he hit the power up button. He double clicked the email icon to find letters from three new ladies. Surprised, he opened the first.
Hi Bronte… read your profile. I am separated and I am looking for a casual fling and then who knows
… signed
Marie
. He looked at the attached photo and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The woman was huge.
It
s
hould’ve been signed Marine, Beached Whale,
he said to no one. Bronte had a habit of speaking to himself, though most people who live alone for long enough do. The next letter was from
Skye
, her name was familiar and she was very presentable as he recalled. Things were looking up.
Hi Bronte thanks for your letter. Unfortunately I am not interested at this stage. Good luck…
‘Good luck my ass’ he scowled. It was so much easier for women that look good. He guessed she probably had a million emails, as he clicked on the last.
Hi Bronte, my name is Zhana. I am from Krasnodar. Do you know this place? It is an old city with many beautiful parks and buildings. We have good restaurants and places of interest. I am 28 years, slim with dark hair. You can see my photo attached. I am a widow. My husband was killed 2 years ago and I have son Alex who is the good boy. You have children? I wish to meet the good honest man who will love to me and my son. If you wish to know more, please write. Okay, I go now. I hope you can excuse. I had to have tooth pulled out at dentist today and I will like to go home to bed. Regards, Zhana.
Bronte scrolled to view the most attractive young woman he’d seen on a dating site in weeks. She had porcelain white skin, thick, long black hair, big black eyes and sumptuous ruby lips. Bronte felt his pulse quicken. But Krasnodar? Where on the living earth was that? He’d never heard of the place and didn’t for a moment consider it might be on the other side of the world. The outback… Krasnodar in the Kimberley’s… New Zealand maybe? These sounded the most likely. He re-read her email and although questioning the standard of English schooling in far west Australia or the Far East, New Zealand, felt almost flattered by the idea of a young woman writing to him and certainly one so beautiful. Returning to study her picture, Zhana’s invasive black eyes were looking right through him. Bronte loved the way a simple note, smile, wave or hello from a beautiful woman brought an immediate change of attitude about self and life. For a moment he almost felt sorry for fat, ugly girls. Ten thousand letters from unattractive women were little short of depressing when it came down to it. So with renewed motivation he typed Krasnodar into
Google,
more than keen to find the place.
