Diary of a Sex-Starved Pseudo-Mennonite, Part 7

Doc picked the wrong moment to stalk me. Don't get me wrong. I LOVE stalkers. Stalking me is how I know you really care. When I was theoretically single for a few months in my 20s between my long distance break up and my would-be husband (but already hooked by my future bride, so not really putting myself out there), I invited a stalker into my home at an inappropriate hour when he appeared at my doorstep, because I thought he was my male roommate Roger's friend. Turns out he was not. An acquaintance at best. Whom I politely shooed out near the witching hour. Who called me right after he left and told me he loved me and wanted me to sleep with him real quick before he moved to Seattle next week. I declined. But very graciously. I am from Iowa and nothing if not hospitable.

I think I know now that Doc is a guy who deletes his online dating account over and over again so he continually appears as "New" to get the extra attention and online visibility that comes with this privilege. That's why he looked familiar when he showed up in my big ol' cyber bucket of dudes who want to meet me. He had been there before. Earlier that week. Before deleting his account, coming back, and trying again.

Doc was cute. Not much info. Unverified picture. Claimed to be a physician. Oh boy. So I immediately started calling him Doc so he understood my assumption was that his credentials were utter bullshit. What Doc could not possibly have known was that as an Irish Mennonite, I disparage dudes with money almost as much as I dismiss technology. So when Doc invited me to breakfast (How was he already aware of my weakness for breakfast? Perhaps he had sifted through my garbage leavings in the shadowy driveway, catching a peek of me in my birthday suit walking Freddy to the door...), then fucked around for hours not showing up, I texted him this:

"Listen Doc, I'm sure you are a catch, but I don't have the energy to sell myself any further this morning. I'm not a gold digger. I have never dated a dude with money cuz they are usually dicks. I have a good job. If you want to meet for breakfast tell me what time and where. Otherwise I will go back to the nothing I am busy with."

Then guess what? HE FUCKING CALLED ME. TWICE. In my week of online speed-dating, this move was unprecedented. He was very sweet. He went to medical school in Iowa (How did he know I also went to college in Iowa? Had he snipped my Halloween college cheerleader photo when he tried to hook me the first time, before I edited my profile to meet mosque standards?). He had a big, big story. He was pretending to be so old-fashioned and unused to online dating that he did not understand that one does not pick women up for dates. One meets them somewhere populated but not so noisy that folks won't hear a rape whistle. He changed some filter in his truck in anticipation of driving me around on our date as in Footloose or some other charming rural teen movie. Doc was also from the neighboring state (where nostalgia is wildly popular). The same town as Bobby. Which would turn out to be useful. Furthermore, Doc is the reason I will never date another Libertarian. You had your chance, fellas. Yes, they are all fellas. Sorry Bill Maher.

When it was 2pm and Doc hadn't shown for breakfast yet, I tried to reschedule for another day. Nope. Meet him for dinner then. No, he was going to cook me dinner. At my house. Because he is a gourmet organic cook and teaches people about healthy eating and does not eat restaurant food. He's going to cook for me? How sweet.

I notice Doc has deleted his account from our dating app. I ask him why. He gives me this song and dance about how a chick messaged him "I'm in town. Let's fuck," and his youngest son saw it and asked him to delete the app. How awful! How believable! If only it had been true.

Because I'm funny and I overshare, Doc knew Freddy had stolen my shoes and understood what the scenario implied about my relative looseness as a woman. Which I suppose is why he pursued me so doggedly for 36 hours straight even after I insulted him and was treating him as a war criminal on trial. He told me he was already driving to my town to pick up a guitar. Doc can play any instrument. Well of course he can. In between doctoring and being a gourmet cook and stalking lovely women from Iowa who don't know how to date.

I repeatedly told Doc I hadn't even gotten out of my robe to prepare for our date, so low was my confidence in his schemes. He used this information to try to get a tit pic, as was his birthright as a man who online dates. I did send a photo of my feet in slippers. Which was surprisingly hot.

So what was supposed to be breakfast, then never became lunch, then failed to arrive as a delicious, homecooked, organic gourmet dinner became Doc showing up at my house at 9pm with Panda Express for 1. He watched me eat for 30 minutes like a fucking pervert, then left and began texting me like crazy again. When he stepped foot in my house I told him I was texting my ex-sister-in-law, did it in front of him, and told him I was texting her again when he left. He walked Daisy out my back door, appearing to survey the surroundings for escape routes. I sat at the far end of the dining table from him. He only drank water. Unaccustomed to guests and people eating at the table, Daisy immediately put her huge snout in his glass and drank Doc's refreshment. I literally fell on the floor laughing. It was hysterical and even through his likely derangement, Doc laughed, too. He declined a fresh glass, sat with his arms folded on my table, and watched me.

Doc got away with a hug hello and 2 hugs goodbye. That's it. He was obsessed with my setup. He seemed concerned that a woman of my advanced age had saggy boobs, trying to trick me into sending a tit pic in a fit of pride. When I sent him a pic of my breasts in a shirt, pert as fuck, he tried to give my bra credit. I told him I wasn't wearing a bra. Unprepared for this revelation, my perky t-shirted girls staring him in the screen, Doc seemed gripped by the texting version of hyperventilation.

I suppose he hoped I would show him the secret to my buoyancy when he came over. He inquired before leaving my house. I did not show him. I told him I was wearing a bodysuit. The one that got Freddy in the door. Doc probably felt it during the hug goodbye.

Doc continued the marathon texting with me the next day. He was obsessed with seeing my boobs and was getting super creepy about it. In retrospect, I think he pretended he was going to take me to breakfast, then make me dinner, all the while stalling, hoping to obtain the essential tit pic without having to actually meet me at all, let alone provide a meal, since I had already made crystal clear that I wasn't going to fuck him. At least not in the first 24 hours.

So through a combination of guilt, manipulation, and exhaustion, I finally relented and sent Doc a blurry tit pic. The only one I have sent anyone ever. He objected to the blurriness, but that's what I do. He appreciated the setup. I researched Asperger's to try to understand Doc better. I thought it explained his odd behavior. Doc did not want to text about it when I showed an interest. I asked him what music he listened to, since he played every instrument. He didn't really listen to music. Which seemed odd for a virtuoso musician. I asked him what his favorite food was to cook. He didn't really know. Suddenly Doc had nothing to say about himself. Then this:

"Honestly, you are a great woman and you are where I was 6 years ago. You still have allot to learn about yourself. I had to do that too, though I did it differently. I suggest you get the road back to you, an enneagram journey by Ian Cron. Learn who you are and why, learn who other people are. Until you trust yourself you won't trust other people. Have your flings and get your stories and enjoy exploring who you are, really are. I think I might be in a different place in my life."

Yes, Doc was in the highly elevated space of stalking women on dating apps for tit pics. Thank you for your wisdom, good doctor.

Nothing is more infuriating than having a dude you just met who has been lying to you for almost 2 days straight tell you what is wrong with your life and how to fix it. I had not asked for his input. Fucking delightful, Doc. Immediately after Doc told me he was a Doc, I had questions. Because, you know, I take an interest. Doc would not tell me what kind of physician he was. Or where he practiced. Because I told him I have worked in healthcare for over 20 years. So he knew he was fucking screwed. Also, Doc was probably 10 years older than the 41 he said he was in his profile. I told him I thought he was 50. When he showed up as "New" in my feed again last week, he had added a photo at the end of his profile that was recent and actually looked like him. Doc, I'm touched to have inspired a sliver of transparency in your cyber dating life. Then I blocked and reported Doc in the app for faking new accounts and tit-pic badgering.

The women in my life were really rooting for Doc. Hell, I was, too. I mean you saw his classy breakup text. He's miles beyond Frederic and Freddy the no-show and Christian from LA the no-show and Cy the no-go. I mean, Asperger's. My cousin has that. The heart bleeds. But I told Cherry that when Doc said he had Asperger's, I think what he meant was Axe-murders. She liked that. A lot. Cherry is sick. Did you notice that Doc misspelled a lot as allot? I did. And he referred to his medical degree as a doctorate instead of an MD. In my world, a doctorate is a PhD. Did Doc know the difference? When he told me he was picking up a guitar in my town, I asked which music store. I offered to meet him there. I needed a record player. If they sold them, I would buy one and decide if he was an Axe-murder and if I should get in his truck. I told him this. He said he would ask if they had record players. I inquired again which music store. He said Craig's List. I said, "You're going to ask a guy you're buying a guitar from on Craig's List if he has record players?" I was really wearing Doc out.

If Doc is a lunatic, at least he lives in another state so he will really have to want it if he's gonna bother me. I shared a pic he sent me of his alleged lake view balcony to Bobby for identification purposes, since they live in the same town. Bobby could not tell much of anything. I told Doc I sent it to Bobby. Then Doc had to let me go. Because unlike me, he is an ascended master of a human being who has done the work it takes to force a tit pic out of an Amish girl.

If only this were all over. But Bobby. You gotta meet Bobby.

Until next time, Sweeties!

Ness Sweet Ness