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Sugar Milk

iUniverse, Inc.

Chapter One

There comes a time in a man's life when he is forced to accept the fact that the world as he once knew just exploded like the planet Krypton, and there is no going back-birth, puberty, high school, college, first job, marriage, kids, second job, divorce, second marriage, step-kids, unemployment, at-home-parent, mid-life crisis, senior care facility, death-or something to that effect. The worst part about these moments is the rocket-ship ride from one world to the next. Eventually, though, you realize the control panel cannot be hot-wired to turn around, and you might as well prepare for your new environment. For me, this preparation phase includes cleaning out my T-shirt drawer, upping my meds, and getting rid of every book I read in that last world.

In the late fall of 2007, on the approach trajectory toward the surface of my second marriage, I saw it was time to initiate the landing sequence. My dresser was stuffed with cotton V-necks sporting clever, but forward pick up lines ("Do you know karate, 'cause you're body's kickin'!"); my meds were half the dosage they are now, and I had a small library dedicated to subjects soon to be irrelevant once the wedding took place.

After hitting the Goodwill and Walgreens on a random weekend months before the big day, I lugged two boxes of old books through the doors of a neighborhood resale store. Having run through this exercise a few times before, I expected little in the way of compensation-a few dollars at best, maybe more if I opted to take the store credit option. So, when the clerk offered me seventy bucks for what amounted to a load of crap, I cursed in disbelief. Then I visualized streamers raining down from the ceiling as some D-list celebrity rushed through the entrance to hand me an over-sized novelty punch-card in that amount, good towards any in-house purchase.

"You have a bunch of really unique stuff," she explained. "It'll sell quick."

By unique, I assumed she was referring to the fact that most of my books dealt with either picking up women or pleasing them sexually. A few outlined the procedures for seducing females in almost any setting, while others shared the hidden secrets of satisfying your partner. The rest of the books I dumped off were guides to transform your image as a slovenly male into that of an ultimate metrosexual: cooking exotic meals with a single ingredient, dressing with more style than an Italian supermodel, and applying beauty products faster than a make-up artist. In a second-hand store packed to the roof with titles like The History of Cannibalism in New Jersey and a 1962 edition of The Amateur's Guide to Thermodynamics, it was understandable that my offerings would be popular.

When I had originally purchased these books, I'd kept them out of sight, hidden in the nightstand or under my bed. Nothing brought masculine credibility into question like a "man-ual" that told you how to be a man displayed for all the world to see sitting on the coffee table. One glimpse of a self-help guide would destroy any chance of duplicating page thirty-six of The Kama Sutra for Dummies.

Still, as a newly minted bachelor ready to get back into the dating scene, I needed some direction (that, and I had just bought a bulk-load of discounted Canadian Viagra). Prior to this, I had been married for eight years before crash-landing on a plant known as divorce. I never anticipated the need to chart a course for life as a single man. Now, however, things were light-years away from the days when I would ask a close friend to deliver a yes/no note, inviting a girl to have ice cream with me. (My batting average with that little trick was one hundred percent.) No, according to reality television shows, the dating scene had changed during the time I'd been married. Ice cream was out, women now did the asking, and people no longer had sex in the missionary position. My own ignorance terrified me. I needed a shotgun education if I was ever going to love again in this modern age.

Yet, despite all of the effort I put into learning these surefire techniques for dating success, none of them actually worked. (From the Bar Room to the Bedroom was a particular disappointment.) The lone benefit, if any, occurred in my kitchen. In the hopes of moving forward after the divorce, I had just moved into a downtown loft. As such, I had no intention of filling my trendy pad with Wal-Mart-quality cookware intended for college-bound students and popular with frugal meth-addicts. According to my help books, the culinary tools I needed to purchase should "project an image that enhances a mysterious persona to your guests." I interpreted this to mean that looking the part upped my odds of appealing to a lady's sensibilities ... provided I could get one to my place that is.

Fondling a very sleek-looking spatula at a home décor specialty store, I pictured myself meeting a doe-eyed cutie at a club and piquing her interest with the mention of my mad, omelet-making skills. Ron, you little devil. Of course, as is the case with most unproven theories, there were a few bugs to work out.

"You know, I make a mean omelet," I said to a petite brunette a week later, as we stood waiting for drinks at happy hour.

The confused look on her face told me something had been lost in translation. "Did you just say that I make you wanna vomit?"

"No. Omelet. Ome-let," I corrected.

"Uh, right. Well, I'm allergic to eggs." She grabbed her beers and walked off. Watching her blend into the crowd, it occurred to me that she might not have been entirely truthful about her allergy claim. Even so, I kept up the omelet line for weeks before eventually admitting that it was a flop. Subsequent attempts, using my "mad, French toast skills," also proved unsuccessful, since most people were repulsed by my offer to french their toes.

A few months went by, and I tried remaining optimistic by telling myself this was only a slump. But slumps imply that one has a batting average to begin with. Even my yes/no notes couldn't raise it above a zero. ("Would you like to have drinks with me? Yes or No?") I began entertaining the notion of Internet dating, despite my reservations. To me, e-dating gave public notice to a person's desperation, and carried with it an element of seediness enticing hosts of deviants, schemers, and cheaters. I didn't need any entanglements involving teenage, Russian, mail-order brides; Filipino women seeking entry into the country; or post-operative trannies searching for legitimacy. Still, after an abysmal record with my offers of free breakfast, the online route gained in appeal, which is to say, I was desperate enough to sacrifice my better judgment and pull out my credit card.

I picked a service that focused on fast results and immediate proximity, per their promise to "find singles in your area tonight." Perfect, I thought, while checking my schedule. There was something about the company's confident assurance that released an eagerness my skepticism had been suppressing. Giddiness fluttered in my stomach as I wondered who might be sipping juice across from me in the morning.

The first step in the setup process involved filling out a questionnaire asking about my physical appearance, likes, dislikes, hobbies, interests, etc. I found this a rather enjoyable exercise. It had been years since anyone had been curious about the real person inside of me (not without it involving my credit score anyway), so I took the interview seriously.

QUESTION: What books do you like to read?

ANSWER: Classical literature, good fiction, and the occasional how-to guide.

QUESTION: Favorite food?

ANSWER: Omelets, French toast, and sushi. (My help books told me sushi was a "can't miss" dish.)

QUESTION: What movies do you like?

ANSWER: Well-written dramas, classics, and the occasional chick-flick, as long as it doesn't make me cry too much-ha, ha!

Working my way through the section, I felt interesting again-mysterious, even-not like the dull, awkward divorcee I had been. I'll bet there's a young lady on here with really low expectations who's going to be blown away by me.

The next page of the form, however, was a bit unsettling. Basically, it asked me to disclose all my thoughts, desires, and prowess pertaining to sex. The invasive nature of these questions was a complete turn-off. Shouldn't these things be shared later in a relationship? I mean, really, why would anyone have wanted to know if I was into golden showers and plastic wrap (gross) before they even met me? It seemed a little forward to me, but then again, what did I know?

What to say about myself ...

Until this point in my life, discussing "the naughty word" brought on a sudden urge to turn off the lights and lower my voice, partly out of reverence, but mostly because I wanted to hide from my own inexperience. The three healthy children from my first marriage had been the result of biology, not frequency. (There are comets that have circled the earth more times since my birth.) Being a premature ejaculator didn't help matters either. These shortcomings made me self-conscious enough, without having to disclose the truth to thousands of strangers.

This was the last section to complete prior to accessing the service's database, though. My perfect princess was a mere mouse click away, which provided me enough motivation to finish. So I put the best possible spin on it-I lied. As far as anyone was concerned, I was a virtual Ron Jeremy. Should the need arise, I figured I could 'fess up down the road (and only if forced to). First things first, I needed to actually find a woman in their database before worrying about having to apologize for not being honest.

It was surprising to learn that so many single ladies fitting my search criterion lived within a two-mile radius of me. If there were 1,183 slender, non-smoking, social-drinking, ice cream-eating, drug-free, sexually conservative, Protestant brunettes between the ages of twenty-five and thirty, who ranged in height from five-and-a-half to six feet, I'd never seen them. Granted, this was downtown Houston-the epicenter for the city's young and beautiful, but in my exuberance over this discovery, it never occurred to me that that many people in such a confined area would equate to a densely populated refugee camp, full of smokin' hot babes.

"They're fakes, you dumbass," my friend Mark explained a couple of weeks later. He and his wife, Erin, had invited me over for dinner, and I was in the process of bragging to them about all the "hotness" living near me. Mark scrounged around in the fridge for a beer as he talked. "It's designed to make you think all this hot ass is right next door so you'll keep paying until you find them, but it never existed in the first place." He grinned at me as if I'd just been swindled at a card game.

I slid down in my chair. Mark might be my best friend, but sometimes he took a cruel pleasure in watching me suffer with the ladies. He once set me up with an extremely attractive woman, and then proceeded to amuse himself by watching my flailing attempts to engage her in conversation, only to inform me later that she already had a boyfriend.

"My chances are still better with this service than they would be with your help," I said, deflecting my embarrassment. "You're the absolute worst wingman in the entire history of wingmen!"

Mark busted out laughing. "No, I'm not!"

"Yes you are, honey," his wife Erin agreed, after releasing a cloud of smoke from her mouth. "I've seen you screw him over I don't know how many times. You can't help yourself." Mark and Erin had been happily married for eight years, and were completely monogamous, but that didn't stop Mark from calling attention to himself when we hit the clubs. "Ignore him, sweetie," Erin said, turning to me. The ash on her cigarette started to go limp, and she gave it snap. "Now, which site did you say you decided to use?"

When I told them, Mark sprayed his beer like an aerosol mist, and Erin started choking. "Sweetie, that one's not for dating!" she said, after recovering from her coughing fit.

"Huh?"

"It's for hooking up with swingers, transvestites, fetishes-hard-core sex freaks." She swirled her fingers in front of her chest, and the smoke from her cigarette formed lucid white rings that rotated out of existence. "I really don't think you're into nipple clamps."

Though initially mortified by my naïveté, I was relieved to now know why the only emails I'd received were from flabby, open-minded couples living in trailer parks and husky, big-boned "women" seeking discreet male companions for "friendship and more." I had already called customer service several times to complain about a three-hundred pound woman who was harassing me with requests to sit on my face.

I cancelled my subscription the minute I got home from Mark and Erin's. If I'd had any doubts about doing this, the fifteen messages from TubbyLuv69 made swearing off web dating all the easier. Ironically, though, I ended up meeting a nice girl all by myself and without the aid of T-shirts, seductive spatulas, or a dating service. However, when I followed my sons to Chicago in the fall of 2006, she was in no position to follow, and we broke the relationship off.

* * *

Based on my earlier dealings, I vowed never to try web dating again, and for quite a while after the move, I didn't have time to even think about the opposite sex. I had a challenging new job and a closer relationship-literally-with my kids, but I also had no friends and no social life. With a demanding work schedule, compounded by a two-hour commute, the very idea of meeting women by conventional means became an impractical notion. Hanging out at night spots by myself was out, since it made me look like a psychopathic loner, and frequenting bookstores and coffee shops drew more attention from men than women. (Those metrosexual guide books were highly effective in the respect.)

Given the circumstances, I eventually succumbed to the web dating route again, confident that I had gained practical wisdom from my past experience. This time I selected a reputable service, known for their well-publicized compatibility tests that assess personality traits, moral character, and relationship aptitude in order to locate a suitable companion. Supposedly, it was quite scientific, not to mention safe. As part of their screening process, all profiles were reviewed for approval prior to being posted, which weeded out the sociopaths. Bye, bye, TubbyLuv69.

The service even offered expert tips on how to increase a woman's interest in me. For example, they emphasized that an original personal summary was the most crucial item in a popular profile ... right after your level of income, photos, height/weight, and occupation. Impressed with such logical advice, I set off to pen a summary of myself that conveyed just the right mix of intelligence, charm, and sensitivity, without pressuring my matches into faking perfection when they contacted me. Six or seven drafts later, a character emerged that I was quite enamored with. This has to be the Rolls Royce of dating profiles. And honestly, how could any woman resist my idea of a great relationship?

I love living in the city because there are so many people to watch, especially couples. I observe how they talk and tenderly touch each other's face. Some are so loving, they appear seamless in their interaction. The older couples are the most beautiful. They smile, gazing at one another and running their fingers over their mate's wrinkled hands.

I was going for Nicholas Sparks. Instead, I came off sounding like a pathetic rendition of a wannabe harlequin romance novelist. If my goal was to attract throngs of recently divorced, middle-aged women who peppered their profiles with lines from the works of Jane Austen, Nora Roberts, and Daniel Steele, then I had succeeded. Essentially, their emails were emotional versions of the woman requesting to squat on my face; they'd simply replaced three hundred pounds of cellulite with three hundred pounds of baggage. But if I thought being sought out by women who valued my ability to fog a mirror was bad, the actual dates were worse.

The first match fitting my criteria was a girl named Renee. Renee had a nice photo, was tastefully flirtatious in her emails, and sounded intelligent (she claimed to be a grad student studying art therapy). By every indication, there was nothing for me to be worried about, nothing whatsoever.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Sugar Milk by Ron Mattocks Copyright © 2010 by Ron Mattocks. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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