The first time I tried internet dating was with match.com back in 1997. I was in between husbands at the time, and desperately looking (as usual) for Mr. Right. It was early days for the internet dating scene, but there seemed to be plenty of profiles in my area (San Francisco) so I thought I’d give it a whirl.

My headline was “English Lass seeks English Lad“. Not very imaginative, I know, but at least it was clear and to the point. I was younger then, and could get away with being a lassie. And I knew what I wanted – an English lad. I had recently moved to the Bay Area and I wasn’t that keen on American men at the time. I wanted one of my own kind.

I waffled on about what an amazing, creative woman I was, multi-faceted, dynamic, succesful, blah, blah, blah. Well travelled and well-read, all that sort of thing. How I was looking for the right sort of (English) man who would be an equal match for me. I bigged myself up big-time. And then posted this photo:

badmuthablogger_originaldating

I can’t believe I still have a copy of this on my hard drive. And I can’t believe I used such a crummy photo. Look at that weird skirt, pasting itself to my thighs. And those ridiculous shoes.

Anyway, I posted my profile and went to bed, thinking I might get a couple of hits in the night. The next morning, to my absolute HORROR, I had over 200 emails in my inbox, all from potential suitors! It was completely insane. Totally overwhelming, and I immediately took my profile down, lest any more emails arrived to harass me. 

I’ve since baffled over this large response, and decided it was due to the newness of the internet dating scene. That and the fact I was under 30 at the time, making a lot of money as a software entrepreneur, and being British, it all seemed to add up to make me a hot prospect. I can’t imagine getting anything like that kind of response now that I’m an old bag over 40, with a load of baggage plus baby, and no money. Not exactly a great catch. But back then I was a hot babe, in the right place at the right time.

Being proper English, I felt that I had to respond to all the emails I’d received. To be polite, you know? So I took the day off work, and sifted through the slew of emails, one by one. I decided to narrow it down to 20, to correspond with them for a couple of weeks, and then pick out 3 to go on a date with. It wasn’t that hard, since I had specifically asked for an English bloke, and there were only 2 of them. All the others were wannabe Brits. Believe me, there’s a stack of them out there, all gasping to be English. God knows why, but it seems American men like English ladies.

I had emails from men who said they’d always considered themselves to be English, since their uncle / father / grandfather / second cousin / stepmother / half sister was English. There were some who were keen fans of Monty Python. Others always wanted to go to London to see Buckingham Palace. I axed these ones straight away.

There were quite a few ugly, old, sleazy looking dudes that I sent a polite “Thanks, but no thanks, and good luck with your search” emails. I was a kind soul back in those days.

Finally I knocked it down to 3 men, and arranged to meet them for a date. The first one (can’t remember his name, so might as well call him Adam) was the Creative Director of a big software company. He seemed articulate, intelligent and interesting, was about my age, and his photos looked good. We met for breakfast at a pancake house in San Francisco, where I made my first dating mistake by not putting a cap on our date. I stupidly told him I had nothing on all day, and ended up being bored to death for HOURS.

Adam was full of himself. He talked incessantly about him, him, him. All the great things he’d done, what a great guy he was, how great he was at his job, how much everyone liked him. Nauseating. He blurbed on for an absolute age about Art stuff, really boring tedious details and it was all I could do to stifle my yawns and not tell him to put a sock in it. He didn’t once ask about me, and tried as I might, I couldn’t get a word in edgeways.

Goodbye Adam, hello Nick. I arranged to meet Nick for a coffee down the road from where I worked. I made sure I only had an hour (I learned that lesson fast). Nick was English, and had said he worked in delivering solutions. Sounded intriguing, plus he looked quite sporty and fit in his photos.

I knew I was in trouble when an Airline Express courier van pulled up outside, and a very pale, pock-faced, gangly English bloke bounced out in his uniform T-shirt and shorts (knobby knees an’ all), stubbed out his cigarette on the pavement, and gave me a wide black-toothed grin (why do English people have such fucked up teeth?)

Delivering solutions apparently meant delivery solutions. Okaaay, I thought. Give him a chance. But once again, he talked about himself the whole time (why do men do that?). I found out he was into pizza, beer, sports and ‘aving a laugh. In other words, not my type at all.

Which left number 3, Michael. He looked the most promising, so I had left him for last. He had his 0wn software company, was a similar age, had dashing dark good looks, and had posted lots of photos of himself on Safari in Africa, diving in the Seychelles, walking in the Lake District. He was well educated, a proper English gentleman. We met for coffee, we liked each other, and so we went out for dinner.

And then we started courting. It was very sweet. We had lots of phone conversations, emails back and forth, and several civilised and romantic dates. We kissed. We held hands. He bought me roses and fine jewelry. We met up in England, and had tea, and I introduced him to my mother.

I was cautious though, and didn’t sleep with him. I wanted to be sure he was The One. I was looking for my soul mate. And he seemed like he could be it. I was very excited. And then one day, it all went pear-shaped and fell apart. I can’t remember exactly how the conversation started, but it was in a moment of deep intimacy in a telephone conversation of all things.

He got talking about the relationship he had with his mother, and he confessed that he had slept with his mother up until he was 12 years old. And no, we’re not talking about co-sleeping here. He slept with his mother. He had SEX with her. Let me spell that out for you again. He. Had. Sex. With. His. Mother. Not only that, he said it was a warm and loving experience, and he didn’t regret it.

Well, I like to think I’m pretty open minded, but seriously folks, that was just a little too much for me to handle. So I gave him the push. Ditched him, pronto. Told him to go get some serious therapy. The kind of baggage he was carrying made me feel like a light weight in comparison. He was one fucked up dude.

After that, I gave internet dating a wide berth for a few years, deciding it was full of freaks. I’ve been back since then, and I’m about to go for it again, but these days I’m altogether wiser when it comes to men. I know how to sniff out the freaks. I’ve got very good radar for dysfunctional men, and I won’t be wasting my time on any time-wasters. We’ll see how it pans out this time around.