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We met online, back in the glory days of AOL, you know when there wasn’t an alternative. It was 1998 and I had just moved to California. I was living alone in my cute 2 bedroom apartment in the ghetto of Fairfield. He was from Sacramento.

We talked online for an evening, and spent a few nights talking to each other on the phone. He had no picture to share (remember it was ‘98… digital cameras and scanners weren’t exactly common). So there was a quite lengthy description of himself included in our conversations about books, and movies, and music. He had seen pictures of me, as I was an early adopter of a flatbed scanner.

He described himself as 5′9″ latin, with black hair, brown eyes, with an eyebrow piercing. He was studying dance, and described himself as having a “dancer’s body” and a “fairly muscular 165 pounds.” He was 22.

Be still my heart. These are some of my favorite things! Shorter than me, dark hair and eyes, a bit alternative, artistic, in much better shape than myself, and slightly younger. Yippee! The fact that he could carry on a conversation about books and movies and music meant that I was in danger of meeting someone I could be with.

We made plans to meet on a Friday evening. I would take off work a bit early and head the 40 miles to downtown Sacramento. He’d stay at work a bit late and we’d meet at Starbucks. He was missing his carpool, so I had agreed to make sure he got home after we grabbed some coffee and maybe went out to dinner after.

I arrived at Starbucks right on time. I walked in, anxious to meet Dominic and move on with the rest of our lives together. He’d teach me Spanish, I’d teach him to play the guitar, and oh how my cats would adore him.

There was only one person in the place, looking out the window. I paid him no attention and ordered some syrupy sweet disgusting $4 latte and sat down.

And waited.

A couple of guys came in and left while I was sitting there. No one fit Dominic’s description, and I was beginning to think I had been stood up.

And then, the guy who had been sitting across the room the whole time looked my way and smiled. He had an eyebrow piercing. I approached him warily, and said, “Are you Dominic?”

“Yeah. I thought that was you, but wasn’t completely sure,” he replied.

“Huh, well, I suppose we should get out of here,” I said, trying very hard to disguise the annoyance in my voice.

We walked out and headed toward my car. Buckled in, and I started the car. “You’re going to have to give me directions to your place. I don’t my way around very well,” I said.

“We’re not going to dinner?”

“No. I really have to get home.”

He gave me directions to the freeway, and we drove in silence for a few minutes.

“You’re upset with me,” he said. “I don’t understand what’s wrong.”

“Well, let me count the number of things that are wrong,” my voice was rising commiserate with my annoyance level. “First, you are not latino. You are filipino. Second, you are barely five foot two, six inches shorter than you told me. Thirdly, you told me more than once that you had a dancer’s body. I’m willing to bet that you outweigh me. I’m guessing that you are wearing sweatpants with a blazer because you can’t find slacks with a big enough waist and short enough inseam to fit you. Dancer’s body!? What did you do, EAT THE DANCER?!?”

I don’t know if I have ever been that completely mean to another person before, possibly not since, but I was furious.

We rode in silence, save for his directing me to his place just outside of town. When we pulled up in front of his house, he said, “Thanks for the ride. The bus ride out here takes forever.”

“So there’s no car pool, either, huh? I think you’ve lied about everything.”

“I didn’t think you’d be interested in me or want to continue talking to me if I told you the truth,” he cried.

I responded with, “Now you’ll never know.”

And I don’t know what possessed him to do this, maybe some last ditch act of desperation, maybe some psychosis or delusion, but just before he got out of the car, he said, “Don’t you want to see what you’re missing?” He pulled down his enormous sweat pants revealing a penis that I can only describe as tiny. Seriously tiny. Like shorter and with less girth than my pinkie finger tiny. As in, I’ve seen bigger cocks on 5 year olds, tiny. Smaller than some clitorises tiny.*

“Dominic, I think you mean what YOU are missing,” I spat. “I’m gonna bet your name isn’t even Dominic, am I right?”

He pulled his pants up, opened the car door, sighed and replied, “You’re right. It’s Doug.”

* The last time I saw a weenie that small, it was packed with 11 of its friends and stamped Vienna Sausage. That was one worm in need of a fish hook. David Letterman could have used it for a toothpick. I didn’t know whether to tickle it, or pop it. His condom size was “innie.” He could have painted it green and gone trick or treating as a gherkin.**

** Yes, I did go for the dick jokes. You wanna fight about it?