by Janet Trakin.
I’m a self-defined lesbian, but what lesbian isn’t tempted by a cute guy? I recently posted my profile and picture on My Space.com, that intergenerational melting pot of cyberbabies and misfits. Where most people wrote, Angelina Jolie, Dalai Lama, Hillary Clinton and other assorted luminaries under the question, “Whom would you most like to meet?”, I wrote, “A woman who understands me on all levels.” Amazingly so, my inbox was then inundated by a barrage of e-mails from male geeks from all around the world.
Among the photo of a tribal chief from Ghana, an e-mail of a faceless British artist, and a hate-filled, homophobic abusive e-mail from a Yugoslavian 16-year old punk, appeared the picture of Tom Smith. He had dark hair just messy enough not to be neat, dark brooding eyes and a sweet smile. He appeared to have a melancholy spirit underneath the smile, and his broad shoulders hinted of strength and masculinity–the perfect combination of the hopeless romantic and macho man…the poet and football player…Jung’s anima and animas. His e-mail contained life-weary original musings on love, a desire to settle down, and a propensity to do “anything for love.” I checked him out.
Tom’s profile appeared to be hastily put together just so that he could answer ads. Whereas many people on My Space go to great lengths to create an elaborate, impressive web site, Tom’s remained blank, and only “United States” appeared under his name and age. But the photo—ooh the photo. With no hesitation, I returned his e-mail.
Over the next day and a half, the symptoms of obsession appeared—fantasies, heart palpitations, and euphoria—translated as mania. I checked my Yahoo Messenger a million times a minute as I had invited him to join me in a chat. Suddenly, I heard a loud sound from my computer. I thought my computer had crashed, but no, it was Tom, in live time, online, sending me an IM.
“I love you. I want you to be my wife. My heart melted when I saw your picture,” he wrote not ten minutes into our chat. He was a computer salesman in Nigeria under contract and he planned on returning to Los Angeles at the end of the month. It was mid-month—not too long to wait. He told me he was an orphan and that he had no family or friends. His wife had died. He had his son with him in Nigeria. I’d have him to myself and have a family as I never wanted to bear children. He wrote me beautiful, magnificent love poems extemporaneously filled with metaphors and similes and teeming with passion. He swept me away.
I could not sleep. His poems affected me in a Neitzcheian sense of beyond good and evil, but I was scared. Something was not right.
The next day or so he wrote me that his son was in the hospital, dying of typhoid fever, and he needed money for the operation. How much? $250. I was in a moral dilemma. I am basically living off savings, and really could not afford it. Besides, I don’t like when people mess with my money unless I want them to. I did not know this man, had not even spoken to him. However, he promised me a life that I hadn’t dreamed off since I was a kid.
I called Western Union, took down all the information, but I could not go through with it. He said he’d pay me back double, but I could not do it. I found myself keeping it a secret because anyone whom I would tell, would reply that I was crazy for even considering it. When you realize you can’t tell even your closest friends about a plan of action, subconsciously and ultimately consciously, you know you are making a mistake. Trust your instincts when it comes to Internet dating or ultimately you will pay—if not with your bank account then with your heart.
About the author:
Janet is an ex-New Yorker who migrated to Southern California via South Florida. She has ghostwritten several business books and has been published in community newspapers, consumer and trade magazines and on the web. She has been online dating for years futilely searching for Ms. Right.
