I sat on the aged wood barstool of the classic Hollywood bar. The elderly bartender wore a red sports jacket. The only other patron was an attractive blond, mid-thirties, in a aqua green dress with spaghetti straps and fashionable sandals, her iphone sitting on the bar next to her vodka glass. After a few sips of my drink, I built up enough nerve to move to the seat next to her, and talk with her.
She was a visitor from Dublin, Ireland. Twelve months ago, she took off a year from her teaching job at a middle school in order to tour America. She had traveled across the country, from New York, to the South, to the Midwest — and now knew America, our customs and quirks, better than the average American. She was at the last stage of her trip — the Golden State, California — San Francisco, Yosemite, the Central Coast, and now Los Angeles, her last stop. I was impressed with her sense of adventure. She was gorgeous, with a lovely Irish accent. I told her that I hadn’t met too many people who were secure enough in themselves to travel a whole country on their own, without getting lonely.
She said she loved America.
“Sounds like you’ve seen and done everything our country has to offer,” I said.
“No. Not everything. I haven’t f*cked an American citizen.”
I did a double take. Was my martini clouding my mind? Did she say what I though she just said? Her hand rubbed against mine. Now I was SURE that I heard it correctly.
“I love sex.” she purred. “And I’ve been without it all year during my journey. Before I fly back to Ireland on Monday, I want to f*ck someone from this great land of yours, this land of the free, of the brave. I want to f*ck this American hard. I want to f*ck this American soft. I want to f*ck this American until he turns red, white, and blue.”
Was God finally answering my prayers? I could swear that I once had this exact same DREAM, with this exact over-the-top dialogue, when I was in college, back in the days when I was scared of the opposite sex, with their batting eyelashes and their mysteries untold. Was this some sort of good karma coming my way for all my tough times over the last six months? If it was, I as a convert to Zen Buddhism.
“Hi, I’m Cara,” she said, extending her soft, sexy Irish hand.
“I’m Neilochk… I mean Neil,” I replied.
I was sweating. I remembered that old commercial — “never let them see you sweat.” I excused myself, so I could go to the restroom. I need a moment to breathe. Once behind the closed doors, a man-only haven, I washed my face with brisk water.
“I would be a fool not to seize the day.” I told my image in the mirror. “Or the night. Or however long she wants to do it.”
I dried my face, and returned to the bar.
She was gone.
The bartender beckoned, a smile on his face. He was old enough to have seen it all.
“You, my son, are gonna get f*cked like you never have before. She wants you, bad. She left you this…”
The old bartender handed me a folded piece of paper. On it, in a gentle flowing handwriting, it said —
“I’ll be waiting for you in my hotel room, with nothing on. Contact me. @caralovesfcking on Twitter.”
Whoa! Was this my lucky day or what?!
But then, I could feel the energy dissipate, like a dying light bulb. She only had left me her Twitter address! No hotel name? No phone number? Of course, she assumed someone as hip as me would be on Twitter as well, but… BUT… she didn’t know that I made a promise to myself NOT TO GO onto Twitter or Facebook for a week as a test of restraint!! And she was leaving on Monday! (sorry, you have to read the previous posts or you will have no idea what I am talking about)
Oh my God. What was I to do?
I called up a few friends, thinking they would tell me to stick to my plan, but surprising, everyone said I was crazy if I didn’t seize this unique opportunity. I even contacted some usually conservative-minded Christian bloggers, who pushed me to “go for it” as well.
“What about the fact that I’m still married?” I asked. “More importantly, what about breaking a promise to myself not to go on Twitter despite it being the only way to contact her?Doesn’t breaking a vow show poor character under God?”
“Screw character,” emailed Sarah from Tennessee, who writes under the name “Jesus-Loving Mommy.” “God works in mysteries ways. And clearly God wants you to get laid!”
Maggie Dammit. Jenny the Bloggess. Black Hockey Jesus. V-Grrrl. They all said the same thing. Go for it.
Kate, the exquisite writer at Sweet Salty, and who has a birthday tomorrow (Happy Birthday, Kate), surprised me the most when she said in a voice rarely heard on her soft-spoken blog, “If you’re not man enough to know the right choice, I’ll fly out there and f*ck this woman from Dublin myself!”
I decided that my friends were right. Happiness is more important than being a stubborn, moralistic twit intend on keeping to his promise to stay off Twitter and Facebook. And what’s the point, anyway? Who the hell cares? Already, my stats were down and writers were forgetting my name. The “new kids on the block” were taking over, eager and fresh-faced. This whole episode was turning into a self-defeating mess.
“Social media is a necessity nowadays.” I said to myself. “Only Luddites and fools turn their gazes from the future.”
I turned on my laptop ( I had already deleted my Twitter and Facebook apps from my iphone) and was about to log onto to twitter to contact Cara, the hottest woman I had ever met, when a suspicion arose.
“How did Kate know that this woman was from Dublin? I never mentioned it to her!”
This was very confusing to me. I went home and immediately discussed this with Sophia, who became my voice of reason. We came to the conclusion that there was a conspiracy afoot to bring me back into the fold.
“Don’t you see it? You have become a danger.” asked Sophia. “Once you start taking a week off from Twitter, others will start doing the same. Soon DMs will not be answered immediately, hashtags will be left unhashed, and Bachelorettes jokes will be a day late. The system needs to operate like a Borg. If not, it will collapse.”
I called a blogging friend who apparently has the inside scoop on all the behind-the-scenes shenanigan of “mommybloggers.” Through her, I learned that a group of prominent personal bloggers had used their blog advertising money from June to hire a high-priced hooker — this “Cara” — to entrap me into using Twitter this week. A webcam was hidden in her hotel room, and once I showed up and climbed into the bed next to Cara, I would have been exposed to the world as a “fraud,” and as weak as the next Twitter addict. I would have been dragged down to their level of the common obsessive Internet user.
Clearly, social media was now akin to the Mafia, or Scientology, where once a member, you can NEVER LEAVE!
Nice try, my so-called “online friends.” I didn’t fall for your ruse. And good “acting” job, “Cara,” if that is your real name. Your Irish accent could use some work.
I know you are angry at me, all of you addicted to social media, but in reality, you are angry with yourselves. You are still in a 140 character prison while I am living free. Born Free. Like Elsa the lion cub.
Five more days to go off Twitter and Facebook, and then I will be able to return, a new man. You’re going to have to come up with something more clever than sex with hot Irish woman to break my resolve.
