New York

Why Manhunt Sucks Cock

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Blind dates are way too crazy and unpredictable to be that fulfilling (and I’m not talking about candle-lit dinners with Ray Charles). At least on Manhunt, you get a vague idea of what the person looks like based on their lurid description and soft-focus photo gallery. Alas, people sometimes–no, always–lie like a flea-market rug. A guy with flowing locks of blonde hair generally turns to have them coming out of his nose and ears. A 29-year-old hottie usually turns out to be a dyslexic 92-year-old. A horse-hung stud is actually a pot-bellied pig.

Well, a faithful reader named Alex Geana–who wrote the new poetry book Side Step Me–has chimed in with a poignant description of this type of internet-hookup landmine. The “blogger of the week” contest is officially over (What are good are my rules if I don’t stick to them?), but let’s just run this as the first entry in the next one, OK? And then let’s have lunch! I’ll be the 21-year-old rich power bottom in the corner!

The Hunt For Men In October

By Alex Geana

After all the slutty cyber chat, sizing of measurements and expectations, deep down I want to date. So I set one up with a potential beau after changing my profile to reflect the dating vibe. Fall’s arriving and cuddling sounds hot.

We decided on a safe first date, coffee at an UWS coffee shop with hot Columbia boys (was this safe?). I get my cup of joe – hold my breath, wait for the guy to arrive–“please look like your picture” ..’please look like your pic’ … “please think I’m cute” I mantra and text my roommate. His odd response is “think of Madonna”. Shrugging, watching the hot jock and the curly-haired twink who I wish were my date, both walked by followed by more strapping students. They’re followed by a guy who looks like the fella I’m supposed to meet.

But ten years older. I silently wait. This guy has the same features, the same look, yet sports a bad Botox job & bad flannel. I text my date, it’s not him, he hasn’t arrived, I grab a seat. Watch more hotties stride through. My date shows up, takes a seat, there’s no chemistry as I look longingly at his mole. I’m perplexed by some wayward facial features. I’m sure he thinks the same of me. All of a sudden I have the awkward need to cook dinner. I get home, pour my vodka, and shove the rump roast into the oven.

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