Fluffy(36)

Personality matters.

People are more pliable and open than we think.

When a potential buyer or renter enters a home, yes, their headspace is all about them. Imaginations are quirky when it comes to space. We have to live in the past, the now, and the future, all at the same time. People do need to be able to imagine themselves living in a new home, but it doesn't have to be a blank space. It can be aspirational, a place to grow, change a little, maybe live a little better.

Will we be able to let go of our current space and all the joy and disappointment attached to it? Can we appreciate what we’re seeing in front of our face without bringing too much emotional baggage along?

Television shows and modern media about home living focus on that third layer: the future.

But it’s the past that really propels us into that unknown.

The house is ice cold. Somewhere in the AC system, a piece of machinery must have malfunctioned. Before I forget, I pull out my phone and send the office manager a quick email requesting repair service, cc'ing Will. I shiver and forge ahead.

I walk up the stairs, headed for the first group of bedrooms. Bedrooms are windows into people's souls.

Bzz. Bzzz. Bzzzzzzz. My stupid phone (86% charged, thank you very much) is going nuts in my pocket. All day, I’ve been plagued with offers to screw.

Yes. That’s right. No one has asked me out on an actual date yet. They just want to fill every hole except my mouth.

Er, actually... that one, too. A few guys are really, really specific about what they want. Including pictures, and one enterprising soul even sent a flow chart.

Last time I checked, semen didn’t qualify as a dinner date.

But for some of these guys, those calories count.

Opening the app, I swipe Hell no over and over until one of the offers catches my eye.

Do you like to dance? No screwing required.

Clever pickup line. Spelled correctly, with–bonus!–punctuation. My bar is so low right now. I open the message.

Hi Deco91, he starts.

No, my username isn’t original, but that’s the point. Anonymity requires a certain blandness. If I wanted creepy stalkers to be able to find me for a good old-fashioned kidnapping, I’d call Beastman and Spatula.

I am trying to find a way to be clever and different from the troglodytes on these dating apps...

Troglodyte? Five points to the guy for using an SAT word correctly.

I’m branching out and trying something new. Would you be interested in a really different first date? A dance lesson? I’m tired of coffee-shop speed dating and I have two left feet (full disclosure). Want to meet up for some fun? David. His username is NiceGuysFinish.

Huh.

David’s photo shows a vague, generic image of a broad-shouldered guy with muscular arms wearing a tight t-shirt, jeans, flip flops, and a baseball cap, walking a golden retriever on the beach. I do a reverse image search. Nope. Not a stock photo or stolen from anywhere in the photo database. Doesn’t come up as a profile picture for any public social media account. Hmmm.

What? You don’t reverse image everyone? I might be na?ve about pornography film sets, but I’m savvy when it comes to sex scammers on the internet. Especially scammers I might sleep with. Bad sex is bad enough. Bad sex with someone who pretends to be someone they’re not is so much worse.

Because then you feel like you slept with someone other than the person you agreed to sleep with.

Not that I would know.

Ask poor Perky all about it, though.

My phone buzzes with a text. It’s Fiona.

Go for Dance Guy! she says.

I do a double take.

How do you know about Dance Guy? I ask, groaning internally. Once we name these people, they become more real, and how can I say no to someone we’ve named? It’s like feeding a stray cat in your neighborhood. Do it once and it’s yours forever.

Perk and I downloaded the app and are monitoring your account. We knew you’d ignore it, so we’re doing this for your own good.

Of course they are.

You asshole, I text back.

Except... I accidentally type that in the message box in the dating app, hitting Send before I realize my mistake.

I get an immediate reply, even before blood flow has been restored to my brain.

Normally I don’t get called names until the date’s over. This is refreshing :) , David replies.

Mortified laughter pours out of me as I hover over the reply bar, wondering what to type.

I finally decide on: I’m branching out and trying something new, too.

If you’re looking for a guy who’s a sub and into being degraded, sorry. Not my kink, he responds.

Bummer, I type back. Have to give you the boot.

Is that a dancing boot? If so, say yes. Come on. Try me. I promise I’m a nice guy.

They all say that.

I know we all say that, but the odds are that some of us are telling the truth, he adds, as if reading my mind.

Bzzzzz.

My phone makes it impossible to ignore the text. I flip over to read: Are you flirting with Dance Guy in the app? Fiona texts.

Leave me alone. I accidentally called him an asshole because of you, I reply.

Me? I didn’t do anything!

You and Perky are assholes. I called him one instead of you.

So you blew it?

No. He still wants to go out with me.

Masochist?

Hey!

Sorry. Then again, not sure which one of you is the masochist, but go on the date! Dance with him. Then you can press against him and see what he’s packing.