Another Unromantic Love Story

I couldn't decide where to put this. It is clearly Romance but it has a lot of the elements of LW. Because it centers on an age-old LW dilemma I decided to put it here. People who watch a lot of TCM will probably figure out where I got the idea. I am working on a long resolution which I will post when I finish it. In the meantime, I have set the table so if anybody wants to write an alternative ending you are welcome to have-at-it and we can compare.

*****

I'm a man who floats through life, no attachments whatsoever. It's easier that way. In fact I can't remember a time when I was ever one of the guys.

The dudes in my school hung out in testosterone fueled packs. I was a total loner. I had no interest in sports. Never played them. Watching them was boring.

I had no need to prove that I could outsmart a fish. Some of the simpler brains get a thrill out of hunting. I never understood that. Maybe killing something made their own pointless lives so much more significant. I don't know?

I am as dense as any guy when it comes to the labyrinth that is the female mind. But my nerdiness attracts them.

I think it's the opposite of the "bad-boy" effect. I am so far from being a bad-boy that I intrigue some elements of the estrogen bearing species.

Consequently, off and on I have had my share of deep sexual experiences, no pun intended.

Nevertheless, getting really serious with a female required way too much commitment. All I ever really needed was the occasional one-night-stand, in between frequent dates with the ever-seductive Rosy Palms.

I spent a lot of time in cyberspace. And programming was an obsession. Over the years I made a lot of money writing code. I started on simple jobs at 14 and by the time I was out of high school I had a career.

As you might imagine, I lead an unconventional life. Most days I don't leave my condo. Just give me the design specs and I will give YOU an absolute work of art. All of that while, sitting in my Jockeys and a t-shirt in front of my workstation.

My reality is mainly virtual. That's where I met Biff. She probably had an actual name. But we had corresponded so intimately in the nerd-herd-chat-rooms that we decided that we were best-friends-forever. Hence Biff.

I had no idea who she was, what she looked like, or where she lived. For all I knew, she might have been a 90 year old Ukrainian babushka; or even a guy.

People have no gender in cyberspace. And status isn't determined by looks or money. You rise, or fall, by your intelligence. And Biff was the smartest person I have ever known.

We chatted for two continuous years. I'm talking about four or five hours a day of concentrated talking. You would never have so much sustained conversation with a real human. But it was easy schmoozing with Biff and her incredible mind.

Our discussions ranged everywhere. We would go from topics like geo-politics, to why anybody ever considered a particular TV show funny.

She had a scope of intellect and an understanding of humankind that dwarfed my own and her perceptions were second to none. She was simultaneously humorous, insightful, sardonic and profound.

This is just me hazarding a guess. But during that time I felt like no two people had EVER been as close as Biff and I were. She held nothing back. Neither did I.

What would be the point when we were both faceless avatars in the anonymous jungle of the internet? We shared everything.

And if love is an absolute connection to another person's soul than we were in love.

Of course that eventually led to cybersex. Our cybernetic fucking was detailed, imaginative and very, very hot. But it also brought on the usual male insecurities.

So I finally asked her whether sex with me was as good as the physical sex she was getting.

You don't need to remind me. I know I'm a weenie. Never claimed otherwise. What I got back was:

>"If I get fucked in a forest and nobody hears me moan is that wrong?"

> "What ARE you, Nietzsche's wet-dream?"

>"Nope, I'm just a girl who loves sex and thinks that ALL men are stupid, selfish, self-centered pigs."

>"I'm a man. Am I a self-centered pig?"

>"No!! You're the male abstraction. I'm the female abstraction. We are opposite sides of one virtual soul. I give myself to you absolutely because our pleasure is not constrained by our difference."

That caused a major stiffie.

I understood exactly what she was talking about. We were a shared subconscious. The other person existed in our imaginations. So the pleasure we gave, we got. Or in simple terms we were fucking OURSELVES.

I couldn't imagine an intellect so powerful that it could have figured THAT out.

And then one day Biff just disappeared.

She was always waiting in our private chat-space when I got my morning coffee.

It was nothing more than a companionable way to wake up. We would chat about our day and any of the things that had happened since we last talked.

I knew that Biff was more sociable than me. Who wasn't? And occasionally we missed evenings, especially if she stayed out late on a date.

But she was always there every morning of every day for the past 700 straight days. Except that fateful day.

When I entered the room the curser just sat there blinking at me. I waited, staring at the thing.

Hours passed and no Biff. I went from watching to restless pacing. I kept saying to myself, "Come on Biff, where are you?"

A lot of options went through my head. Maybe she got hit by a car, or mugged? Maybe she had a stroke, or a heart attack?

But the dominant thought was, "Have I just been played?"

Biff's disappearance brought a lot of things into perspective.

I went through every one of the five stages of grief.

Denial: first I sat for almost 48 straight hours watching the curser blink. I kept telling myself that Biff would never do that to me.

Then Anger: I said to myself, "Fuck her! I don't need the bitch!" I went out and bought a case of Jameson's and spent the next week drunk on my ass.

Occasionally I staggered over to the screen to look at that diabolical little prompt still blinking away.

Finally, I smashed the monitor with my last bottle of Irish.

Then Bargaining: I woke up lying on the floor covered in vomit and little pieces of plastic. I took my wasted body out to the local Best-Buy. I bought a top of the line system.

I wanted all of that compute power because I had made a deal with God and every proxy server Biff had ever hopped through. I would find her and we would work this out.

In the end I was pretty sure that she lived in the continental U.S. but that was as far as I got. The girl was good.

Depression: that led to two solid years of sadness, regret and anguish. It was unpleasant and scary. I was not used to feeling anything about anybody.

The depression stage DID boost my business because working was the only way I could stay sane.

During that painful period I was a code writing machine. My Zen was most superb.

It took me an endless two and a half years to reach Acceptance.

Of course I hadn't moved on from Biff. But at least I could function like normal. You don't need to remind me. I know she was a virtual entity and that I'm a geek and that "normal" is a pretty relative concept with me.

One of the oddest outcomes of those two years was that I had begun to cultivate a friend.

Julian worked on the talent management side at the contracting house. He was an actual human being not a nerd.

I think that they had told him to look after me because my behavior was bizarre, even for me. And he actually came to like, or perhaps the right term is "feel sorry for", me.

He would take me out for drinks every time I dropped things off there.

Julian was a very affable guy. Of course you don't succeed in sales if you're an asshole. So the likeability factor was to be expected.

He had just moved down to DC from New Haven. Where he had done the entire Yale MBA experience. So he wasn't dumb.

Nonetheless, he was about as opposite me as you can get.

I am early 30s very tall, skinny and best described as unkempt.

He was five eleven, and a preppie's preppy. Crisp blue oxford shirt and khakis.

I have no social skills whatsoever.

Julian could sell those fabled ice boxes to those proverbial Eskimos.

Whenever we were out he would flirt outrageously with every female in the place. They all loved him.

Those same girls didn't even know I existed.

That was probably because I spent the entire time looking at my hands.

I liked girls as much as he did. But inarticulate and painfully self-conscious doesn't come close to describing my savoir-faire.

It was the day before Thanksgiving. I had brought in a module that was a little jewel. Julian was buying me the usual reward.

He said, "What are you doing for Thanksgiving Bill?"

I said that I was planning on microwaving two turkey TV dinners with all of the trimmings and sharing them with my old dog Buster.

Then to be conversational I added, "What are you doing?"

He said, "We're new in town and the family is up north in Boston so it's just Hannah and me. We would love to have you join us for Thanksgiving, you can bring Buster if you like."

Normally I would rather be tied to a wild porcupine than have dinner at somebody's house, especially on a holiday. But I got the sense that the guy actually wanted me to be there.

So against my better judgment I said, "What time is dinner?"

I had no idea what caused that sudden onset of sociability. But the situation with Biff had changed me and Julian was a decent fellow. Maybe I was actually growing a heart?

Thus, the following afternoon found me on the doorstep of their trendy McMansion in College Park.

My unruly shock of brown hair was slicked back and I was wearing my only sport coat. I had even given Buster a bath. He wanted to know what he had done to justify such extreme abuse.

Buster is big, stupid and smelly and the best dog in the world.

I got him from the pound years ago. He looks like the hound from hell. But he is as sweet tempered and loving as any dog can be. And he is as shy and unforthcoming as I am.

He's mostly Labrador with a touch of some bigger and rangier dog, like an American Bulldog. There was also what might have been Shar-Pei since he has wrinkles.

In fact his skin fits him just as badly as my clothes fit me.

Julian was a study in "at home" fashion. He looked like Mr. Rogers from his plaid shirt and shawl collar sweater to his topsiders. He might as well have been smoking a pipe.

I handed him the screw-off bottle of Chablis I had picked up at the drugstore.

I knew that Julian's wife would skin us both if Buster disgraced himself on their rug.

So my first step was to navigate him to Julian's spacious and well-tended back yard. My aim was to get the old fellow to do his daily business.

While Buster was attending to things, we chatted about Julian's wife.

That conversation took a while since Buster's "business" also involved a lot of sniffing and rolling around in unspeakable things.

It had been a whirlwind courtship. Julian had picked her up three years ago at a Starbucks.

He had only ducked in for a latte but when he saw her sitting there he HAD to make her acquaintance.

He said it was love at first sight.

One thing led to another and they finished the night in bed. According to Julian she was an absolute animal in the sack. And yes girls; that is the first question most guys will ask the man in your life. It comes well before any questions about your literary interests, prowess as cooks or mothers.

Anyway, that remarkable first night led to more dates. Six months later they were married. They had been married for a year and a half when Booz transferred him down to the Beltway.

Julian finished his story and Buster finished his business and we all three walked back into the house with our tails wagging.

As might be expected, Julian's wife was smoking hot gorgeous, long blond hair on a five foot four frame. She was doing the full "Stepford" thing in the kitchen.

She could have been a central-casting stereotype of the successful yuppie wife. Except for the fact that she added new meaning to the term "brick shithouse".

Even though that body was clad in a simple, domestic diva outfit, she still set off deep lustful urges in my lizard brain.

Big, high, round and proud didn't come close to describing the wonder of her chest and the tiny waist and perfectly muscled hips and legs in her form fitting cashmere slacks only added to the goddess impression.

I could see why a player like Julian had fallen head-over-heels for her.

When we arrived, she was bustling around the kitchen like Martha Stewart on meth. Julian introduced me to her.

The direct gaze and the intelligence lurking behind those huge cat eyes almost made me take a step back. It was totally unexpected.

She had a low sultry voice that only added to the image of lightning in a bottle. I was a long way past tongue-tied.

I took her proffered hand and began to closely study the tops of her shoes. If I had raised my eyes any higher I was afraid I would be turned to stone; at least in one part of my body.

Intimidated doesn't even begin to describe my feelings.

Buster was taking a disturbing amount of interest in what she had laid out on the table. That gave me an opportunity to bolt the room dragging him along.

As I did I exchanged the classic guy look with Julian. He said with sympathy, "Yes I know. She is something isn't she?"

I gushed with all sincerity, "You two look perfect together."

Dinner was probably normal for them. But it was sheer agony for me. Hannah was witty, and a great conversationalist. It was distressing to have somebody as beautiful as she was focus her entire attention on me.

In fact getting a committed loner like me to talk at ALL was an accomplishment. She got more information out of me than most people would get in a year.

When I DID occasionally raise my eyes off my plate I kept catching her expression. She was looking at me like I disturbed her. It was as if there was something about me that she couldn't get her arms around and it was nagging at her.

The more we talked the more curious she got about me. I was having the same kind of vibe but I had no idea why. It just seemed like I knew her. But the odds of me knowing a woman that stunningly attractive were both zero, and none.

We finished the evening over drinks. It was something exotic and expensive. I got the feeling that the Chablis that I had brought had gone directly into the trash.

Hannah was sitting on a couch next to Julian, shoes off, with her fabulous legs curled under her and her hand resting possessively on his shoulder. She was the perfect loving wife.

I am not a talker. So I just sat there staring into space, my hand stroking Buster's head. He was sitting up next to me with his muzzle resting on the arm of my chair.

He was giving me his normal helping of dog-love, slobber-slobber-drool-drool, mostly all over their upholstery.

Mr. Affability tried a conversational gambit,to get me to stop sitting there like an idiot, "You two have a lot in common. Hannah is a computer whiz too."

Just to be polite I idly said, "Oh, what are you interested in?"

She lit up like a searchlight. Computers obviously turned her on. She said, "Everything! I do a lot of exploring in the deepweb and I even do some ethical hacking for Julian's company."

I said, just to sound a little less like I belonged on the short bus, "I do too, maybe we've met in the virtual world. What's your handle?"

All hackers go by their handles. In our little community our handle is as sacred to us as his hat is to a cowboy. It's our persona and it is distinctive.

She said, "I call myself Persephone69, she was beautiful and also the goddess of the underworld."

She added with a flirty smile, "I'll let you figure out what the last part means."

OF ALL OF THE GIN JOINTS, IN ALL OF THE TOWNS, IN ALL OF THE WORLD, SHE HAD TO WALK INTO MINE!

Handles are distinctive. So there was no question that the woman sitting across from me, hand draped lovingly across the back of her husband's shoulder, was BIFF!

One of the chief advantages of being a stone nerd is that your emotions are buried way down deep. That was the only thing that saved me.

I was taking a sip of the liquor at the time, which brought on a coughing fit. It was the only way to cover up the reaction.

I said, still choking, "Sorry, I am not used to drinking something this strong." I was glad I had not sprayed my drink all over both of them.

Then I unceremoniously dashed to their little powder room.

I needed to get my emotions under control. I was astounded to discover that I HAD emotions. And they were bottomless ones indeed.

First, I threw up the entire dinner. All I could think of as I splashed water in my suddenly very grey face was, "I've gotta get out of here!"

As I emerged, Buster was standing at the door. He looked concerned, "What's wrong Boss?"

I said, knowing that they would overhear, "I'm not feeling very well old buddy. We have to hit the road."

I must have looked ghastly. So they were happy to hustle me and my canine pal out the door. Fear of an Ebola outbreak in your own home can do that to a host.

I drive a Range Rover. It's my only indulgence. I like the luxury and the fact that it can go anywhere. Buster got obediently in the back, like he always does. He sat there looking worried; pant-pant-pant-pant-pant-drool on the leather seats.

I couldn't lie to Buster. He's my only pal. I said, with real tears running down my cheek, "I'm in a real mess old buddy!"

I might be a nerd, and as unplugged from society as you could be without being an actual display at Madame Tussaud's. But there were so many unresolved issues that I didn't want to think about them.

That was an understatement. Let me count the ways.

The wife of my only male friend is the single human being I have EVER loved. And I care so deeply about her that the detailed stories that Julian had told about her past feats of sexual athleticism were driving me into a jealous frenzy.

Then, to complicate the picture ever so much further, there is no way I could tell either of them what I knew.

Biff and I had explored way too far down into each other's souls to ever walk that back. Hannah would put out a hit on me if she thought that I knew who she really was.

And I probably wouldn't get my ass any MORE kicked if I told Julian that I had actually fucked her in real-time.

He would never understand a virtual love affair like we had.

Then there was the matter of her attitude toward men.

I didn't know whether marriage had changed her but one of the last things I had learned about her was that she was slightly more dangerous to the males of the world than Messalina herself.

So Buster and I went home and locked the door.

All of the next week I did what I do best. I hid-out from everybody. I wasn't answering messages. I disabled my phone. I worked 20 hours a day on my next project and I thought about my situation.

First and most obviously, I had to declare Biff irrevocably dead.

I had existed for the first 30 years of my life without human contact. As far as Biff was concerned - well, she was dead - right? So, I had nothing to worry about now, didn't I? I really believed that.

I don't bullshit myself. Of course I could reconnect with Biff. I knew who she actually was now. But that would be wrong.

Biff/Hannah was married to a friend and I wasn't even starting to go there. Only heartbreak and perdition lay at the end of that road. That's right? It does doesn't it??