Scammed by a hottie
Men are, at the best of times, sad and pathetic. Which is possibly part of our charm. I mean, we are broad brushstrokes of thick outdoor paint to the delicate touches of an artist's brush on a painting of a dreamy tuscan afternoon, that are most women. To add to the confusion, men are utterly mezmerized by women. I mean, to a degree where we can sometimes be incapable of speaking or thinking or speaking AND thinking. And all women, with varying degrees of awareness, are cognescent of this power that they hold, so much so that one of the biggest ways you can insult a woman is not to acknowledge her presence or, worse, treat her as one of the guys. That's the magic of attraction between the sexes.
Bearing all this in mind, I was messing around on a dating website (which shall remain nameless), window-shopping as it were, when a gorgeous woman sent me an IM. I mean, this chick was hot, hot, hot and way out of my league. The kind of woman who could be staring right at me, and not even see me. And I would understand.
Thinking she probably has me confused with somebody else, I allow myself to be chatted up and she seems really into me. We chat for about half an hour and she seems to find everything I type to be wit of the highest order. I begin to believe my own hype and we flirt for a few more minutes before she announces she has to go to bed, but she'd really like us to "talk" again. I say sure and we leave it at that.
Having been baited with cheese, I venture back into the mousetrap, around the same time the next day. She's not there...but there's a message from her that says "Thought you might like the song "Sexy Bitch" by Buckcherry. It's soooooo hot". I puzzle over this cryptic message and wonder why she'd think I'd enjoy it over, say, the Romanian Palace Guard's Christmas album. I mean, we didn't discuss music at all.
I shrug, and like a cult-member who's drunk as much Kool-Aid as was offered to him, I head off to iTunes and download said song. I listen to it and aside from having some frat-boyishly suggestive lyrics, I fail to see what it was that's so hot about it. I did know what's hot, though: her. And the next day, I went back...and found a variation of the message, only this time suggesting I listen to a song called "Kiss on the lips" by a band called Hinder-something-or-other. This time, I head to Limewire to try and download it for free. It's there, but every version I download isn't working or is just empty noise. Scratching my head like the Neandrethal that I am, I head of iTunes and download the song from there.
Again, nothing to write home about. If I was a chick at my apartment, in a revealing black dress, comfortably ensconced on my couch and giving me the signals, and I heard this song, I'd put on a sweater. It was cheese to the nth degree.
Of course, you probably guessed where this is going. It didn't take a genius (or a moron like me to figure out what the murphy game was: this woman was a saleswoman for one of the music labels. She gets on dating websites, picks out young men of dubious aesthetic appeal, showers them with virtual attention and then, when he's abused himself silly to the thought of bagging this sensual creature (masturbation, in this case, takes on a a different function: when we meet a hot chick, we treat it as we would winning the lottery; jerking off is the equivalent of taking out a loan and going on a spending spree, until the lottery check comes through), she peddles her MP3 wares. 99 cents did seem a small price to pay to make this girl think I was listening to her.
Of course it's embarrassing. But embarrassment, like anything else, is something you grow accustomed to. And nobody is more used to social humiliation on all levels, than me. And besides, my shame is the shame of all men and I can't really feel bad for seeing a pretty girl, allowing her to clean me out ($1.98, but it's the principle) under the promise of getting in her pants.
I'm a man, and we is weak and stoopid.