Be With You

"The hot, sexy donkey that can suck a golf ball through a 40-metre garden hose is looking for a wavy firefighter with a tongue that beats like a hummingbird and loves to paint my nails and eat Ben & Jerry's out of the box while watching Mad Men. Amaya Mitsil looked at the online dating site registration screen and frowned. That's what she really wanted to write. Here is the truth: “A destitute, precarious, overweight 26-year-old business analyst with three cats, a corporate job with a pension and no debt seeks Mr. Impossible for more than friendship and lots of ice cream. I crave physical cuddling and oral s*x with a guy who doesn't see it as some kind of favour he's doing for me, and then expect praise as if he's cleaned up my toilet. One-night stands are better than nothing as long as you brush your teeth. Call me!" Her best friend, Kayle Lourn, kicked her biceps. "You can't even tell! Kayle is the opposite of Amaya. Where Amaya is 5'6", Kayle is just tall enough to ride a roller coaster. Take 1 Amaya's height and you still have to subtract a number to get Kayle 2's height. Where Amaya has blonde hair. Long, curly and bright green eyes, Kayle is chocolate all around. "Mutt and Jeff," his mother had called them, and they had been best friends since college. That means Kayle knows Amaya too well. "F*ck, you're going to do this," she said, pointing at Amaya's face. "Don't try to be perfect. Perfection is the enemy of good enough." "I haven't even found Mr. Good Enough yet!" "That's because hundreds of Mr. Good Enoughs have passed you, Amaya, and you're blinding them." Kayle pushed Amaya aside and started typing, her long fingernails burning the keyboard. How did she do that? Tapping the tips of her fingers seemed impossible, but Kayle did it, keeping her fingernails intact, tiny copies of the famous Fifty Shades of Gray grey tie on each nail. The two had gone out to a club the night before and Kayle had spent the night getting up and throwing Amaya this online date before she even had her first cup of coffee. As the machine gurgled and rumbled, Amaya ordered it to hurry. Considering his entire romantic future in a half-human, half-undead state is a no-brainer. Amaya knew she had to lie, but how much was acceptable? Can she shave off a few sizes, or does she need to have an imaginary arm and leg amputated to make herself look "fit" and "fit"? The drop-down list with its built-in descriptors is like a torment of judgement. There is no choice between "zaftig" or "juicy" or "full". You know, size 18 with an F bust isn't a crime; in real life, she dresses fashionably and smoothly, is plump and pretty, and could put most guys in submission, but she's downsized her achievements, her personality and, yes, her body into a vocabulary designed by a group of nineteen-year-old internet startups. Stanford and Carnegie Mellon dropouts angered her for no reason. No - reasonably angry. Seeing so few options, she pointed to the boxes on the screen and said to Kayle, “Choose the word 'appropriate'. I can lift 105 pounds. That is,” she looked at Kayle, “more than your weight. Kayle deliberately ignored him, biting her bottom lip and concentrating. "Here it is!!" she exclaimed, arms outstretched in a grand gesture. She announced: “Engaging, engaging business analysts looking for friendships and more. Confident and financially independent, I'm a healthy woman who wants a man (or more than one! YOLO!) to talk to…uh, yeah. Conversation. Send me a message (or give me a massage!). " "I can't write that!" Amaya groaned. "It makes me feel like I want an orgy!" She squinted at the screen. "And what is 'YOLO'?" "Who doesn't want an orgy?" Kayle raised her eyebrows provocatively and stuck out her tongue, wiggling it in a very poor imitation of oral s*x. "And YOLO means 'you only live once'." "Cut. You turn me on. It's been a long time since I've had a butt, and the guy is finally using his tongue like he's a Roto Rooter. Like this." She stuck Kayle's tongue out and leaned in, laughing. And then Kayle, with a pompous look, pressed the "Submit" button. "Thanks for joining - your profile is now active!" reading screen. "Oh damn, Kayle, did you just do that?" Amaya stammered as she grabbed the mouse. "Damn it!" "What?" Kayle blinked. "Live a little. See who answers!" She grabbed the heavy, overstuffed Vera Bradley handbag they had found at a local thrift store for $3.99 and touched her car keys. “I have to go, Amaya. And you dare not delete it. Amaya laughed. "You know me too well." "Nothing," Kayle muttered. His face turned serious. “Really, Amaya. You have to go out. A guy deprived of your awesomeness. And besides, your budget needs a break. "My budget?" "Yeah. How much did you buy Bob's battery?" Confused, Amaya shook her head. As if Kayle sometimes spoke a foreign language. "Open?" "Your battery-powered boyfriend. You know - BOB. And with that, she giggled, running out the door as Amaya threw a piece of fashion magazine at her. Kayle's demonic laughter filled the apartment as she ran down the hallway, the sound fading as she reached the stairs. "Have a good day and go clean!" she shouted from the street. The coffee maker let out a deadly hiccup that signalled the pot was ready, and Amaya devoured it, needing food to speed up her brain. Enough caffeine and she can date anyone. Hmm, maybe she should look up baristas on this site. The free grid would be a great bonus. *** James Haley couldn't believe what he saw when he logged into the online dating site. Four months spent sorting through so many bad records had worn him out. Finding the right woman would be like finding a needle in a haystack, but in this case he didn't want to deal with the stings. Kayle deliberately ignored him, biting her bottom lip and concentrating. "Here it is!," she exclaimed, arms outstretched in a grand gesture. "Here's your ad." She announced: “Engaging, engaging business analysts looking for friendships and more. Confident and financially independent, I'm a healthy woman who wants a man (or more than one! YOLO!) to talk to…uh, yeah. Conversation. Send me a message (or give me a massage!). " "I can't write that!" Amaya groaned. "It makes me feel like I want an orgy!" She squinted at the screen. "And what is 'YOLO'?" "Who doesn't want an orgy?" Kayle raised her eyebrows provocatively and stuck her tongue out, wiggling it in a very poor imitation of oral s*x. "And YOLO means 'you only live once'." "Cut. You turn me on. It's been a long time since I've had a butt, and the guy is finally using his tongue like he's a Roto Rooter. Like this." She stuck Kayle's tongue out and leaned in, laughing. And then Kayle, with a pompous look, pressed the "Submit" button. "Thanks for joining - your profile is now active!" reading screen. "Oh damn, Kayle, did you just do that?" Amaya stammered as she grabbed the mouse. "Damned!" "What?" Kayle blinked. "Live a little. See who answers!" She grabbed the heavy, overstuffed Vera Bradley handbag they had found at a local thrift store for $3.99 and touched her car keys. “I have to go, Amaya. And you dare not delete it. Amaya laughed. "You know me too well." "Nothing," Kayle muttered. His face turned serious. “Really, Amaya. You have to go out. A guy deprived of your awesomeness. And besides, your budget needs a break. "My budget?" "Yeah. How much did you buy Bob's battery?" Confused, Amaya shook her head. As if Kayle sometimes spoke a foreign language. "Open?" "Your battery-powered boyfriend. You know - BOB. And with that, she giggled, running out the door as Amaya threw a piece of fashion magazine at her. Kayle's demonic laughter filled the apartment as she ran down the hallway, the sound fading as she reached the stairs. "Have a good day and go clean!" she shouted from the street. The coffee maker let out a deadly hiccup that signalled the pot was ready, and Amaya devoured it, needing food to speed up her brain. Enough caffeine and she can date anyone. Hmm, maybe she should look up baristas on this site. The free grid would be a great bonus. *** James Haley couldn't believe what he saw when he logged into the online dating site. Four months spent sorting through so many bad records had worn him out. Finding the right woman would be like finding a needle in a haystack, but in this case, he didn't want to deal with the stings, And yes, women can be burned. So far, he's been inundated with chat requests and he knows exactly why. As a firefighter who participates in weightlifting competitions for fun, as well as in mini-triathlons, his photos look pretty good. The problem with the women who answered him was that they were also the type to be attracted only by looks. He may seem too superficial to think so, but being built his way can be a curse at times. The Curse of Jersey Shore Chicks. Because he was the one who seemed to be looking for him, like moths plunging into fire. A fire of trash ho-dom, like Snookie. When he meets these women, he finds himself in another universe, where they lick their lips and greet him in the alley behind the friendly tapas restaurant, where he enjoys taking women. A few dates stuffed with goat cheese and jugs of sangria, then we hit a sticky brick wall next to the trash cans. And when he refused… he still had scars from a woman's long, exaggerated nails scratching his neck as she yelled, “You don't know me!” time and again, as passers-by gawked, snapping photos they might have uploaded to Reddit and gleefully calling 911 when it became clear he needed police assistance. So when this new Amaya profile came out, he looked at the description and leaned back in his chair, taking a deep breath. Cute. But not too cute. A little sassy. He likes boldness. He ran a hand through his thick wavy hair. Time to get a haircut, buddy. You look like a survivor. And it smells like that, he thought, looking at her picture and feeling his own scent. His morning run is over, 3.8 miles logged into his online fitness program, and he stinks. She looked like a girl in a 1940s dress. A bit more curvaceous, with soft curves on her shoulders, the soft lime green sweater accentuated her bust. Her jawline looks both toned and soft, and her natural blonde hair is tied into a ponytail across her face. Her mother called her "the corn-eating peasant girl," and those lips - fresh and half-smiled, seemed to say "Kiss me, James." Also smart. A business analyst? It sounds appropriately bland but signals that she's smart enough to bring her story into a conversation about something other than Kim Kardashian or Fifty Shades of Gray (really - why? them? mentioned?). A real woman. What a refreshing change. So he continued reading: “Engaging, engaging business analysts looking for friendships and more. Confident and financially independent, I'm a healthy woman who wants a man (or more than one! YOLO!) to talk to…uh, yeah. Conversation. Send me a message (or give me a message!). " Something intense and hot inside him arose. From that description, it looks like she's… serious? Certainly not. "Mike! Hey, Mike! Come in!" If there was an opportunity - any opportunity, here, he had to act quickly. Such a great person is about to be flooded with messages from weirdos in need. And you have to be first. His roommate walked in. While James was muscular and muscular, Mike Pine was tall and sleek, the body of a marathon runner with long, lean tissues. James is dark, thick,