Thursday, May 15, 2003
Copyright © Las Vegas Mercury

Goldberg: You've got nerve

By Tod Goldberg

For the last several months my friend Paul has been telling me about all the hot chicks he's been meeting online, about how they're all so interesting and vibrant and willing to have casual and/or torrid sex with him. He tells me all about the nights they spend out on the town, hitting the poker tables at the Bellagio, shopping for high-priced jewelry or merely slipping out for dinner.

The first problem with this scenario is that Paul is married, has a 14-year-old daughter and may be chemically dependent on the marijuana he covertly smokes in his basement each night. The second problem, or, well, obstacle is that Paul isn't actually going out with any of these women--in fact, it's all an intricate fantasy born on the personals page of Nerve.com.

"It's addicting," Paul says. We're sitting on the back porch of his newly purchased home barbecuing salmon. Inside, our wives are discussing the intricacies of "antiquing" wood furniture and Paul's daughter is playing "Cleaning Out My Closet" at high decibels. "I'll be sitting in my office, pissed off about something that happened over breakfast or just bored and, next thing you know, I'll be checking out the personals. Some of the girls are really hot. Some aren't. But a lot of them seem like they just want to get screwed and then dumped. I could do that. I could be that guy for them."

"You're married. You have a kid."

"Right," Paul says. "Exactly. But for the 15 minutes I'm trolling through the pages, almost clicking the icon that allows you to make the collect call to the waiting vixen--I'm all about that."

Paul's wife comes out, kisses her husband on the top of his head and asks him what he thinks he'll be seasoning the salmon with. He tells her he'll use the "secret" marinade. She asks me if I'd like a beer and I tell her yes, because I'm thinking this conversation might turn into the type of conversation I'd only like to have slightly sauced.

"So," I say, after Paul's wife has gone back inside, "do you, uh, you know, while you're looking at the profiles and pictures, do you, uh..."

"Oh, no. No way. That would be like cheating on my wife."

Both of our wives walk outside, as if on cue, and Paul gives me the super-discreet glare that means, "This conversation is over." Later in the evening, though, Paul pulls me aside and hands me a piece of paper. "These are a few of my favorite profiles," he says. "Check 'em out. Let me know what you think. Don't show your wife."

"Okay," I say, but my thinking is that I'll probably throw the paper away because I'd feel a little weird peeping on Paul's personal fetish. It's one thing if everyone knows you're into Heidi Klum; it's another thing entirely if everyone finds out you're into a 21-year-old woman who goes by girl_with_ink and who is looking for a guy with the endurance of Billy Idol, which, it turns out later that evening--when my wife and I huddle around the computer to learn all about Paul's weird obsessions--he is.

"This is unusual," my wife says.

"I agree."

"This chick actually put a picture of herself on the Internet and then tried to claim that people think she looks like Angelina Jolie."

"Maybe she meant people mistake her for Billy Bob Thornton," I say. "Or maybe Fiona Apple. I could see either, really."

My wife nods in agreement. "Who's next on the list?"

We spend the next 40 minutes checking out Paul's top 10 fantasy dates and learn that more likely than not, they all think they resemble Angelina Jolie. (Paul's wife, it should be noted, looks more like Mary Stuart Masterson circa Some Kind of Wonderful.) A great many of the women have children--generally a 2-year-old or a 3-year-old, because Paul seems to like them right around 24 years old--and an even larger number of the women want a man who will make them laugh. The most glaring thing all the women share, however, is they are functioning illiterates. To a woman, they can't spell, use terrible punctuation and generally eschew capitalization at all costs. I find this especially odd considering Paul is an English teacher.

The next morning, I call Paul at his office to suss out his mania.

"What did you think?" he asks.

"Interesting."

"I got some new ones today. VegasAngel and Postmodernmillie look promising."

"What's up with all the illiterate girls?" I ask after I see that both VegasAngel and Postmodernmillie are, in fact, promising in that cyberporn kinda way.

"Oh," Paul says, "yeah. That's kinda my thing. Satisfies that whole student/teacher angle."

"I'm gonna let you go," I say.

"Don't tell anyone about this, right? Strictly between us guys."

I think for a moment about the consequences of the truth; that maybe Paul'll stop before he gets carpal tunnel syndrome or his wife finds out and brains him.

"Just us guys."