Too much information

What people don't know about Vancouver is that it is hot, hot, hot, triple X hot, but largely online. Hmmmm. Sex, Lies and Lotusland is a fictional blog by a group of writers exploring dating in the city. We will collectively refer to the "author" as Anonymous. If you would like to contribute to this blog, we will protect your privacy. All entries must be fictional, however.
“Demi Moore seeks hot young lover to take away her post-marriage virginity,” Estelle had written, and she had hit send. But all through the day she wondered, who would respond to such an ad?

When she finished putting her three boys to bed in their respective sleeping bags in her room, she dragged herself wearily into the tiny living room to find out. She pushed aside the print-outs of the many unfinished versions of her resume and opened the laptop. All those years in Lytton, what had she done? A six year gap in her employment history. What she had done was pour all her energy into changing the man she had married. She had poured her soul into the possibility of his backwards metamorphisis into a hottie. But he had clung to the belief that a businessman could become a small town rancher, stay out drinking every night, gain a pound a month, become evil-mouthed and wild, and his wife would wear nothing but an apron and patent leather high heels and greet him at the door with a highball and a tray of gourmet appies when he came in at 4 a.m.

She balled up the resumes one by one and threw them in the trash. I'm smart. That had to be her mantra. I can do this, she waited for Yummylife’s site to download. I can get a job. I will. It appeared and she typed in her user name. Her Yummylife homepage opened up.

“Wow,” she said, cupping her hand over her mouth and checking to see if she’d disturbed the Aunties. Karla and Alice lay on the fold out couch with their arms around each other. A train crashed against another train in the rail yard right outside on Alexander.

Her Yummylife mailbox had filled with come on’s. Estelle flipped through them, one by one, opening up the photographs of the men who had given her access to their “Backstage photos.” X rated photos, the software warned. Her finger hovered over the "open" key. She shook her head and closed her eyes and hit it. She winced as she viewed the first shot. Then she doubled over and groaned. Then she opened her eyes and examined the photo closely.

Where were the head shots? What did these guys look like above the belt? She had never been so exposed to core of the male anatomy in such a wholesale fashion. Was there a woman anywhere that felt attracted or turned on to a man whose package she met before his head or heart?

Was that what men thought women wanted?

She revised her “opening line.”

“Demi Moore seeks hot younger lover with head shot to take away her post-marriage virginity.”

And, again she hit send.

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