Paging Dr. Douchebag by Naomi Elana Zener

I practically snorted Chardonnay out of my nose. Even in setting me up with the holy grail of men, a plastic surgeon, E-harmony® had lied yet again. I couldn’t believe that a man actually admitted to me in the first ten minutes of a blind date that he was a game-playing douchebag.

“So you’re openly admitting that you’re a womanizer?” I asked.

“You misheard me. Maybe I should refer to you an ENT colleague of mine to check out your ears, “ Tom replied. “I said I’m a woman-prizer, not a womanizer.”

“And the distinction is?” I asked nonplussed.

“It means that I prize women,” Tom explained.

“How exactly does one ‘prize’ a woman?” I pressed already waist-deep in to the muck.

“I prize their eyes, their breasts, their mouths, their legs - you get the picture. And, like any good prize you win at the fair, you want to win them all. Well, only if the prizes are hot.”

“Do you stick them on a shelf?” I asked rhetorically, searching the restaurant for the waiter signaling him to bring me a bottle of wine to help put me out of my misery. “Are they sitting next to your grade six science fair participation ribbon and little league baseball trophies?”

“Don’t be stupid. You know we’re talking about women, not actual prizes,” Tom stated. “I pleasure them in bed. I can go all night long.  I can even please two or three at a time.”

“Yet you somehow don’t see yourself as a womanizer,” I offered.

“Women aren’t just notches on my bedpost. They’re my greatest set of memorabilia,” Tom stated. “If you become one of Tom’s girls you’ll see how much you love being a prize. My girls don’t pay for anything, are free to have a career and all you have to do is make me look good in return.”

“Obviously, be good in bed too?” I asked rhetorically.

“That goes without saying,” Tom advised.

“How does one go about making you look good?” I asked looking depressively into my empty sobering glass, still waiting on a waiter to come over to the table so I could order a bottle of wine with a straw. Having hit rock bottom of the dating cesspool with Dr. Douchebag, I started muttering to myself about the things I put myself through in the vain attempt to find a man.

“Did you say something?” Tom asked.

“No, well, I just wondered out loud how much wine I have to drink before I find love,” I recovered.

“Yeah, I noticed you drink a lot,” Tom offered. “That’s ok by me. Sometimes Tom’s girls need a little lube to help them swallow.”

At that kernel of truth, I vomited a little bit in my mouth.

“A single gal swimming in a sea of amoeba has to do what she can in order to survive until she finds cleaner waters,” I retorted.

“I knew you were going to say that,” Tom advised. “I’m psychologic.”

“Excuse me, but I think you meant to say psychic,” I offered.

“That’s what I said,” Tom countered.

“No, no, you said ‘psychologic,’ not psychic. The latter means you can read people’s minds. The former is not a real word. I guess on the day when they handed out brains at beauty surgeon school, you were home playing with your prizes,” I stated.

“Same difference. Bottom line is that I’m psycho-syncing with you and know what you are going to say before you say it,” Tom boasted.

Immediately and without warning, I bolted to my feet, yanking my purse off the table and tablecloth with it. I charged out of the bar glancing back, as I made my furious retreat to a taxi, taking note of EHarmony’s latest and greatest match’s look of shock. Clearly, Mr. Psychologic Holmes did not see that move coming.

© 2014. Naomi Elana Zener. All Rights Reserved.