HEAVEN: I thought I wanted wacky

Back in 1999, I was 38 and dating a 26-year-old Chinese-Italian shoe salesman from Trinidad. I met him while -- what else? -- shoe shopping. He was tall, muscular and dark, with a lovely smile. And he made a great curry.

That's when Nick's e-mail landed in my in-box. It simply said he'd seen my profile online and thought I might be interested in reading his.

I'd had an ad online for several years, had met a few guys, and even dated several. I quickly learned that anyone who looks for love online must develop a really sensitive wacko filter.

I corresponded with guys who seemed normal, interesting -- even fun -- at first, but they gradually revealed enormous social maladjustments. I received complete curricula vitae (including links to publications), sexually explicit photos, proposals of marriage, really bad poetry, really inventive spelling, and letters that cc'd a dozen other women's ads. Married men wrote looking for traveling companions or threesomes. New immigrants wrote offering to be gigolos for "financially generous females."

Along the way, I did meet a few regular guys, but nothing ignited. I'd largely given up the idea of finding anyone online.

According to his profile, Nick had diverse interests. He was intelligent. Athletic. Thoughtful. He wrote with humor, confidence and humility. At 38, he was looking for a woman of 30 to 42; he didn't specify race or weight or looks of the woman he was seeking. He was open, adventurous, well-traveled. And he wanted a serious relationship.

My usually cautious, skeptical nature gave way to a complete gut-feeling takeover. "Wow," I wrote back. "You're the man of my dreams."

We met a week later. He didn't look like the art-boys or poets or bronzed Middle Eastern, Latin-American, North African types I'm usually attracted to. His complexion was a sun-sensitive (as in: SPF 800) pink, and he looked terribly strait-laced. At dinner, his British accent made him sound as if he had marbles in his mouth.

A few dates followed. While Nick was perceptive and funny, I also found him nervous and awkward. Finally, I told him: "I just want to be friends." "Yes," Nick replied without missing a beat. "I've been thinking the same thing. In fact," he said, "I've some friends I'd like to set you up with."

I was stung. I'd never been rejected right back like that.

About a week later, my friend Joe and I took Nick out for his birthday. We went to dinner and a movie and stopped to play ping-pong in a pool hall. On the way home it rained and we all got soaked. At my place, Nick pulled out my guitar. His playing was beautiful, moving ... seductive.

When he left, Joe turned to me and said, "He's a really nice guy!" I rolled my eyes. I didn't want nice. I wanted wacky, artsy-fartsy, struggling, exotic young rebels with boundless unrealized potential. I wanted complication and turmoil and pain and guys who didn't know what they wanted.

Two days later I called Nick. "Can I revise that 'just friends' thing?" I asked. "I'll be right over," he said.

We got married a year and a half ago, both for the first time, at 40. I'm due to give birth in January to a baby boy.

-- Hannele Rubin, Manhattan

HELL: Get thee to a seminary

I met a man online who matched what I was searching for in many ways. He was smart, articulate, witty, full of stories of life lived abroad. He was a handsome man in his mid-40s, a good age for my 38 years. I couldn't wait to meet him.

We met at a very fancy restaurant. I walked into the bar and scanned the few men sitting there. None of them looked like my guy. They were all much older than he said he was. His profile read 44; every man at the bar looked around 60. As I stood there wondering whether I was too early or too late, one of the men called out my name. I cringed on the inside.

We shook hands and he offered me a drink. I blurted out, "How old are you?"

"Everyone lies a little online," he explained, and then told me he was 58.

We sat down to dinner and two years later I still regret it. Seemed my date was educated in Catholic schools in Ireland, followed by seminary school, much to the pride and delight of his staunch Irish Catholic parents. The summer after his first year in seminary school he took a boat to NYC to visit his older brother. He was 20 years old and had never kissed a girl. Not long after he arrived in NYC he had his first sexual encounter with a woman, found out what he had been missing, and never returned to Ireland.

The whole time we were eating, this guy was pawing at me. He'd touch my face, stroke my hand, rub my arm. He kept telling me how pretty I was and how much he liked me. I kept finding polite ways of hinting that he should relax, enjoy the food. But he did not listen. Even the waiter was getting annoyed.

This went on well into our dinner until I couldn't take it anymore. I stood up threw my napkin in his face and shouted, "It's been 40 years since you got out of the seminary. Not 40 minutes. You touch me one more time and I'm going to stab you with my fork."

Did I mention this was a very formal restaurant? The maitre d' was at the table with the dinner check in seconds flat. We were both asked to leave immediately. I left him with the check and made haste to the parking lot.

As I waited for the valet to bring my car around, old seminary boy came running out of the restaurant and asked for a good-night kiss. He actually expected a kiss and wanted to know when he could see me again. Two years later all I can think of is -- it could have been worse; this guy could have ended up a priest.

-- Victoria Gallucci, Glen Ridge, N.J.

Recent Stories