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Krrobi

Teacher / Writer

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In The Jungle

Kim Sisto Robinson

Some of my girlfriends are unhappily single.  They tell me it’s a jungle out there. My friend Pam says, “Men will buy you a margarita and then expect you to have sex with them. One guy says to me, and I’m dead serious, he says, he wishes I would have told me previously that I didn’t put out before he paid nine stinking bucks for a drink! Can you believe that, crap?”

Pam decides to go on Harmony.Com because she’s fed up with the superficiality out in the jungle, the predators, the drooling drunks, mommy’s boys, and the expect-sex-after-a-nine-dollar-drink- jerks. “Cooome on,” she moans, “I’m worth more than nine lousy bucks! I mean, is this what prostitutes get now days, or what?” She lifts her head very Audrey Hepbun like and purrs, “And I, my dear, am a lady.” So the lady pays to get on Harmony, and she tells me there are hundreds of profiles.  On one night alone she goes though about 300 faces looking for the good looking ones.  I inform her that’s one of her problems; she’s only looking for external stuff when she should be looking for internal stuff.  She finally finds a guy who is gorgeous, and I mean gorgeous.  He resembles George Michael and that comedian Dane Cook.  I am skeptical.  Well, that’s not true, I don’t believe it, cause the photo looks like it’s from 1980 or something, like it’s been copied and pasted from this to that.  And me being me must tell her exactly how I feel.  “He’s sent in somebody else’s photo, or that’s how he looked thirty years ago.” I say.  “In Reality, he’s a fat fifty year old guy who wants to see your tits.”  Pam rolls her eyes and responds to fat boy anyhow.

He emails her right away as if he’s sitting right at his computer like a pedophile waiting to see tits. Anyhow, to make a long story short, they’ve been emailing and talking on the phone for two months now; he’s from Florida, by the way, which is a little inconvenient.   I met Pam at Starbucks last week, and she admits she talks for hours with this guy over the phone, he (fat boy) already gushes that he looooves her, he wants a big wedding, perhaps they can honeymoon in the Cayman Islands, he desires kids too, lots of them. Then she gives me the bombshell….

BOOM!

“He asked me to send some nude photos of myself— from the neck down.” 

 RED FLAG!        ATTENTION!      MASSIVE RED FLAG!       HE’S AFREAK!       HE’S  A SERIAL KILLER!

I can’t hold back.  “Are you craaaazy?  There is noooo way!”  And then one more time incase she didn’t hear the first time, “Are you Craaaazy?”  Okay, the guy already freaked me out saying he loves her after two months, but this is just too damn much.  This is sick. The jungle all of a sudden transforms into the Silence of the Lambs or something.  And why would somebody ask for nude photos from the neck down?  Just to see body parts?  To put the photo on his wall along his other headless creatures, throw darts at it because he hates women; to fantasize that he’s a serial killer and cuts womens’ heads off?  Because he’s a rapist and doesn’t care about eyes, cheeks, lips, the soul? 

Before I can scream, NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO, this guy is Hannibal Lecter, Pam says, I already sent him the photos.   And I’m getting so damn mad I can feel heat enter my body like a wave. “With or without a head?” I ask.  “Without.” She says softly, knowing I’m going to blow.

Now, this girl has her Master’s degree in education.  She’s bloody brilliant, funny, and amazing, and to top it off, she looks a bit like Cameran Diaz.  Heeellllooo. I’m thinking, what’s going on here?  What’s happening inside this girl’s head?  I’m not even mad anymore, I’m sad; I’m really, really sad. 

She’s probably going to read this blog and tell me it’s none of my damn business. It’s her life, her decision, her loneliness. Who am I to judge her, anyway?  She’s going to tell me I don’t understand about being alone night after night. She’s going to be angry that I’m telling the Skirt girls about her behavior, which I believe is dangerously frightening. She’s going to hate me.

But I love her.  I want her to be happy.  This is what I want.  And she knows this, but she stopped calling, because I can’t act like this is alright.  I can’t pretend that this is a relationship or anything that’s remotely healthy.  I know she reads my blogs, so maybe she’ll read this one.  I changed her name, but clearly she’ll know it’s about her.  

And when she calls or emails me to protest, I’m simply going to say, “I love you.”

~~Any thoughts?  Am I overeating?