Bare chest, not a penis
Ashley Madison does exist. And it does, in fact, serve, not only the regular old schmo, but additionally, the business traveler seeking engagement in a particular location, and also pretty much any other combination of gender/relationship status.
On an otherwise quiet Tuesday morning (*ahem*, two days ago), I created an ashleymadison.com profile. This may seem unconventional, coming from a 40-year-old married, mother of 5 — but, stay with me here, it’s all in the name of science.
Ashley Madison — who, as far as I can ascertain, doesn’t actually exist, not as a person anyway — is a website. For a nominal fee of $49-259 (depending on your desired level of ‘service’), you may create a profile on aforementioned website to facilitate the fulfillment of a certain sexual need. Primarily infidelity. In said profile, you may detail everything from emotional needs to kinks, and thusly find yourself your very own, perfectly suited, cheating partner. (PS If you’re female it’s free! YAY!...don’t even get me started.)
AGHAST. The horror. What is to become of civilization if all a person must do to be afforded the rare and wondrous opportunity to connect with another, like-minded, cheating, swindling person — um, person, like-minded person — is spend a measly 30 seconds creating a paltry profile.
Regardless.
Ashley Madison does exist. And it does, in fact, serve, not only the regular old schmo, but additionally, the business traveler seeking engagement in a particular location, and also pretty much any other combination of sexual preference/gender/relationship status. Ashley is undergoing a rebranding of sorts, to include couples who may want to have an above-board polyamorous thing, but I think OKCupid would suffice in that situation.
Now maybe you are reading this and thinking, “That is simply the most awful thing I could ever imagine.” Or conversely, “Dammit. I wish I’d know about this when I was in Poughkeepsie last month.”
That’s neither here nor there.
My husband, Matt, is traveling this week, to an island off the coast of Florida, near Jacksonville. Before he leaves for a trip I like to remind him that if he brings home The Herp (that’s short for herpes), he’ll be rendered homeless. We got to talking about Ashley and one thing led to another and I thought — because I’m brilliant — “Oh, hey, wouldn’t it be a great idea to have you, my spouse, register on said site and see what happens? What sort of tawdry affair can a business traveler procure at the last minute?" In the name of science! Ahoy!
When I made this wholly sound decision — I didn't really offer him an alternative — he was on a layover in Texas (really sorry about that flooding), so I registered myself (because DUH, it’s FREE for women). And just for funsies I punched in the Jacksonville ZIP code — 32099, in case you are looking for a hookup. I’m the one who likes long walks on the beach.
Oh time to pick my partner. What AM I looking for? Should he be tall? Dark? Handsome? Short? Into the arts? Sports? NASCAR? Does he like cuddles or kink? Rope or whips? Snuggles? Does he prefer the beach or the mountains?
I was just putting the final touches on my cheater wish list. PING. My first message! Two minutes post officially joining The Cheater's Club. Do the hills have eyes? Are the men of Ashley Madison on the prowl? Are they looking for me?
PING. Another message. And another.
With my perfect man carefully selected (weird, he is exactly like my husband), it seemed a good time to see which of my perfect men messaged. Mr. Dark? Mr. Theatre (obviously, theatRE not the boring theatER)? Or the ultimate dream — Mr. Tall-Dark-Bearded-TheatRE-Intellect-Salsa Dancer.
The anticipation mounts.
What doth the universe offer to me that I may fulfill my deepest (unfaithful) desires?
…
DICKS.
THREE DICKS.
Actual dicks. No, seriously. Penises.
Half an hour in, I was up to five dicks. And by two hours? ELEVEN DICKS. This inspired me to draft a group-dick message:
Dear Sirs,
While I appreciate your interest in my breasts, and your desire to shower them with your baby gravy, I must tell you, collectively, your dicks are all rather average. A few of you, sadly, are on the below average side. Sorry to report, nary a one of you is a stand out. Perhaps you’d be better served to list your skill set. Talents?
Maybe just grow a beard.
Sincerely,
11 Dicks is 10 Too Many
PS You there, with the 9.5 incher. You're telling me it’s 9.5 inches, I know, because that’s your Super Secret Profile Name, but long penises aren’t really all they're cracked up to be. Sorry to disappoint. You’re going to have to rely on your stellar personality.
(I didn’t actually send a group message. I don’t think that’s an available feature.)
Moving on. Where did men get the idea that a poorly-lit, false-pec-flex, junk-in-hand, mirror selfie would elicit an enthusiastic response? Who told them this? It was a LIE. And furthermore, did it ever occur to them that ladies have interests that extend, uh, beyond their extension?
Out of 12 messages, only one gentleman (using that term very lightly) didn’t include his dick. A nice fellow. Looking for a nice time. He promised discretion. I'm all stocked up on nice time, but I’m going to message him anyway and thank him for keeping his ding-a-ling in his pants.
First though, I'm going to ask Matt for a macro crotch shot to erase all these foreign penises from my internal hard drive.
(And then I’m going to ask him to register himself on AshleyMadison to see how many boob pics he gets. Going out on a limb here, guessing it’s not 11.)
*Bonus points to 'Dick On The Beach' and 'Dick Standing Up Unassisted', but "Dick On A Yacht' was the clear winner.
**edited to add: At the 24-hour mark we are at 31 contacts and 22 dicks. Representing a 70% rate of dick return. Not bad. Also not good. And also, all pretty unremarkable.
