Old Geezer Romancing in Cyberspace

By Bill McDonald

Bill McDonald, an award-winning journalist, had no intention of writing about the internet dating he began at age sixty-nine.

What could occur on the dates of an old geezer like me, he reasoned, that would pique ones interest or keep a reader spellbound?

It didnt take long for him to realize hed failed miserably as a soothsayer.

One first-time date met him, quite intentionally, while she luxuriated in a bath of soapsuds and bubbles. A luncheon date startled him with a fact not mentioned in her profile: she was the great-granddaughter of Mark Twain, having discovered the kinship only two years earlier. A sex therapist insisted on smudging him before he could enter her home. This ancient ritual had her wafting herbal smoke around his body to eliminate negative vibes.

These and other noteworthy occurrences led the author to write a fascinating page-turnerOld Geezer Romancing in Cyberspace.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 9, 2018
• ISBN: 9781984533982

Bill McDonald

Bill McDonald earned two majors, English and Psychology, at the University of South Carolina. Hes also the author of a book Columbia: Cornerstone of the Carolinas about the capitol city he covered for 32 years. His skills stretched into every corner of The State newsroom. He covered the state legislature briefly; wrote award-winning, human-interest columns; reviewed symphony concerts when needed; served briefly as food critic; and covered the citys gaieties in a Night Lights column. McDonald also taught writing at the Buckley School of Public Speaking in Camden, S.C. One of his pupils was Navy Admiral Barry Black, now chaplain of the U.S. Senate.

Book preview

OLD GEEZER

ROMANCING IN

CYBER SPACE

Bill McDonald

Copyright © 2018 by Bill McDonald.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2018906699

ISBN:            Hardcover                978-1-9845-3395-1

                      Softcover                   978-1-9845-3394-4

                      eBook                        978-1-9845-3398-2

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 06/15/2018

Xlibris

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CONTENTS

Preface

Introduction

Prologue

Chapter 1     Life Begins Anew

Chapter 2     Profile Explosion

Chapter 3     Mermaid in the Tub

Chapter 4     A Historic Discovery

Chapter 5     Faraway Dating

Chapter 6     Dated Photes

Chapter 7     Rich Widow

Chapter 8     Abusive Philanderers

Chapter 9     Heavy Blows

Chapter 10   Sex Therapist

Chapter 11   Barbershop Wisdom

Chapter 12   It Started with a Kiss

Chapter 13   Shock Proof

Chapter 14   Law of Attraction

Chapter 15   What’s This Thing Called Love?

Chapter 16   Nigerian Fraud

Chapter 17   The End

Internet Daters’ Solicited Comments

PREFACE

This book is dedicated to God and two female psychologists who led me to a career as a journalist after years of searching.

After graduating college with a degree in English, I began a journey that all but set a Guinness Book of World Records for job-hopping.

I easily could have followed the family bloodline, which had spawned a seedbed of lawyers - seven in three generations. But after having helped my dad, as a youngster, search through dusty real estate files in county courthouses, I knew the law wasn’t for me. It was boredom on steroids

I also thought about moving to Hollywood, having stared in some theatrical productions in high school and college. But I knew that was a silly pipe dream.

What I did, finally, was transform myself, metaphorically, into a honeybee so I could roam through the flowerbed of jobs, searching for the job with the sweetest nectar.

I won’t bore you with all the adventures; I’ll just list a few:

I worked as an in-house salesman in a California paper company; joined the Peace Corps, but dropped out after an alligator mauled a Peace Corps worker in the country I was to serve; taught high school English and coached girls’ basketball and boys’ tennis in in Charleston, S.C; worked one summer for The News and Courier; spent two semesters as an English grad student at Florida State University; worked for the Tallahassee Democrat; and ended up in Manhattan as the temporary, fulltime supervisor of men’s gloves at Bloomingdales, riding herd over 159 different styles.

During all this time, deep down inside of me, was a writer. But I did not release this talent until it had been fully validated and encouraged by the two psychologists. The first was my child psychology professor at the University of South Carolina, where I had enrolled, hoping to become a clinical psychologist. I’d always enjoyed pluming the depts of human behavior.

At the risk of sounding like a braggar, I’ll never forget the day my child psychology professor handed out the blue books with our answers to the final exam questions. She said one of the class members would not be handed a blue book.

If you’re that person, she said, please come to my office after class to pick up your blue book. I want to talk to you. In all my thirty years of teaching at this university, you have written the best blue book exam I’ve ever received.

I didn’t receive a blue book and was elated. I had studied hard, but never dreamed I’d reach a pinnacle of professorial praise.

When I picked up my blue book at the professor’s office, she lauded my writing ability and asked what I planned to do with it.

I want to be a clinical psychologist, I said.

She didn’t try to dissuade me, but strongly suggested clinical psychologyt might not be the best use of my writing talents, as it’s loaded with science. Pleased take some time to think about it, she advised.

Soon after our conversation, however, I was accepted by the University of Texas in Austin to work on a PhD in clinical psychology.

Once in Austin, I discovered my courses would, indeed, be loaded with science. I never attended the first class, as none of the courses were in my wheelhouse of interest, so to speak.

Frustrated, I hopped on the first Greyhound heading north, firmly convinced that too much psychology would be a bad psychology for me. Why hadn’t I taken the advice of my psychology professor at USC?

The Greyhound took me to Manhattan, my old stomping ground, where one of my closest friends worked. His family lived near mine in Winnsboro, S. C. A short respite in Manhattan, I believed, would lift my flagging spirits and clear my troubled thoughts.

The next day, while reading an article in the New York Times, the MIRICAL IN MANHATTAN began manifesting itself in a Higher Power way. Of all the subjects available in the world that day, the article was about my biggest problem—settling down to a permanent job. I had come all the way to Manhattan to read this?

Yes, and it was speaking directly to me, as if it had been awaiting my arrival.

The article stated if you hadn’t settled into a steady job by the time you were thirty, you were probably doomed to wander the earth like a hapless gypsy. It scared the pluperfect hell out of me. I was closing in on thirty.

The writer was a well-known vocational counselor, a PhD psychologist, whose office - believe it or not - was in Manhattan, a few minutes from my friend’s apartment. I called her immediately for an appointment.

She had studied in Russia and was married to a prominent New York attorney. She also was in charge of psychological testing for the richly- endowed, upper-crust schools in nearby Scarsdale.

When we met, I blurted out the litany of jobs I had held. Please help me find a job I’ll love and keep forever. I’m desperate,

She was very sympathetic. She also said she wanted to spend more time than usual helping me, and furthermore, there’d be no fee. If she hadn’t been married, I would have kissed her.

For the next three days she put me through a battery of tests: Rorschach, personality, IQ, and aptitude. Afterwards, she told me my aptitudes were best suited for—guess what? writing and teaching.

If you lived in Russia, she said, they’d force you to become an engineer. But you wouldn’t be happy. Your challenge is deciding whether you want to become a high school English teacher, an English professor or a writer. And if a writer, what kind.?

She also told me something I shouldn’t repeat in public, as it makes me sound very immodest. Intelligence wise, she said, you rank in the top one percent, and I doubt if anybody has ever told you that. Please walk out of here today with your head held high.

. On my subway ride back to the apartment, I couldn’t help but chuckle at the irony of it all. Of all the jobs I had held up to that point, I enjoyed the newspaper ones the most, followed closely by teaching.

But those jobs never struck me as being very profitable professions, and I’d dismissed them as life time contenders.

Thankfully, my Manhattan counselor reversed my