CurvyKathy31: Confessions of a chat-aholic

By Karyn Lyndon

Kathy is a successful Assistant Buyer at PandorasBox.com. But her "curves" have kept her dateless until she discovers how to pick up guys online. Her wild story is a humorous look at falling in love, break-up angst, wacky corporate America and almost everything that can go wrong with Internet dating.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9781597053280

Book preview

One

A Close Encounter

The guy I suspected was my date parked his cherry red Miata next to my Civic. Feeling a queasy mixture of expectation and dread, I watched as he approached my open window with a self-assured gait.

Curvy Kathy? he asked with a half grin.

That would be me, but my friends call me Kathy for short.

He laughed at my nervous chatter, which gave him immediate points in the plus column.

You must be Greg.

The initial glimpse of an online guy was always nerve wracking, not to mention his first sight of me. But this one was cute. At least during drinks I didn’t have to worry about staring at nose hairs or, worse yet, a nose ring.

He helped me out of my car while I tugged at my short black club dress. Climbing the steps to the Addison Pub, I glanced up at his profile and neatly trimmed, dark hair. Did I say cute? Let me amend that to freakin’ hot.

As he ushered me inside I felt him looking down on my exposed cleavage like he wanted to skip our first-meeting cocktails and jump right into the getting-to-know-you-better dessert. Actually, my low-cut neckline was on purpose. I hoped he’d be so dazzled by my ample, yet non-surgically enhanced breasts, that he’d be willing to overlook my equally ample hips and thighs.

The pub was packed so we sat at the bar. At five-foot-two the climb to the top of a barstool with any kind of grace was a near-impossible task. But my years of Internet first dates for drinks taught me to back up to the stool and climb the rungs backward. Strappy platforms also helped give me a boost.

Finally situated on my perch, with one sandal hooked through the footrest and the other leg crossed, I could relax. That is until the imminent slide to the floor, which depending on how strong the drinks were, could be iffy.

Amidst Dallas’ beautiful people we ordered drinks. A bar was a ludicrous place for a first date. The live music and roar of the crowd made it impossible to talk; however the heavy bass resonating through my body felt exhilarating. I was alive with possibilities, even more-so sitting shoulder to shoulder with hunky Greg.

He was soooo much better looking than his online picture. When I’d downloaded it several weeks ago he looked pale and pudgy. In person he was tan and buff. And to think I almost passed up this guy because he doesn’t know how to adjust contrast in Photoshop.

Have you been here before? he yelled, knocking back his first double scotch.

A couple of times, I screamed. It’s a fun place.

I sucked down my melting frozen bellini. Brain freeze sent a piercing pain through my temples, but my contorted expression didn’t matter. I doubted Greg had gotten a good look at my face yet. He was still salivating over my cleavage.

I took in the scent of his intoxicating cologne as he leaned close to my ear. You wanna get outta here? Have some dinner where we can talk?

Sounds good.

An offer for dinner was a definite step in the right direction. Phase two of the online first meeting.

I struggled into his petite convertible, warring with my dress every inch of the way. Fortunately the car’s top was up so I didn’t have to worry about my carefully turned-under tresses being blown to smithereens. We drove a couple of blocks to Friday’s. It was crowded, but much calmer than the pub. The hostess immediately seated us in a cozy booth.

So, Kathy, where do you work?

That was a little irritating. Greg and I had spent many evenings over the last couple of weeks kibitzing online. I knew his occupation, his pet peeves, his favorite position and his siblings’ names and ages. The least he could do was remember where I worked.

Pandora’sBox dot com I’m an assistant buyer. Remember?

There was absolutely no recollection in his well-chiseled face.

They actually pay you to buy stuff? What a perfect gig for a chick.

What a sexist thing to say. Besides that, I remembered my exact words when I explained the irony of being a buyer who didn’t like to shop. I guess he’d gone to the bathroom or something while I was chattering away to an empty desk chair.

It’s a great place to work. I’m just not happy with the opportunities for advancement.

Jeez, this was starting to sound like a job interview. Okay, so the guy had a lousy memory. I could overlook that, especially when I took in his smoldering blue-gray eyes, even if they did always seem to be focusing downward.

The conversation stalled a few times, but overall we managed to keep things lively. I ordered my usual soup and salad with light Italian dressing and no croutons. He ordered about five double scotches and a steak.

You know, Kathy, some of our chats really got me hot.

Of course, he remembers our cyber flirting.

I try not to conjure up anything I can’t pull off in person—you know, no swinging from the chandelier. I like to keep it real.

Oh, it was real alright, he said as he began to slide his hand upward along the inside of my thigh.

Greg, stop, really, I whispered as I clamped my legs together. But he didn’t stop. I grabbed his hand and placed it firmly in his own lap.

Did you know I was spanking it during our sexy chat the other night?

I knew guys did that, and I actually had no problem with it. I was raised to be in touch with my sexuality. But it was another story talking about it over dinner while a guy I had just met was feeling me up.

Look Greg, I’m no prude, but you need to slow down.

Give me a fucking break, Curvy, he slurred. You’ve been teasing me for two weeks, not to mention all night with those beea-uuuu-tiful tits.

His voice was too loud to be saying words like tits. I looked around to see if anyone had heard. I started to slide out of the booth, but he pulled me back.

I promise to behave, he said, lowering his voice. Finish your salad and I’ll take you to your car.

Marginally placated, I scooted over, but I knew the night was a goner. Gorgeous Greg would soon be stricken from my Buddy List forever.

He finally paid the check and led me to his car. The last thing I wanted to do was go for a drive with Dr. Drunkyl & Mr. Hand, but I figured we couldn’t get into too much trouble in two blocks.

Back at the club parking lot he pulled in next to my car. Pub patrons were hanging out on the patio in front of us. Someone had propped the door open so the blaring techno music invaded our awkward silence. God, I couldn’t wait for this night to be over.

Thanks for dinner, I said, mustering as much sincerity as possible. It was nice to finally meet you.

Don’t go just yet, he begged. He pawed my arm and pulled me away from the door. Don’t I get a li’l kiss?

I don’t think so. I’m not really sensing the necessary chemistry.

Chemistry? He wrestled me back and started kissing me with his hot, slobbery mouth. I’ll show you chemistry!

While I struggled to get away, he forced his hand down my dress. Scooping out my left boob, he exposed it to the torch-lit patio of drunken spectators. As soon as he dove in for my nipple, I pulled it out of his mouth. I stuffed it back in and lunged for the door. A squeak of panic rose from my throat as I extricated myself from his miniscule sports car. My legs were weak, but I willed them toward my car. Fumbling for the keys, I heard his electric window purr down behind me.

How would you know about chemistry, he yelled. You’re just a fat bitch.

Scrambling into the seat I heard patio partiers snicker. Avoiding eye contact with the beautiful people, I slammed the door, started the car and backed out. By that time Greg had blessedly screeched away. Not until I made a left onto Beltline, did I allow impatient tears to roll down my face.

So, I said, sobbing from the anguish of sexual assault and a wounded pride, that went well.

CurvyKathy.Blogspot.com

03•28

katheryn meets gregory

peach schnapps meets scotch

just one more date

that’s bound to be botched

there’s room on his belt

for another new notch

as his warm hand slips slowly

up to my crotch

tall, drunken hunk

could not be more raunchy

I’d be better off

with an amputee who’s paunchy

Two

Sparks Through the Keys

My date with Greg had been a major turning point. I’d thought about it all weekend (and off and on for the last year) and I finally made the decision. I even wrote it down in my online journal, which seemed to make it more of a commitment. Monday would be the day.

As I sped down the Dallas North Tollway from work, I envisioned standing in front of my imaginary support group, admitting what my friends and family had been complaining about for quite a while.

Hello. My name is Kathy. And I’m a chat-aholic.

Normally, I couldn’t wait to get home from work. I would feed my white Persian cat, Blanca, eat a Lean Cuisine, pour the rest of my Diet Coke into my glass and hurry to the corner of my living room designated as my office. I would be anxious to log on to my computer, open my Email and peruse my buddy list.

But tonight was different. After the Greg fiasco I knew deep down in my pulverized self esteem it was time to cancel my Internet access. The inability to escape to the wide world via that famous web gave me symptoms that would intimidate even the most stringent twelve-step program. My hands shook as I contemplated swearing off mouse-rides on the Information Date-way. My mouth got cottony and I felt jittery, as I imagined deleting my CurvyKathy screen name. It was like killing off a part of me.

But I could beat this addiction. I knew I could. I just needed to find the proper motivation, and Greg had provided me with boatloads. I couldn’t blame it completely on him, though. Lately, my ego had taken a series of beatings by potential online boyfriends acting less than enthusiastic when they met the real me. Intermixed with them were some scary-looking underachievers who gave loser a bad name. So, I figured with Greg as the final straw, now was an excellent time to say adios to my buddies and unsubscribe from AOL.

So I did my usual feed/eat/pour routine and headed to my computer. I logged on as me, a 31-year-old single female with shoulder-length blond hair, green eyes and very curvy figure—my way of saying I had fifty extra pounds without having to type the offending words. In personals lingo it was referred to as BBW (big, beautiful woman), but I didn’t think that fit my description. I was overweight, but at my height I didn’t consider myself big. Fat, yes, but not big.

I checked Email and found the usual mortgage refinancing and Viagra spam. Then I entered my favorite Dallas singles chat room where several of the regulars were already in attendance.

CurvyKathy31: Hi, gang.

DonnaWanna: Hey, Kathy.

MikeLikesBikes: What’s up, Curvy?

CurvyKathy31: I’m giving up chatting for Lent.

2Cute4Words: Lent’s already over, isn’t it?

CurvyKathy31: I’m not really Catholic, either.

SmartBart2002: lol. How can you leave all this scintillating chatter?

CurvyKathy31: I spend too much time on here. I need to get out. Take a class. Meet real people.

MikeLikesBikes: What are we? Cyborgs?

CurvyKathy31: You know what I mean. I feel like I’m hitching a ride on a highway going nowhere.

Dannyboy: My luck. It’s my first night and you’re leaving.

CurvyKathy31: A web rookie—my favorite kind of buddy.

Dannyboy: Why is that?

CurvyKathy31: Maybe it’s my need to feel superior. :)

Dannyboy: I don’t have a clue what I’m doing. I could really use some help.

CurvyKathy31: I’d love to be your Web Master, but I’m deleting my screen name tonight.

Dannyboy: That’s too bad. It’s an interesting name.

CurvyKathy31: Thanks. I really hate to see it go, but I’ve already made a commitment in my journal.

Dannyboy: I write in a journal, too, ever since my parent’s divorce. I know it sounds gay.

CurvyKathy31: Not at all—it’s very sensitive for a guy to express himself.

Dannyboy: Jotting down my dull life has at least made me a better writer. A skill I can tell I need on here.

CurvyKathy31: Mine is filled with failed resolutions for self-improvement and sappy poetry that rhymes too much.

Dannyboy: I’d like to read one of your poems sometime. I’m a sucker for sap.

MikeLikesBikes: Hey, why don’t y’all get a private room or Instant Message. I’m sensing some chemistry between you two but the rest of us are about to hurl.

It always amazed me how I could go night after night, chat room after chat room, answering a bottomless drivel of personal questions from an endless array of faceless people. Then all of a sudden, there would be an undeniable spark that said this guy was different. It was an electrically charged connection I could feel right through the keyboard; almost a miracle considering I was dealing with a form of communication that involved only one dimension.

I’d felt it before; developed some online friendships that ended up in three-dimensional dates like Greg. A couple of times they had flourished into semi-lasting relationships. But not one of them had asked to read my poetry. I added Dan’s name to my buddy list, then double-clicked on it creating an IM screen.

CurvyKathy31: Are you there?

Dannyboy: An instant message on my first night!

CurvyKathy31: Don’t get too excited. I’m not as easy as I seem. And btw (by the way) an Instant Message is called an IM.

Dannyboy: See—I’m learning stuff already.

CurvyKathy31: Oh, I could teach you everything about chatting. I know all the abbreviations, how to look up profiles and pick out rooms that interest you. I could even show you how to pick up women.

Dannyboy: Impressive. You sure you want to give all this up?

CurvyKathy31: I keep getting into these dead-end relationships on here. This is definitely my last night, although I’m enjoying our chat.

Dannyboy: I’m having a great time.

Dan told me about his parents scarring divorce when he was eleven, the loss of his high school sweetheart to his best friend, his stint in the Navy to forget them, his career in electrical engineering and his love for Max, his German Shepperd.

I also learned that he was five-foot-ten, which was two inches under my usual requirement. He weighed two hundred pounds, which was a little out of proportion for his height. I usually preferred thin over husky, even though it was extremely double-standard of me.

CurvyKathy31: How old are you?

Long pause. Uh-oh. This guy who I’d already dedicated 3.4 hours of my life to could be a seventy-five-year-old geezer. Finally the number popped up on the screen.

Dannyboy: 38—is that too old?

I quickly did the math. I preferred no more than five years difference, but I’d been known to make exceptions.

CurvyKathy31: No, it’s not too old, but almost.

Dannyboy: Whew! I was worried for a minute—and feeling ancient.

I laughed and took a sip of my drink. I’d experienced these marathon chats where they clipped along so easily that I couldn’t believe it when the clock read really-really-late-thirty. I had also felt the palpable sadness and separation anxiety when I had to say good night lest we both drop head first into the keyboards from exhaustion.

Just before he logged off he told me this was the most fun he’d had in he couldn’t remember when; that he felt this strange link to me, like he already knew me. I believed him because that kind of connection had happened to me before. And although I had become a little jaded to the first-chat euphoria, I could still revel in it and appreciate it. Because I knew it was rare.

Dannyboy: See you tomorrow night?

I sighed heavily, thinking about drunken Greg, then slowly placed my hands on the keyboard.

CurvyKathy31: How can I say no?

THE NEXT MORNING I felt every fourth beat of my heart skip when I thought about Dan. Pandora’sBox.com was the last place I wanted to be. I had motored to the corporate headquarters of the imported furniture and accents retailer every workday for the past seven years. During that time I was happy to pull in front of the massive, campus-style, red brick building, but only if I had a steady boyfriend.

Transition periods were tough, though. Amidst a bad break up it took all my strength to keep a steady course into the covered garage. It was instinctual to U-turn back home, hiding from the pain. The same phenomenon occurred when I met someone new. Now, however, I wanted to take the circular drive back out and find some quiet park where I could wistfully wonder at the scenery and listen to the birds, feeling the warm glow of a new crush.

Anything was better than staring at padded cubicle walls and listening to white noise. To make things worse, this was pep rally day. All the associates gathered in the rotunda first thing to hear the sales figures, hand out a few ataboys and basically cheer each other on to victory, much like the rallies I remembered from high school. We didn’t have a marching band and our cheerleaders were high-level managers, not cute girls in short skirts, but occasionally we were given pom-poms and decorated signs to wave, especially when the stockholders were on site.

The only saving grace to pep rally day was the fact that our esteemed CEO, Steve Riley, the most handsome, straight, eligible bachelor in the building, was head cheerleader. Just the mere sight of him made my knees weak and my mouth dry. I knew I didn’t have a chance in hell with him, but he was pretty to look at.

I spent most of the rally shifting my weight from one foot to the other and praying I wasn’t called to the podium, even if it was for praise. I’d rather have red-hot pokers shoved in unspeakable places than step up to the dreaded stage. I was more of a behind-the-scenes girl and just as soon give away my minutes of fame to someone who would enjoy it.

Just when I thought I’d sailed through another rally unscathed I heard Steve’s commanding voice.

Kathy Burnett, congratulations!

My heart quickly pounded out fear to all my extremities causing instantaneous paralysis. My best friend Sandy, nudged me and yelled above the applause, Go get your award.

I’d been drooling over Steve’s rich-man tan, made darker and streaked blond hair, made lighter no doubt by a recent exotic vacation, instead of listening to what he said. So now I climbed the gallows steps without a clue as to why.

Before I knew what was happening he shook my hand, a warm, powerful grasp with the precise mix of sincerity and authority that weakened my knees even further. He handed me his famous three-foot-tall YOU’RE NUMBER ONE foam rubber finger and a $100 gift card to Pandora’sBox then flashed me one of his million dollar smiles.

Thank you, Kathy.

I’m not sure if I responded, but somehow I stumbled back to my spot in the throng.

Congratulations, Sandy yelled again over thunderous applause.

Did you hear what it was for? I yelled back, numbly watching Steve give the finger to someone else.

Richard nominated you for your 33% increase in scented candles.

I made a mental note to never raise profits over 25% again.

AFTER A MORNING OF untangling supplier screw-ups and merchandise mishaps, I was thankful for lunchtime with Sandy. Seven years ago we had suffered through the same orientation class at work and she had been there for me ever since: through every bad date, miserable relationship and realization I was whatever-something and still single.

The cafeteria wasn’t average corporate fare featuring institutional slop and prison-style seating. We chose from a delicious and varied menu and ate in a sleek, multi-level dining room overlooking a fountain and manicured gardens, which were in full spring bloom.

Fortunately, I hadn’t mentioned to Sandy about Greg, or my subsequent resolution to give up chatting. So she didn’t have to know what a failure I was.

So how was your evening? I asked first to postpone delving into my night.

Nathan and I went shopping for dining room wall border, she said between bites of pizza. He wanted trout.

I guess that makes sense for an eating area.

I’m not talking about homespun folk art of stylized fish. I’m talking bamboo poles, fishing hats and bait.

I almost spit out my Caesar salad as she grinned at her successful attempt to crack me up.

We decided on a faux finish, instead.

Thank God.

Sandy was always the voice of reason, picking me up, dusting me off and getting me back on track. I figured the least I could do was support her on potentially bad decorating decisions.

What about you? Anything new? Sandy’s dark, wispy hair framed her pale, heart-shaped face, which held genuine concern for me. Since her wedding she’d gained a few pounds, but she was still thinner than me. I admired her long, shapely legs and dancer-perfect posture, although she claimed not to have an ounce of rhythm.

Just the usual, I sighed.

I started to tell her about Dan, but I couldn’t bear to see her roll her eyes at me again. I knew she was tired of hearing about my endless parade of online lovers. Besides, she didn’t believe meeting men on the Internet was safe or savory.

Translated, that means you spent all night chatting? She didn’t wait for me to respond. Go with us to church this weekend. There’s a singles Putt-Putt outing or something.

The thought of exchanging flirtatious glances with Mr. Right across the artificial turf and through the hole in the windmill made me shiver. Sandy had met Nathan at Sunday school, which I considered to be pretty unsavory myself. It just felt wrong to use God’s house as a pick-up joint. Of course, once I hit the thirty-and-still-single demographic I started scouting everywhere: churches, bars, the gym.

But after all was said and done, I found it much easier to meet guys in a chat room. Sometimes it worked; sometimes it didn’t. But God and I knew I was dating a lot more since I’d discovered this strategy. And I knew He preferred it over cruising the pews.

Sandy asked, You think you can make it?

Just as I opened my mouth to decline, my divisional manager stopped by our table.

Richard Rowland was regal-looking for a man in his fifties. Rumor had it he was gay, still of the old school where men like him stayed in the closet. His impeccable wardrobe, plus a couple of remarks he made at last year’s Christmas party about a new male hire, confirmed my suspicions. His posture was stiff and his approach, formal, like he’d just been discharged from the military.

Kathy, he said in a much too official-sounding capacity for the lunchroom, I heard you have a knack for writing music. We need your expertise. He finger-brushed his graying moustache while he waited for my reaction.

I answered a bit puzzled. I play piano and I’ve written a few songs, but it was just a CD I made for Christmas presents.

It was really good, Sandy interrupted with enthusiasm.

But that’s the extent of it. Who told you about my, uh, talent?

Jeff Sheridan from Inventory Control.

How sweet of him. I made a mental note to kill Jeff later.

Anyway, Richard continued, unruffled by my cloaked sarcasm, as you know, the company’s tenth anniversary is next year. They’re forming a committee to put together a corporate extravaganza. He made a circular motion above his head with his hands to dramatize the word extravaganza. They want a presentation depicting the company’s history for the stockholders and associates. I’d like to recommend you as a committee member.

Thank you, I said, faking enthusiasm. I’d be thrilled.

How could I say no to the guy in charge of checking my review’s can-do attitude box?

He nodded with royal approval and walked away quickly, as though I might change my mind.

That’s great, Kathy. Sandy beamed. I wish I had your kind of talent.

I’m not that talented and you know it. It sounds like a lot of work for not a lot of credit.

You’re wrong. It’s exactly what you need to get more visibility.

You think so? An extravaganza certainly won’t add anything to the company’s bottom line.

Forget the bottom line! This will get you noticed for that buyer position in Rattan. They want high-profile people.

I had to take Sandy’s word for it. She knew a lot more about the politics of the corporate world. I wanted to keep a low profile at any cost. But I had to admit using the right side of my brain seemed like an interesting prospect. I’d had a fleeting dream of writing musicals for Broadway when I was younger. I even considered music as a major. But Dad had insisted on Business with a capital B.

As it turned out Dad was right. It looked more and more like I would be a single-income family of one forever. I needed a career that paid well, not one that fulfilled some silly whims of creativity.

FLYING DOWN THE FREEWAY I couldn’t wait to get home, hoping against hope that Dan would be in my Buddy List, or perhaps there would be an Email from Dannyboy.

Every time I put the key in the lock of my beige brick home nestled in the suburbs, I couldn’t help but think I belonged in a trendier section of town. But my landlords (my parents) had made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. Their rental property was cheaper and much more spacious than one of those singles apartments in the Village.

I tried to make the home of my childhood my own. Over the years I’d garnered discounted bargains and free samples as part of the perks for working at Pandora’sBox. Rattan furniture, ceramic elephant tables, feathered lamps, jute rugs and beaded drapes weren’t exactly my style. But I made it a policy to never look a gift pachyderm in the mouth.

I jogged into my purple velvet bedroom, which had a faint resemblance to a Moroccan tent, complete with shimmering lamé draped from the ceiling on golden spears. I threw on shorts and a tank top, rushed to the kitchen and made a quick sandwich to eat at the computer. After I logged on, my heart leapt when there was both an Email and an immediate IM from Dan.

Dannyboy: I missed you. How is that possible?

He messaged again without waiting for my response.

Dannyboy: I don’t even know you.

I laughed and explained that cyberspace was a strange and mysterious place. Along with bytes of information traveling back and forth at so many trillions per millisecond, errant emotions seemed to tag along for the ride.

Long pause, I assumed to consider my theory.

Dannyboy: You’re making fun of me.

CurvyKathy31: Nooooooo. I’m just saying that even though a computer is cold and hard, it manages to take on some warm, soft, almost human qualities.

Dannyboy: Did you miss