Professional Dating

I woke up with a soggy pizza box stuck to my face by it's cheesy oily remnants. I peeled the cardboard off my cheek and threw it onto the urine stained bed.

Flies buzzed in the room, taking their turns to breed on the decaying cow's head in my open fridge. Larvae was hatching in a bucket filled with hardened vomit. The air smelt foul, so I decided to pry a cigarette from a mound of human faeces on the coffee table and lit it. The smoke did little to mask the foul stench, but it did help ward the flies away from my face.

The only problem with living in a homemade ecosystem is that it's often very hard to find a mate, a breeding partner if you will. Most women who have ventured into my part of the woods have usually been insane or practicing apprentice street walkers, either way, none have been so bold to bear my child. That was also the reason why I kept a rotten chunk of McDonald's apple pie on my bed; that pie probably contained more human DNA than the average Earthling.

Stepping my way through the broken glass and decaying food that littered the floor, I carefully manouvered the temple that was my body towards the hotplate that balanced precariously on the armrest of the shit stained couch. An blackened pan with congealed oil, sat on the hotplate. The stale bacon grease had become fertile ground for anomalous life forms and a graveyard for dead bluebottles.

I turned on the hotplate, heating the element. The oil in the pan began to melt, and the smell of frying insects began to permeate the stuffy air. I shifted the bluebottles around the pan with a torn piece of pizza box that functioned effectively as a cooking utensil. After a few minutes I was greedily gobbling up steaming hot flies from the oversized Petri dish.

With food in my stomach, I was ready to face the outside world. I took a shower, and scrubbed the layers of crusted sweat and dirt from my skin. After drying myself with the only clean towel that I kept in the cleanest container of my room, the rubbish bin, I unpadlocked a suitcase that held my most precious item, my two thousand dollar tailored suit. The fine pure cotton cloth felt good on my body and fell in such a way to compliment my astonishing athletically prowessed form.

The dear reader may ask why does a man of such unwealthy disposition choose to keep such an expensively fine suit. In the superficial mundanity of our times, where a man is still judged by his fellow beings by the clothes he chooses to adorn himself with, a suit; and a fine suit at that, can elevate it's wearer to levels of status and respect in ways that may even be considered nothing short of miraculous.

A week earlier, I had encountered an advertisement in the back of a discarded newspaper that I had found on a park bench on a homeless guy. It read thus:

Dating for Professionals

In order to preserve mankind, we as a species must continue to breed, for without continuing our bloodlines, humanity will cease to exist and the economy will collapse. Come and join us today, meet other professionals, and help maintain the integrity of the human race.

Below the advert was the date, time and the address of a hotel where we were supposed to meet. The idea of preserving the human species seemed like a novel concept to me, and I did not hesitate my decision to go.

The function was held in the hotel's lobby. The professionals looked, well, professional. I was halted abruptly by some red rope and a bouncer.

'May I see your ticket please sir?' he bellowed in a rather bored tone of voice.

I had purchased the ticket a few days earlier from the same location at a temporary desk that they had set up. The lady had been reluctant to sell me the ticket for the event due to the way I was dressed, but when I produced the crisp fifty dollar bill that I had made by selling my body to a rich handicapped lady, her eyes lit up and she conceded the ticket to me; but, not before emphasizing the formal dresscode that would be strictly enforced.

I handed the golden ticket to the bouncer. He punched it and handed it back to me with a warm smile, 'Thank you sir, enjoy your evening.'

There I was, standing in the overly spacious lobby of the hotel; in the heart of the eagle's nest. The crowd had turned up early, it was obvious that these people were eager to get the best value from their hard earned Simoleans, aswell as being desperate for a breeding partner. I walked over to the bar and grabbed a glass of complimentary champagne. There were some peanuts in a immaculately glass bowl on the counter and I grabbed a handful to stuff them hungrily into my gob.

A lady in an elegant low cut black dress approached me from the corner of my vision. As she came closer, she made eye contact and smiled at me, eyeing my suit up and down. She offered me her hand, 'Hi! My name's Lisa.' I took her hand and she shook it it limply.

'Hi Lisa, please call me Bob!' I said, imitating the voice of a high powered CEO.

'First event Bob? I come here regularly.'

'Yes, that's right Lisa, I've been quite busy lately with work and all. You know how it is, busy, busy, busy, no time for life; thought I'd take a break, you know.' I laughed unecessarily and she laughed with me.

'So what do you do Bob?' she said as she twirled a finger around the rim of her champagne glass, looking boldly into my eyes.

'I manage risk' I replied.

'Oh insurance! How lovely!' she trapped my eyes, smiled coyly, took a sip of champagne, 'I'm working in recruitment.'

'That's lovely too!' I replied and she giggled.

She spent the next half hour telling me about her interests and aspirations. I discovered that Lisa was a scientologist who enjoyed yoga and painting. 'I have always loved to paint,' she said, 'but when I was younger, I decided that money was more important and art could wait.'

I yawned impatiently, 'Let's go back to your place and fuck!'

'I'll grab my coat.' she replied, unfazed by my statement.

Lisa lived in a condomonium on the waterfront. Her appartment had a good view of the lake and she had not spared any expenses in decorating the place with designer furniture. She swept a finger around the living room walls where various paintings hung, 'As you can see, I love art!' she looked at me and beamed, 'Come here, I'll show you a waterpainting that I did and I'm very, very proud of.' I walked over to her and she hooked her forearm around my elbow and led me into her bedroom.

On the wall, adjacent to her bed, was the picture. I stood before it, she wrapped her arms around my waist and whispered excitedly into my ear, 'So... what do you think?'

I stared squeamishly at the watercolour on the wall. It looked childlike, not even amateurish. The colour choice was garish. The lines were preconceived and unflowing; I could still make out the strong hairy pencil lines beneath the paint. There was no feeling, no passion and no desire to capture the beauty of the flowers that they were supposed to represent. It looked like shit. I'm not finished yet; it looked like the kind of crap that would dribble out of your arse in dollops after eating a particularly unsavoury take-out curry, the night before.

'Do you like it?' she smiled.

I turned around to face her in disgust as I felt an acrid taste well up at the back of my throat. My body contained the first wave of a retch, I held it in as my mouth tensed up to balloon with air. I looked desperately around the room for a bathroom and found it. I puked into her toilet and hurriedly left her appartment, gasping for air as soon as I had exited the building.