So I thought I’d try Eugene. I took the initiative and wrote to someone who described himself as 60 years old, and living there, and into building and writing. It turned out he wasn’t exactly accurate about his location or age or goals. I shouldn’t have been surprised when he behaved impulsively and embarrassed himself and then retreated, snout-slapped, back into his cyber-cave. That’s undoubtedly why the subject of his book is maturity. But before he responded to my first note, after I’d hit the send button and was half-wishing I could undo that act, I wrote this one:

There’s nothing forcing me to view this site –
I’m here as much for research as for sex –
but I have spent some time and gotten quite
adept, I think, at screening for my specs.
And so upon the failure of the first
romance, I messaged one I picked with care,
and now I feel so nervous I’d reverse
that act, except my words are in the air.

You see, I maybe want to stay alone.
This confidence you see is just a blend.
I alternate – the highest ego known,
humility too deep to comprehend.
I’m flickering so fast between extreme
emotions, I cannot be what I seem.