When it comes to dating these days you basically have three choices. 1. Take a huge net down to your local boozer, cast it out as far as you can, drink a dozen beers and after the cute 25 year old Irish backpacker you’ve been flirting with all night behind the bar yells “Last Drinks” pull it in and see what you’ve managed to dredge up. Lets be honest after that many beers most guys would probably bang a stone fish. So long as we could navigate its barbs to find its bits. 2. Give up downloading porn for one night. Actually use both hands on the keyboard for a change and log on to one of a myriad of internet dating sites like Lavalife RSVP or Or 3. Attend a night of Speed dating at an inner city bar near you where you actually get to meet 10 single women who are looking for the same thing you are. (Depending of course if dressing up as a lizard, licking droplets of water off leaves and shagging on granite boulders in full sun is their cup of tea)

Having had an absolute gut full of option 1 (Peppermint Lounge I gave you the best years of my life. Enough with the saxophone enough.) I decided to take a peek into the other two forms of dating on offer.

In theory finding a relationship on the internet is the most obvious thing in the world. I mean you can get everything else on the net why not love as well. And let’s be honest if that crazy cannibal fucker from Germany could find “young, well-built men aged 18 to 30 to slaughter” (his words not mine) how hard can it be to find a hot intelligent highly sexed minx to sprinkle karma sutra sunshine all over my life and frilly neck lizard suit. It was with this kind of optimism that I typed internet dating into the search engine and duck dived deep into Google. At first most of the sites that came up were American and if their banners were anything to go by pretty cheesy. But then I saw and I remembered that a friend of mines middle aged father had apparently developed a rather severe case of shaggers back courtesy of all the action he had been getting from RSVP’s central coast courtesans. Of all the sites I delved into RSVP was about the most user friendly. Its free to join and easy to get up and running. In fact the hardest thing was coming up with a witty user name that hadn’t all ready been taken (RSVP claims to have over 500000 members) Sadly all the obvious ones like funny guy, cheeky1 and spankme69 had already been snaffled up but to my utter astonishment reptilecock4U had been totally overlooked.

RSVP is kind of like an enormous on line supermarket. Shelves and shelves of singles looking for Mr or Ms Right. When you get down to it the nuts and bolts are quite similar to a bar or every day life. You search the database for what ever it is you’re looking for in my case a 20-35 yr old non smoking female from Sydney with a photo. And with a click of the mouse Hey Presto right before your eyes literally hundreds of women fitting the criteria. If a lucky lady catches your eye you can send her a kiss. Which costs nothing and basically shows her your profile and your photo and lets her know you’re interested. If she then likes the look and sound of you she can reply and the process moves up a notch. The next step is to email the lady in question and this is where RSVP makes its money. In order to send the email you must buy a stamp. Which works out at around $3.50 if you buy 24 at a time or $7 for 6 at a time. Either way a cocktail at a swanky inner city bar can cost between $10 and $15 so your miles in front.

The first girl I contacted was 23 worked in a gallery and described herself as Neurotic, High Maintenance and gloriously dysfunctional. Red rag to a bull. After a quick game of witty email ping pong we were on the phone and later that same night I found myself at the bar of an inner city pub waiting with baited breath. Actually Listerine pocket packed breath to be precise. I must admit that when I first clapped eyes on her it was pretty surreal. The weird thing was instead of meeting someone and getting to know them I had got to know them and was now meeting them. So in a way we were already intimate. She was cute. Big wide eyes, high parabolic cheek bones and a buoyant innocence. I guess there was a little bit of a tinkle from the alarm bells when, within 2 minutes of meeting her, she said, “Oh I should probably tell you that I’m on anti depressants.” “Oh?” I replied with all the nonchalance of a man who had just been told anal sex was the new black. “So. How do you find them?”
“Oh they’re fantastic. I’m so much less promiscuous than I used to be. If I hadn’t taken my pill this morning I would have probably fucked you against a brick wall by now” From then on in the night got progressively weirder. It turned out she was what she called a reformed lesbian. At the age of 18 she had been living with a woman in Berlin who underwent a sex change and once her partner was a man she realised she preferred them so she then proceeded to have a relationship with her fathers 55 year old best friend. After a drunken snog in an apartment stair well I walked her to her car which (and I kid you not) had lush green grass growing 30cms high in the foot well. You couldn’t even see the pedals. Apparently a friend had given her the car and gone to the extraordinary length of sowing grass seed into the carpet and removing the door seals so every time it rained the grass was watered. All so she could remain grounded…

My second date came across on her profile as an articulate savvy curvaceous 29 year old blonde with lots of drive and ambition. Her photo looked like something out of Herb Ritts’ private collection. Shadowed sepia swallowing half of her face. We met just before dusk at a bar in the city. She was wearing a sexy black suit and a very funky pair of sunglasses. I suppose I did find it a little bizarre that she kept the sunnies on until about 11pm. By which time she had got me so drunk I almost didn’t notice that when she did finally take the sunnies off her eyes were pretty much dancing to two different tunes. From its piercing glare the one on the left was clearly listening to Jets “Are you gonna be my girl” but the one on the right was obviously obsessed with Chris De Burghs, “Don’t pay the ferry man” so much so that it kept watching the ferry as it pulled away from the jetty and made its way out to sea. That is to say one was looking straight at me and one was looking at the chandlier on my right. Not for the whole evening mind you. In fact a couple of bottles later for the briefest of moments I think they both bore down on me for at least a whole second. That was until like a pair of synchronised swimmers they rolled back into her head and I was left staring at the whites of her eyes. Round about now I started to see a pattern appearing. In internet dating not her corneas.

For my third internet date I decided to up the ante and have it interstate. I had met a charming girl (on line at least) from Melbourne and we had been chatting by email for a couple of months and clearly got on very well. The good news. No bung eyes and no antidepressants. In fact she was very cute sophisticated (as Melbourne girls so often are) and a great conversationalist. We went to dinner at a swanky restauraunt called CIRCA drank a fair bit of champers and ended up back in my hotel room. I think I was just about to drop my diesels to the floor when she casually informed me that the last time she had ‘done the business’ was with a 6ft 11 African American in LA. I pulled out of my diesel dive turned it into a Rock Steady Crew inspired shuffle and shimmied across the room to turn off the light. Lying naked on the bed I felt like I had brought a party sized sausage roll onto the deck of an aircraft carrier. Not that it seemed to bother her. She was having a great time until mid missionary motion she moaned, “Dude! Dude! Do you mind if I fart?”
What was I to say? As it was I think my meagre contribution to the evenings festivities had just lost half of its mass from being called dude. What harm could a fart do? As it turned out plenty. She was quite slight but fuck could she pack a punch. The mattress immediately beneath her pushed down and then a shock wave rippled across the bed like something out of the matrix. I had no idea that once digested expensive French champagne could smell like paint thinner. I had tell her things were getting too hot and I needed to open the window. As we layed back in the scorched after glow she started to tell me her life story. Well the bit she had missed out over dinner. The bit out about spending three years in Tokyo working in strip clubs smoking heroin and earning $25 US for ten minutes of rubbing her tits in Japanese guys faces. Internet Strike three.