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The Little Things in Life
by Gil A. Waters

When the first of my failed marriages came to an end, there was only one thing I wanted: sex. Not passionate lovemaking infused with deep emotion, but raw fucking that leaves a really big wet spot. I seriously entertained the idea of hiring a hooker for her services, but I was a "high-end call girl" kind of guy on a "toothless crack whore" budget, so paying for sex was out of the question. And, as a shy alcoholic who'd been dry for less than a year, joining the inebriated herd at a singles bar was unthinkable. So I decided to try what was then a relatively new option for desperate and socially isolated people in search of companionship: internet dating.

Back in those days, internet personal ads tended to be Spartan in nature. Most people didn't even post pictures. You simply indicated your gender, age, and body type, and the gender, age, and body type of your potential mate, then hoped for the best. In my case, this translated into something along the lines of "slim, 32-year-old man seeks anyone between the ages of 18 and 55 who was born with and currently has a vagina and is not suffering from morbid obesity or an incurable sexually transmitted disease." Degree of physical beauty was negotiable. Intellect and personality were irrelevant.

I responded with too much enthusiasm to nearly every Woman-Seeking-Man ad I found, and arranged to meet the first woman willing to do so. After exchanging a couple of brief emails, we decided to have a Saturday-evening dinner at an Ethiopian restaurant in a trendy neighborhood of the city. I arrived at the restaurant half an hour early and stood out front, leering expectantly at every woman who might fit the description provided by my date: "short," with an "average" body type.

When I first glimpsed the dwarf making her way towards me, navigating through the long legs of the early-evening throngs that filled the sidewalk, I felt a chill shudder of disbelief. When she caught my eye from a distance and smiled, my stomach nearly fell out of my ass and onto the ground. It's not that I have anything against dwarfs, but I would have assumed a date might mention that she is just shy of four-feet tall, with a disproportionately large head and stubby limbs. While superficial details such as these might not be relevant if I were meeting a professional colleague to discuss nuclear physics or medieval history, they do seem relevant when meeting a potential sexual partner.

While I may be shallow when it comes to romancing people with pronounced birth defects, I am not rude about it. I greeted the dwarf amiably and we embarked upon a thirty-minute dinner that may have been the longest meal of my life. I was in shock, so I remember absolutely nothing about our conversation. 

After dinner, as I bade goodbye to her in front of the restaurant, a light rain began to fall. I remember thinking to myself: "This is rock bottom. It's Saturday night, it's raining, and I just had a date with a dwarf." I returned to my tiny rented room, had a good long cry, engaged in a ferocious bout of masturbation, and then rejuvenated myself with 12 hours of clinically depressed sleep.