GIRL 44
SURGERY GIRL
Christmas was coming. I was hoping Santa would bring me a girlfriend. A sexy one. One with the sexual appetite of Girl 6 and the looks of Girl 38.
Surgery Girl had a picture that was indeterminate, and it was only a photo of her face. She could look great, or awful. I was counting on my clairvoyance to break the tie, and I thought she might be fun.
After all, one of the things she told me was that when she cleaned her house, she did it in the nude. What nonsexual girl would do that? She got me throbbing on the phone, so I accelerated our date a few nights.
I showed up with a smile and high hopes.
Clairvoyance, my ass, I thought. She was frightening in appearance and soulless in personality. I was polite, entertained her with a few stories, and got the hell back to my life as soon as I could.
Naturally, my cool attitude made her want me. I should have taken that lesson more seriously, and used it for the more gorgeous, desirable females, but I was an idiot with them, fawning all over them and telling them how beautiful they were. At least I was until Girl 94. When 94 showed up looking like a supermodel, the sexiest, most beautiful woman I'd seen in a year, I was cool as cuke. Okay, that's a lie, I pretty much proposed to 94 twenty minutes into the date, but I walked her to her car at a decent hour and didn't call her for a good twenty-four hours, thereby setting the hook. The dating moves I learned at Annapolis that I had rejected as being dishonest worked. But, unfortunately, at this point number 94 was eight months in the future.
After the date with Surgery Girl, I started working on the internet dating site as if it were a job, bringing all the business tools to bear. I developed a linear regression of profile words that would evaluate a candidate and predict if she were a slut or a dud. Over the next month I would test it in the field.
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