Arielle smiles, and before I can change my mind, she loads the sign-up form on the tablet screen.
We go through the next few steps, filling out my age, height, eye color, my favorite hobbies, and likes and dislikes, until we get to the real important stuff.
“Okay, how would you like him to look physically?” she asks, looking up at me.
“Hmm,” I say, raising my eyes to the ceiling. “You know me, I love a tall man. I guess at least six feet?”
Eli laughs, drawing both Arielle’s and my attention. “Every guy from five-nine on says they’re six feet because women have this height obsession, like five-eleven is so much shorter than six feet even. We all know it’s only because you think dick size is related to height. Newsflash, that’s not always true. I’ve seen dudes who are five-five in boots with dicks the size of my arm, and big, burly six-five guys who wish they were as big as that sausage.” He lifts his chin toward the last tiny sausage on the charcuterie board, making Arielle and me frown.
“Is there an option for dick size in addition to height?” I ask quickly.
“Is there an option for cup size?” Eli challenges.
“I’d answer. I’m fine if some guy prefers the itty bitty titty committee or the big rack pack.” Truthfully, I don’t fall into either of those categories but rather, somewhere in the middle with a perky C-cup. And honestly, I’m not screening for monster dicks. I like my insides the way they are, thank you very much, and don’t need them ruined by some huge appendage.
“Focus, people. And what else—takes care of himself? Doesn’t need to be Adonis or anything, but healthy. Agree?” Arielle continues. “Blond or brunet?”
“Brunet.” I don’t know what it is, but I’ve always liked dark-haired men. Might be because I'm blonde and so is my entire family, so I naturally want something different.
“Light eyes or dark eyes?”
“Either or.”
“Left or right-handed?”
“What kind of question is that?” I demand, chuckling. “Do people have strong preferences on that?”
Arielle shrugs but lifts her brows expectantly.
“It doesn’t matter.”
I have to say there’s something strange about listing off attributes as check marks, as if the person is a fast-food menu item. I can’t think of anything more humiliating for a guy to know there’s some chick on the other side saying, “Can I have a tall, dark, and handsome stud with a big cock, please?”
At the same time, I’m sort of digging being able to do it, so call me crazy.
“All right, now we’re at the good stuff,” Eli says, looking over Arielle’s shoulder. “What qualities do you want in your potential man?”
“I want—”
At that moment, Raffy goes crazy barking up at me as if saying, You don’t need a new man, Momma, I’m all the man you’ll ever need!
“Raffy, will you hush?” I scold him, though I’m smiling at his silly antics as he licks my face. He smells like sausage, and I think I know where those disappeared to, and it’s not Eli’s stomach as I thought. “Momma’s trying to think!”
“Oh, he just wants snuggles,” Arielle says, handing me the tablet as she scoops Raffy up. In two seconds, she has him inverted and in her arms like a baby, her right hand rubbing his belly.
Raffy’s in heaven, and honestly, Arielle looks really good playing dog momma. She’d make a great real momma when the time’s right, but for now, I’m just glad I can think. Though I do notice that Eli is staring pretty directly at Arielle with Raffy in her arms too. It feels intrusive to see the longing in his eyes, so I drop my eyes to the tablet.
“What do I want . . . hmm,” I murmur. It strikes me then that I’ve never been asked that before, nor have I ever given it much thought beyond a couple of ideas of what I thought a good man should be.
For the first time, I’m asking myself, What do I want in a man?
“Intelligent, caring,” I say, my voice picking up conviction as I start checking off boxes on the screen. “Someone who knows how to listen to a woman and respect her opinion and admit when he’s wrong. But I also want someone who will tell me when I’m not right, too. He has to have a job. I’m no sugar momma. And he should be driven and know where he’s going in life.”
“Damn, girl,” Arielle breathes, breaking the silence and spell, “you just described Prince Charming. I’m not trying to throw acid in your apple juice, but I don’t think a man like that exists, though I think Eli comes pretty damn close.”
Eli flinches as if electricity shot through him with Arielle’s words.
Her comment only serves to remind me how unlikely it is to think I’ll find a worthy relationship from this, so I shouldn’t get my hopes up.
The interface is really easy. The survey’s usually picking from a list of four to eight options with a few ranked choice questions. The questions are actually really funny, too. Like Rank these superhero movies from most likely to watch on a date to least likely: Batman Begins, Avengers, Wonder Woman, Kick-Ass, Black Panther.
I’m not sure what sort of insight into my personality and psychology that’s supposed to answer, but I answer to the best of my ability. I move on, continuing down the list, finding some questions that seem silly and some that make me really think deeply, until finally, I finish. “And . . . done!”
I follow the last few prompts, agreeing to let the Robot Matchmaker work its magic, and then a heart appears on the screen. It fills up with red pixels and then flashes back empty, filling up again. “This is better than the spinning circle of rainbow death, but the empty heart is a bit of a gut-freeze every time. Maybe I’ll tell River that?” As soon as I say it, I know I won’t because then I’d be admitting that I tried his app. Not that there’s anything wrong with it, but still, it’s not the kind of thing you share with your big brother.
Suddenly, the tablet goes apeshit, dinging like a pan of popcorn. Looking, I realize it’s all ‘matches’ from guys it’s paired me with. I’m sifting through their profiles when there is one that’s so ridiculous.
“Check this one out,” I tell Arielle while Eli refills our wine glasses. “Kevin H: Roses are red, violets are blue, baby that ass makes a part of me want to get to know the inside of you.”
“Uhm . . . no,” Arielle says. “That’s disgusting and stupid. I mean, he hasn’t even seen your ass. What if it’s pancake flat and saggy?” She slides a cracker through the artichoke dip and stuffs the whole thing in her mouth. Rolling her eyes, she moans, “God, this is better than sex.”
I glance toward the kitchen, but Eli seems to have not heard. Something tells me he’d take it as a personal affront and tell Arielle ‘challenge accepted’, but that’s just a guess. I dip a cracker in the dip myself and chew thoughtfully. I honestly wouldn’t know since it’s been so long, but the snack is delicious.
Over our next round of wine and snacking, we go through more of the matches. “Who’s the guy there with the high match? Let’s check him out!”
I open up the profile for MarkD 2176. Obviously, he’s not using his full name either, which is a plus in my book.