Dateland: I’m Going To Tell Your Mother

I may have mentioned in previous columns that my handyman regularly texts me naked pictures of the tramps he picks up at donut shops and mini-marts. But, it’s spring and everyone is feeling frisky, so this fun fact bears repeating.

I have begged him to stop sending me these pictures. He knows I’m a lesbian and, not surprisingly, is titillated by it. He thinks it’s so cool that he can both ogle my breasts (which are quite ogle-able) and treat me like a bro.

Last week, while I was at a business meeting, I made the mistake of leaving my phone on the table when I left the conference room for a moment. When I returned, I found seven guys in suits giggling uncontrollably while passing my phone around the room. I ripped the phone from one of the executive’s paws, only to find that my idiot handyman had texted me a picture of a girl’s hoo-hah. It popped up on the iPhone screen when I left the room.

I excused myself from the meeting and called the imbecile.

“You have to stop doing this,” I said, in my best angry whisper.

He giggled, thus proving that blue collar and white-collar guys DO have something in common. They all giggle like schoolgirls every time they see a naked woman.

I gazed down at the picture. It was as sad and desperate as every picture he sends me. The girls are always too young for him. He’s 42, and they look like fetuses. They have the same hairless, googly-eyed appearance as a fetus and seem to be encased in a jelly-like substance. The pictures are usually taken in their bedrooms, which are typically adorned with soiled pink comforters and black sheets. There is always a picture of a butterfly or a panda or some other victimized breed of animal hanging on the wall. And the picture is always crooked. They usually have scars on their abdomens. I prefer to think they’re the result of botched appendectomies, but I fear they are the marks of something far more sinister.

“How do you keep meeting women who feel compelled to send you naked pictures?” I asked.

“They want to keep me interested, I guess,” he said proudly.

“And this keeps you interested? A picture of some po-faced hillbilly who looks like she just jumped a freight car out of the holler?” I responded, studying the image. “She has no breasts and appears to have the beginning of scoliosis. She’s as sexy as a virus, which I’m certain she’s teeming with.”

My handyman is a good-looking guy with a well-paying job (garbage truck driver), which makes him a great catch in my small town. He has a new love interest every weekend, which he announces by sending me a naked snap. Each time I receive one, I ask him to give me the poor girl’s mother’s phone number so I can tell on her.

I have never taken a naked picture of myself and not just because I’m a prude, which, admittedly, I am. The truth is that I’m very vain, and naked pictures taken by non-professionals are awful. They show every misplaced hair and blemish. And if you are taking a self portrait by holding your camera-phone at arm’s length, you have to contort yourself in such a way that pockets of fat balloon in odd places, making you look misshapen. There is a good reason why people dim the lights during sex.

So, kids, stop sending naked pictures to prospective lovers. The next time you’re tempted to do so, just remember that the awful person you’re texting them to will most likely send them to someone like me. And I will call your mother and let her know what you’ve been up to.

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