True love is hard to find. Every year, desperate single people spend thousands of dollars on dating sites, at the gym, and going to bars, all in an attempt to meet that perfect someone. I'm known for my impatience and what some people consider to be a defect, I consider to be a great skill. I have the uncanny ability to detect a man from miles away, who I believe will be the perfect one-night-stand. And while none of these episodes have ever resulted in marriage (dodged the bullet) or children (I'm on 70 forms of birth control), they have always been wildly successful where love is concerned.
It was a Sunday afternoon and I was watching the Pats game in Boston when an aggressively attractive man leaned over and said, "I think we should kiss." He fit all of my criteria perfectly. Hot body, just dumb enough to immediately ask for a makeout session, young, attractive with the perfect degree of drunken swagger. Upon further review, I found out he was a minor-league pitcher. This fact cinched it for me and far be it from me to deny a burgeoning athlete a smooch, however, I was with a gaggle of married people and wasn't ready to be fully ex-communicated so I tried to act like a lady and responded, "How about I write my number on your arm and we bang later instead?" This worked wonderfully.
A few hours later this drunken savage showed up at my apartment. Sex happened, it was life-changing. Turns out inebriated sportsmen don't mince words. He had little to say but we agreed that we had a lot in common as we both liked to be naked and we both liked The Postal Service. It was meant to be. The next morning he flew back to Kansas City or Pittsburgh or wherever he was from. We sexted for a few months but in the end, our time together was brief. But, like a gentleman, he left me with something that would keep me remembering him for years.
After a few days, I realized I wasn't feeling so hot. I had a fever and my back hurt so badly that it was becoming impossible to sext the minor-league pitcher pictures of my breasts. I knew I had to do something so I waited until I was basically unable to walk and then I went to the doctor. (Such an idiot.)
Ultimately I was diagnosed with a kidney infection.
Me: Am I dying?
Dr: No, you have a kidney infection.
Me: How did I get it?
Dr: Have you been sexually active recently?
Me: Ya, it's been great. I had sex with a stranger that I met in a bar on a Sunday. Could that have done it?
Dr: *literally just throwing condoms at me*
Me: I gotta go.
Unfortunately there was a bit of a mix-up at said doctor's. It took a while for them to prescribe the right antibiotic and then they lost one of my urine samples leaving me with a 104 degree temperature for over a week. Finally, I was forced to go on short-term disability because I had missed so much work. And each night, as my friends stopped by to cover me with ice or feed me broth, I couldn't help but think that maybe the minor-league pitcher and I really had something. I never told him about my kidney infection but I'm sure he was concerned when the sexts slowed down. That's the fantastic thing about anonymous sex with strangers. You don't have to talk a lot. I had no explaining to do for my lack in communication. We never did see each other again. But I would gladly contract another crippling disease if it meant we could, once again, be together. I don't claim to know a lot about relationships but I'm pretty sure that's what true love is.