I blamed everything on her conservative Anglican upbringing. “We’re the boring one’s,” she’d often say. Apparently, the Pentecostals are the ones who rock out to God. Whatever. She wasn’t wrong. She was boring. Her appeal was odd, much like her lifestyle. But for a while, she was exactly what I needed: someone safe.
I’d just started online dating after a horrific breakup and was open to anything, and anyone. In truth, it got to a stage where I didn’t even read the profiles, I looked at the pictures. If they weren’t overweight, I initiated contact.
Loraine had taken some bad shots of herself with her webcam but for some reason, her dark hair, hazel eyes and thin face appealed to me. Within a day, Loraine had replied and we started to chat. She insisted I call her Lorrie. We had a few things in common, but not many, enough to strike up a decent conversation for a good few hours. We’d discuss anything from rock music history to foreign cities. Lorrie was well-read and well-travelled.
I asked Lorrie if she’d be interested in meeting me. She agreed to come to the city from the West and find me outside the station. When I saw her, she was nothing like I’d expected. I was well-dressed, as usual, and she looked like she’d just finished a shift at Woolworths. I leant in to greet her with a kiss on the cheek and she froze. I copped a face full of hair.
After a moment of awkwardness, we walked up to Oxford Street and had dinner at a café, which had a typewriter in the window and played old records. Based on our email exchanges, I thought she’d like it and she did.
Lorrie was so nervous. I was overly polite to try and calm her down. This whole online dating thing was new to me also, but she was clearly not going to open up on her own. I made some light conversation about her interest in ’60s music. Then, I asked her to tell me about where she’d been travelling lately. A recent trip to Portugal and one coming up to the UK really got her talking.
She didn’t eat much. I asked her if she wanted a drink, only to find out that alcohol wasn’t her thing. It didn’t bother me until she started to justify it by saying that people who need to drink don’t know how to have fun. I ordered a whisky.
To her surprise, I paid the bill. We went and sat on a bench in Hyde Park. By this stage, I couldn’t shut her up. She was talking about her love of science. I was not impressed. However, she did make me laugh when she screamed, as a rat scurried across the pathway into the bushes.
Lorrie kept making overt gestures for me to make a move. I was not excited at all by her social skills, and her quirkiness had me starting to think that she was going to become my stalker. Nevertheless, I embraced her lips. She kissed like a front loader washing machine with the door open and the water on high.
I saw her to the station and said goodbye. She hadn’t raised her religious upbringing, much to my surprise. But there was no way to avoid it.
Over the next few months, I would see Lorrie a couple of times a week. We’d worked out a routine. I would come over on Thursday nights, she’d cook me dinner, I’d fuck her and leave. On either Saturday or Sunday, I’d take her out for dinner or a movie, fuck her, and repeat this over and over. Eventually, I got sick of it and sick of her.
I wasn’t sick of her looks, her company or the things we chose to do together. I was sick of her moral standards and ethical judgements. Every girl who wore makeup was just trying to draw attention to herself. Every girl who wore a short dress was a slut, and so on. She was a churchie, and a goddam cliché.
I pitied her. I couldn’t love someone I pitied.
This made me wonder, how many parents with strict moral and religious values have seriously fucked their daughters up? Lorrie might have been fun to go to the movies with, to chill out to some retro tunes, but when it came to making decisions, she was all about judgement. Too much for me.
I’ve noticed an increase in the amount of young women who fit Lorrie’s profile since dating her. They are modern day spinsters. They are easy to spot: no makeup, no dress sense, no outward energy, little need for material possessions and the first to protest against anything and everything that they consider to be morally wrong or unethical. Of course, one look in the moral mirror usually tells a different story, as does appraising their ethical behaviour in the workplace.
Have you dated a churchie? Was it a good experience or a nightmare?
I’ll never do it again.