The last thing I expected to do a few weeks before my romantic retirement with my boyfriend was looking at her smiling face as a result of a search of a seeded hookup site between dick pictures and X-rated action shots. Yet there he was in Adult Friend Finder with the name of a hockey user under a clear picture of his face. For a smart guy, he was a huge fool.
The breakup was quick. He told me he was on the site just to porn and announced: “Either you believe me or not.” Thinking that his bio started on the site “I’m primarily looking for sex,” I didn’t believe him. Then He Becomes separated with Me.
Right after that, I was alone with the Adult Friend Finder account I created to discover my ex. Therefore, I did what any angry hot-blooded unmarried woman would do. I started checking profiles.
After a while, I floated into a sea of pornographic pictures ল lump dicks, hard dicks, spread-ag gull men unspokenly showing off their lunatics. Instantly, I was getting messages – most of them so ridiculous that they weren’t even able to reply. More than once, I asked myself what I was doing, but I did not delete my profile.
Finally, after being frustrated and annoyed by the quality of the gentlemen’s callers, I decided to edit my profile and arrange it as if I were on a regular dating site. I am talking about enjoying music and theater, my desire to be a liberal reader of modern literature and to find someone who is intelligent and interesting. To prove that I was perfectly on the half-sex parade, I created the first line of my identity: “Who has brains with their balls?”
It earned me some more refined suits whose opening lines only hinted at the purpose of the site rather than directly telling me all the horrible and misspelled things I was going to do. What obscenity was lacking in their messages, they were made for arrogance. No doubt, their lead legs were a profession they were sure would satisfy me with uncontrolled sapiosexual desires.
One example was the man who bragged, “said the astronaut. Big symphony lover. I read the New York Times every morning. Enough brain to go with my other well-formed parts. ”
Among all of them, my favorite self-promotion was, “If critical thinking is your aphrodisiac, then I must make chocolate, oysters, and green M&M all one.”
I wasn’t nearly as fascinated as they all hoped I would be. On the other hand, Mr. The engineer’s profile picture shows some impressive muscles. My thirst for revenge for my ex (and thirst in general) made me agree to save a hotel room and meet him a few weeks later.
But just after arranging my appointment, an amazing message arrived in my inbox. A guy wrote me an email Question. Related Me. A little later “I can’t even begin to say how beautiful you are” and “Your beauty is paler than your intellect” were somewhat shocking, such as, “What is your favorite genre?” And “Who is your favorite author?”
This new competitor was a Latin teacher in a high school and the first person who was not in the real etiquette of how much he was surprised with the valuable academic and career credentials of the three paragraphs.
“I am Paul,” he concluded his message, “and glad to meet you, I hope.”
We exchanged our email addresses. After a little correspondence, Mr. Paul won the engineer’s hotel room date.
Instead of exchanging cellphones, the first nudity of our relationship was a Roman statue in an art gallery. As we toured the exhibition Paul acted as both a date and a guide, entertaining me with the story behind the mythical characters in the works of the exhibition.
Paul lacked the arrogance and readiness of all the other men who sent me the message. Rather, he was freshly normal: average build, little on the short side, hair gray. His remarkable feature was a voice made for radio, deep and pleasant.
After our museum tour, we ate dinner, then drank, then we went to my hotel room. All told, rather a successful first date.
Not seeing each other, Paul mentioned that he was ill. An inherited condition caused his kidney to stop many years ago and his body is currently working with one donated by his father.
His attitude was surprisingly accepting the whole thing. “I’m going to vomit when this kidney goes out of steam,” he admitted. “I am not looking forward to dialysis. But I’ve lived with it all my life, and that’s another of those things. “
I couldn’t believe that anyone could call end-stage renal disease “another of these things.”
“You have to go through it and keep going,” he said, shaking, “because what’s the use otherwise?”
In addition to impressively resilient, Paul was attractive and respectful – a rare find in the creep I contacted – and also caught by any other criteria. But I didn’t have the strength after the whole push with my ex. I’ve pushed our relationship back to the status of a friend, and over time we’ve mostly gone out of contact.
Months passed. I finally gave up the relationship effort completely and was spending a lot of quality time with my cat. One day, an email appeared.
Paul wrote, “Many of you know that my transplanted kidney has been declining for some time.” “My doctors think that in one or more years I will need another transplant or dialysis. Although I want to avoid dialysis. It can lead to complications and even when it gets better, I realize it’s kind of a ruble. Also, the living donor kidney is more successful than the cadaver organ. And so, my doctors told me to try to find a donor. ‘Bring us a warm body!’ They had specific instructions. ”
It wasn’t the lack of desire to help that prevented me from responding – it was the military. I was enlisted then and doubted that the military would be interested in the idea of removing an organ from a soldier, even for a good reason. I inadvertently archived the email and crossed my fingers that someone else would come who was willing, able and typed O.
About a year after our first date, we met to see and meet a play. Although there was a lot of laughter, the performance was quite melancholy. As the main characters move towards their inevitable edge, one says in a terrified voice, “Death is not romantic.” I looked at Paul and saw that his eyes were bright with tears.
His dialysis began. He was dull, weak, slow, and more miserable overall. He was “going through it and continuing”, but it was taking a toll on him.
My friend was dying. It wasn’t romantic.
I came home from the play and sent an email to Paul’s transplant coordinator. “I’m hesitant to jump into the potential donor pool because I’m in the military,” I wrote. “I’m not sure I can actually get grant approval.” I begged him to keep it a secret from Paul, not wanting to get his hopes.
After that everything was a storm of tests and papers. Physical, CT scan, EKG, chest X-ray. Psychiatrists from both the civilian and military worlds have interviewed me so I am not too anxious to make my own decisions. Whenever I turned in one document, the other required my signature.
Throughout the whole process, the statistics were constantly running through my mind. The average waiting time for a cadaver kidney is five years, and Paul was on the national waiting list when he started dialysis. At any given time, the list contains about 100,000 people.
My privacy from Paul was not as secret as I wanted it to be. Before I got the thumbs-up from the military, another friend of his, who was going through the test, heard from the transplant team that a strong rival was waiting for the army’s permission. He sprinkled the beans.
When he found out, Paul told me that he immediately felt that he could only describe it as pure joy. He was delighted and relieved, but most importantly, “for the first time in months, optimistic.” I tried to be confident that everything would work out, but I was afraid to disappoint him if I could not finally grant.
It took four months to bite the nails. After medical clearance and pushing the paperwork to the Surgeon General’s office in Washington, my request was finally approved.
When Paul and I meet again at the hospital after the surgery, I am overwhelmed with relief. I was told I should be proud of myself. I’m not. I Grateful. I gave a good man more time. She is much healthier now and off dialysis. My kidneys are serving him well. Luckily, it will last for many years.
I often ask why I was willing to donate to someone I hadn’t known for a long time, even though any health-related complications could jeopardize my military career. Most people who open an organ for someone are doing it for a family member. Many say they can’t do it, no matter what.
But here’s the thing: Paul was dying. It would have been a long, slow journey of pain while he waited for a cadaver kidney that probably wouldn’t have been as effective as my survivor. People do not need two kidneys to live a normal life. I was not likely to experience negative side effects and it turned out that I did not. Those who make it through the donor selection process are already healthy, so surgery usually doesn’t affect them too much. And I can’t stress this enough: Paul was dying. I wanted to save the life of my dying friend.
In fact, Paul probably did me a favor. Revenge-screwing some muscle from a hookup site was not the safest life choice I could make. Paul proved that there are still decent men in the world, but no other online rando could be one of them.
Since the surgery, we have been friends. Although we don’t see each other often, we talk online almost every day. A while ago she married another Latin teacher, whom I am sure she was seduced with Roman nudes as well.
If you are thinking of becoming a living organ donor – and I strongly recommend you – you can find more information here.
Liz Armstrong is finally finishing her undergraduate studies after spending eleven years in the military and is aimlessly bobbing a handful more into life. A student at the University of Maryland, College Park, she is pursuing degrees in English and Chinese, although how she will apply them remains a mystery. He lives with his wife and three cats.
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