Love: Disease by Aimee Friedland

When I was younger I used to enjoy watching re-runs of the 70’s “Dating Game” Show. Three nearly identical blondes would sit on one side of the daisy-wallpapered divider as a charming young man interviewed them from the other side.
“Contestant Number 1: What qualities do you look for in a man?”
“Contestant Number 2: What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done? Now remember, we’re on national television here!”
The crowd chortles insinuatingly.
At the end of the show, the lucky bachelor chooses his dream date from the three contestants and the two are forced to spend a magically contrived or just plain debauch evening together.

I wonder, if dating really is a game, then what is prize? True love? Mutually bearable relations? A lucrative prenuptial agreement?

Whatever the case, it all starts with sex and humanity’s desire to recreate, even if it’s no longer facilitated by the necessity to procreate. Sex itself is good, of course, but can lead to such nasty things as “herpes, gonorrhea, and something called relationships.” These were the wise words of Ali G on one momentous segment of Da Ali G show, and in the spirit of his teachings I am determined to create a device that will someday act as an “emotional contraceptive,” protecting against the disease we call Love.

I know that I shouldn’t be so cynical. In fact, I’m not really cynical at all; merely my inner-dreamer has been beaten down by a stick, caught the flu and will be bedridden for the next three months while it nurses itself back to health.

I suppose it was doomed from the very beginning. At first, Aimee just wanted a tasty piece of ass. One bite and she was hooked - now Aimee wants the whole fucking pie.

Stupid girl; none of this would have happened if she had played it safe and kept her guard up. But, knowing me, that is virtually impossible - I wear my heart on my sleeve and the key to my chastity belt conveniently hanging ‘round my neck. Sometimes I may act a bit predatory, but in reality all I want to do is love and be loved. In my quests I have looked near and far, up skirts and down shirts, through the World Wide Web and under my bed…

And the results keep coming up the same: they say you, you, you. Aimee-dear, you are screwed.

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Rating: 7.2 out of 61 votes cast