The Dairy Woman Who Died in My Bed

I opened the door and recoiled in horror.

That was the day my interest in internet dating ended. In fact, you could say it was the day my existence as a normal human being ended.

Like many people nowadays, I used internet dating as a way of meeting people of the opposite sex.

I found it interesting that everyone I talked to, be it coworkers or good friends seemed to concede in hushed tones, grinning sheepishly that yes, because they were lonely or horny or bored they'd given the internet dating thing a try. Whenever I asked a friend where he'd met a girl that I'd never seen before, he'd give a lengthy pause and then reply "Through a friend". It seemed to be society's skeleton in the closet.

I guess we all feel guilty about the social abyss that the internet has created in out lives. But there we are, lying cocooned in our cubicles, composing mental lists of gripes about the personalities of our neigbours, whom when we see them don't have much to offer them except an awkward, muttered greeting. Not really surprising that we turn to the internet to find people we like. If I didn't have such a pathological aversion to commitment, I'd cling to the hope that I'd meet Someone Special. Ah well.

For me, internet dating was primarily a vehicle for casual sex. Every once or week or so I would meet a girl that I met off the net for coffee after work. The process became almost farcically routine. It was probably the fact that everything was reduced to text on a screen that made so easy to hone my efforts. With scientific precision I would test methods of flirting, until it basically became a formula programmed into my subconscious. On one occasion I managed to set up three dates in one evening without it really registering. It only worked with a certain type of girl though: the naieve, suburban, secretary-in-a-business-park-office type. Women with personalities were immune to cliches.

It kept me preoccupied, sane even. When their predictable monologues of work and shopping drifted across the cafe table, I was able to lapse into a blissful, trancelike state. I would emerge, but only to ask the kind of question that would make them talk more. I was at peace in their stream of supre and sportsgirl. Sometimes we would have sex, sometimes I simply couldn't be bothered getting the ball rolling.

I kept this existence of disposable dates going for over six months. Until really weird things started to happen.

I met a girl off the net through my usual charade. She was quite stunning physically: blonde, great figure, wore cute glasses with thick frames. We ended going back to my place. I was feeling unusually horny that day, but this changed incredibly quickly. I ran my hands up her thigh, and felt a weird lump. I looked down and saw a fat, blue tendril like growth protruding from her upper thigh-almost like a root was growing out of her. I don't think I've ever lost an erection so fast.

A parade of women with increasingly weirder genetic defects marched through my life over the next few weeks. A girl with horns on her back; an English backpacker girl with greenish tinged skin that changed to blue over the course of the date.

I was plunged deep into depression. I called in sick from work and spent a week in my flat, not speaking to anyone. Eventually I decided to give it one last try.

Her photo leapt out at me: white-blonde, with model-perfect looks. I flirted awhile, eventually convincing her to come over. The only weird thing about her was that her name was Foccacia-yeah, the bread. I should have taken that as a warning sign.

She showed up on Sunday afternoon, knocking on the door.

I opened the door and recoiled in horror.

The only similarity she bore to her online likeness was her long, blonde hair. The only way I can account for this difference is that she must have used photoshop.

She was huge. Not fat though, more swollen-like a rubbery bladder filled with fluid. Her skin was pale and clammy. Around her face it was limp and saggy, as if she didn't have a skull.

Completely oblivious to my reaction, she greeted me and heaved herself onto the couch like a dying jellyfish landing on the bottom of the Mariana Trench.

I sat as far away as I could from her, keeping my eyes focused on the TV as she talked incessantly about her utterly banal existence. She didn't seem to care that I didn't reply at all. Her presence had a bizarre effect on me. I felt like no matter what I did, I was absolutely powerless to remove her from her flat. I felt like crying.

So I did the only thing I could do

"Uh, listen...I'm really tired, I had a really full on day. I think I'm gonna head off to bed"

"Okay" She said, giving me a vacant smile.

I shut the bedroom door behind me, breathing a sigh of relief. I was across a threshold impregnable by the bloated entity in the lounge.

I was drifting off to sleep when I heard the door open. The bed undulated as she laid her bulk down beside me. I moved over as far as I could without falling off. A liquid warmth began spreading through the bedclothes, making them sticky to the touch. There was a smell like rotten cream.

I'm not sure whether I fell asleep or lost consciousness.

When I awoke, the bedclothes were drenched with a sticky substance. I got up and found myself ankle deep in a cloudy white liquid. Yellow blotches floated on the surface, like oil on water. As for the girl, there was no trace to be found.

Calmly and quietly I had a shower, then went down the road to my favourite cafe for breakfast. When I got back, the bed was dry and the liquid was gone.

All that remained was the smell of rotten cream.