Playing Chase (Against The Wall)

“Do you know what you’ve done to me? What you’ve raised me to be? A cheater. A man who screws over every woman he loves. I lost Shelly and swore I wouldn’t let it happen again. And then when you dropped by to be a dad again, I lost Summer too. I still can’t believe I cheated on her. It was only one kiss with an old friend I ran into at a movie, but I let her believe it was more so she would dump me. I couldn't imagine living without her but I knew I didn’t deserve her love. Listening to your stupid shit about her being with another guy had me so pissed, that I actually hurt her. Physically. I could hear your voice in my head, taunting me about how I wasn’t man enough to keep my woman satisfied. About how she’d moved on so quickly, that she probably never cared. So I grabbed hold of her arm, hoping and praying that she’d say it was all a mistake, and that she did love me and wanted to be with me. But she didn’t…I lost her too. I turned into some kind of madman, grasping at straws for either Summer or Shelly to love me. For either of them to want me or understand me, but all I did was hurt them more, and I made a total ass out of myself in the process. And when you finally left like you always did, I had plenty of alone time without you, and without Summer to think about what I'd done. I'm not blaming you, Dad. It's my own fault for letting your words get to me. But I'm done. I can't do it anymore. I don't want to be that guy anymore…I refuse to be like you."

What the fuck!

I lean in closer, studying the email on my laptop. This can’t be right.

From: Dale

Subject: Hard up?

Since when does Chase Marino need an online dating service to get some tail? Are you that hard up after both the loves of your life dumped your ass? Or maybe you’ve bagged all the willing at work
, so you’re venturing out to the land of ladies who don’t know you’re a womanizing ass? Either way let me know how it goes. I’m always down to try something new. But seriously, going through a dry spell, huh? I never thought it’d happen. Haha. Good luck, bro.

I send Dale a quick reply asking him what the hell he’s talking about. I didn’t sign up for anything. The thought of dating right now actually makes me cringe. Dry spell is right. But it’s self-induced. After what I did to Summer and Shelly, I don’t deserve to be in another relationship. In fact, I should’ve never been in a relationship to begin with. My sorry ass of a father has been kind enough to remind me of that.

I lift my hands to my face and scrub them hard across my skin, trying to wash off the foul mood that’s come over me at the thought of my dear old dad. As if that constant reminder has not been sleeping in my spare bedroom for the last several weeks. I glance at my watch. He’s probably still asleep, catching up on his rest after being out all night. The man is over sixty and still parties like a frat boy. My stomach churns, so I reach for the bottle of Tums in the top drawer of my desk, toss four into my mouth and start chewing on the chalky tablets.

My computer chimes, letting me know I have an incoming message. This time, Dale doesn’t write a note. Instead, he sends me a link. Immediately, I click on it and the spinning wheel icon rotates until a new page is revealed.

What the fuck!

That’s my face.

That’s my name.

And that right there, is a fictional profile.

I sure as hell didn’t create this nonsense.

Hot! Sexy! And UP for just about anything!

Well, I have been told I’m hot and sexy, but I do draw the line at many things.

Looking for a woman who’s different. One who isn’t afraid to try new things. One who is up for a challenge.

I’m Chase and I like to play. Tag, you’re i
t
.

Really? That’s so lame. I’m scared to even think about the weirdos who would reply to that kind of message.

I click back to the email and tap out a response.

From: Chase

Subject: Re: Hard up?

Dude, that’s not me. Well, it’s my name and face, but I didn’t subscribe to that shit. Someone is playing a joke on me. And I have a feeling I know who it is. Or maybe I should say
, I know who they are.

I send off the email and take a look at my fake profile again. It says I like to drink pickle juice, I have a fetish for bush (as in unkempt bikini lines), and I also love to do karaoke—all of which are dead wrong. Nice. And if I wasn’t completely sure about whom the masterminds of this prank are, I’m absolutely certain once I click on the photo gallery attached to the profile.

Damn them.

Gotta give Shelly props for digging into the vault for some of these. If they’re trying to humiliate me, it’s working. There’s one of me in a towel, dripping wet after getting out of the shower. I look good, but it’s not something I’d want to share with the world. Not to mention, I’m posing for the camera like I’m some kind of Playboy model. That was all Shelly’s idea. It was funny at the time. Now? Not so much. There’s also a photo of my closet, which makes me appear a little anal because all my shoes are lined up in the same direction and sorted by color. My clothes are arranged in the same manner.

Mel added a picture she took when we were in college. I’m passed out in her apartment with my hand down the front of my unbuttoned jeans and a beer can falling out of my other hand. My personal favorite (NOT) had to be gifted by Summer
, because it’s an image of me, passed out again—on our old bed—with a bottle of lotion and a hand towel strategically placed on the night stand. What the hell were these women thinking? For the record, the lotion and towel were not mine. They were Summer’s—part of her nightly makeup removal routine—but of course, the photo makes me look like I’m jacking off in my bed, every night.

Leaning back in my chair, I sit in silence, wondering what I should do about this little problem. I could get the ladies in trouble at work. I could call the police. I could pretend I never saw it. Maybe they’ll take it down soon. No doubt they probably threw it together
during a night of drunken, Chase-bashing.

Fuck that.

Taking my phone off my desk, I slide my thumb across the screen and start tapping out a group message.

Hey ladies. Nice to see you’re putting your last few days of summer to good use. Just caught wind of my very own online dating profile. Thanks for the hot and sexy bit.
Oh and love the pics. So when do I get to start meeting these ladies? I’m sure I’ve gotten some hits. You wanna play? Then, let’s play. Bring it…

I don’t have to wait long for the responses to come through.

Shelly: Who said anyone wants to date your ass?

Summer: How did you find it? I bet you have an alert set up so you know when anyone breathes your name on the Internet. Sick.

Melissa: Game on, bitch!

I wouldn’t expect anything less from any of them. I know them all too well. And I know them well enough to know that I’ve just started some serious shit. I’m in for it now. There’s no backing down.

Let the games begin.

Classes start tomorrow and instead of focusing on my plans for the week, I can’t stop thinking about my fake dating profile. They put the damn thing in my real name. My students could find it. Even worse, so could their parents. This is not good. I need to talk to them and get that shit taken down. I don’t care anymore if I sound like a pussy. I just don’t need this crap. I’m done playing games. I don’t want to date—not for real and not for fake. Not to mention, what woman in her right mind would respond to a guy like the one they posted?