Single, with complexes

But avowed Seinfeld fan and "My 1,000 Americans" author Rochelle Morton (these two would, it appears, have something to talk about on a date) traced her strange erotic journey from Chicago to Georgia and back again -- with stops in New York and points in between -- placing personal ads in newspapers. Along the way, she had sex with nearly 1,000 men.

Actually, that's not true. Morton says she never had any intention of having sex with a single one of her dates, nor did she lead any on in that direction. But despite her claims in that regard, the ad she placed ("English female 30s, slim and attractive, seeks professional male for fun times") says something about "fun times," which makes it seem like she's looking for a fun time. Did she expect invitations to canasta games? Who knows. She's English; perhaps fun means something different over there.

Although apparently not. Morton's first and previous book was about her experiences dating 700 British men, the great mass of whom turned out to be losers, creeps and perverts who all wanted to fun her. And so much for that! American men, on the other hand, as we discover in her new book, are a bunch of losers, creeps and perverts who ... oh, it's shocking. Really.

"My 1,000 Americans" is made up of short chapters, each of which describes a single date. And these chapters go something like this:

Ryan, Age 28, Freelance Writer, Single. When Ryan answered my ad, he was very polite but shy, as if he thought my answering machine would find him wanting, and hang up on him. "Hi, this is ... Uh, I'm Ryan, and it's very nice to meet you. Well OK, I haven't met you yet. And I guess I'm not even talking to you now, really. But maybe we can go out sometime, if you don't, uh, mind." And so on, for almost two whole minutes! He seemed surprised and even shyer when I called him back. And I soon found out why!

I met Ryan in an upscale-esque coffee-beverage chain, where he said he spent a lot of his time. He was blond and young-looking and dressed in a gas-station attendant's jacket with the name "Tony" stitched on the breast. He was already seated when I arrived, and didn't stand up to greet me. Ryan was already nursing a cup of half-cold coffee, but hastened to say that I should order anything I wanted. And when he stood up to accompany me to the counter, I noticed he was, well, big. As in, 6-foot-5, and not exactly slender. Now, I like tall men, but 6-5 and not slender is truly inconsiderate! But the nastiest shock was still to come. As my coffee was being poured, and with absolutely no prompting from me, Ryan grabbed my buttocks and shouted, "Hey, girlie! I like to poo my pants and bounce around on a hoppity-hop -- that's my bag. Screw the chitchat, bimbo. Party with the Bigge Man like it's 1999! Woo-hoo! Give it up, sweet cheeks! I wanna do you so badly!"

"I needn't 'do' so badly as you," I retorted tartly, leaving my readers with a nagging suspicion that I had misrepresented the whole last part of the encounter. And without a hint that I was only researching a book and had never intended to date Ryan at all, I hoppity-hopped straight out the door. Another total loser! Are there no decent men at all?

Next page: Perpetrating date fraud