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  MATCH

  Patrick C. Harrison III

  This is a work of fiction. None of the people, places, or events described in this novel actually exist or happened. Not that I’m aware of…

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  Copyright © 2023 Patrick C. Harrison III

  All rights reserved.

  DEDICATION

  For all the fellas out there in search of THE ONE

  CONTENTS

  A Day in the Life

  Debra

  Missed Opportunity

  Wendy

  A Visitor

  Date Day

  Post Date Drama

  Sara’s House

  Perfect Match

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This depraved tale was originally supposed to be in an anthology published by Macabre Ladies. For reasons I’m not privy to, that book was permanently delayed. But without the prompting of Eleanor Merry, this story would not exist. So, thank you, Eleanor.

  A Day in the Life

  0.001752% of relationships end in homicide.

  As a fast-food worker, I’m already at a disadvantage finding a life partner. The number one—numero uno!—least desired profession women want for their mate, is a fast-food worker. Being a fry cook and burger flipper, like myself, is probably the worst among fast food workers, but I’ve been unable to find studies stating this.

  I’m working on upgrading my desirability, though. Statistically speaking, elementary educators enjoy the most success in long term relationships. That incident at the state park in Arkansas is causing some minor delays in me being accepted into a teaching program, however. But that was a complete misunderstanding, I assure you.

  My alarm goes off at 8am, like usual, but, like usual, I’ve been lying here awake for the last hour or so, thinking about that perfect lady—my match—and rubbing gently on my morning wood. I don’t bring myself to climax, though. It’s a common misconception that men are more adept at connecting with the opposite sex after their spunk has been blasted from their ball-sacks. In reality, they’re less likely to make the oft required first move, such as striking up a conversation with an unfamiliar potential partner. Thus, orgasms are relegated to just before bedtime, when the chances of connecting with a potential mate are virtually impossible.

  I turn off the alarm and get up and walk into the bathroom and take a leak. It takes a while for my hardness to dissipate and for the pee to flow, but eventually success is achieved. I can’t see my wienie, my little pecker, my loving love rod, unless I lean forward. My belly blocks it from view. It’s also not a particularly large specimen.

  69% of women prefer the “dad bod” as opposed to a chiseled physique. This is encouraging, but my living carcass is a little heftier than the typical dad bod. On average, women prefer an erect penis size of 6.3 inches, slightly above normal. I fall far short of this, unfortunately.

  After performing my function at the toilet, I flush it away and tuck my business back into my boxer briefs (it’s well-documented that most women prefer boxer briefs over any other male undergarment) and move over to the counter where I grab my toothbrush and squeeze on whitening toothpaste and begin brushing. I look at myself in the mirror as I do this, seeing the gleam of fluorescent light on my bald head and the day’s-worth of stubble on my double chin.

  43% of women thirty-five to forty-five find bald men attractive. That would be somewhat promising if I weren’t thirty. 83% of women prefer a mate older than themselves. Among women younger than myself, only 19% find baldness attractive.

  After brushing my teeth, I gargle some mouthwash and spit it down the drain, then I shave. While 60% of women in the southern United States (where I live) prefer men with facial hair, my facial hair grows in odd patches rather than the lush fullness favored by ladies. After shaving, I apply lotion to my face and body, then rub a fair amount of anti-perspirant under my arms. Though a surprising amount of women find the scent of a sweaty man enticing, the percentage that like perspiration stains in the armpits of a man’s clothing is so miniscule that it’s almost beyond calculation.

  My nose is clogged. Happens all the time in spring. I tear off some toilet paper and blow my nose. The result is a yellowish-green glob of snot. Folding the toilet paper over, I blow again and expel a little more, though not as globby and not as yellowish-green. I retrieve a zip-lock baggy from a drawer and place the snotty tissue inside it and seal it up and place it next to my wallet and house keys in the bedroom.

  Next, I get dressed in the required work clothes—black shoes, black slacks, and a light-blue t-shirt that has a Jim’s Burger Joint logo on the left breast and proclaims Mangle County’s Best Burger! on the back. After donning my clothes, I go to the kitchen and make and consume a breakfast consisting of one sliced tomato, two boiled eggs, a bowl of oatmeal with blueberries, and a glass of apple juice. This combination of foods is supposed to provide me with sufficient energy and mental acuity to start my day, keeping me sharp in case engaging in conversation with a woman is required. Coffee is also a suitable addition to breakfast, though I’ve determined the tendency for this beverage to cause bad breath and stained teeth renders it less necessary. I do drink it on occasion though.

  Women prefer men that are knowledgeable in a variety of things, especially perceived masculine things. So, after eating breakfast and washing the dishes, I use my phone to watch a video on how to change a fuel pump and then one on how to make a picnic table. I read a few articles from various news websites, followed by the latest from Cosmopolitan, a story detailing the most comfortable brands of thong underwear for women who work on their feet.

  Of course, I have to don my glasses to read all this. Women are largely torn on the attractiveness of men with glasses. On one hand, they view men with glasses as goal-oriented and intelligent. On the other, they see glasses as a sign of genetic inferiority. Especially if the glasses required are quite thick, like my own. I did, however, acquire stylish thick-rimmed glasses that suggest a quirkiness that most ladies find alluring.

  It’s time to go to work. I put my wallet, keys, and the zip-lock bag containing the snotty tissue into my pockets. I add an empty zip-lock bag to my pocket too. I grab my lunch pail from the fridge (women prefer men with lunch pails over men with brown paper sacks; the paper sacks are suggestive of childishness) and head out the door, locking up as I go.

  I live in a nice neighborhood. Though it’s an older part of town, the fact that I own my own house is extremely positive. In the eyes of a woman, home ownership suggests I am mature, hard-working, and financially stable. Women also consider men that own a home twice as datable. The only reason I own my own home is because my morbidly obese mother drank a little too much home-brewed cyanide tea on a hot summer day, leaving her only son with the house. But the ladies don’t need to know that.

  I don’t have a car, however. Well, I do—Mother’s old 1999 Buick—but I’m not allowed to drive it. My license was suspended after an unfortunate incident involving a raccoon, a bottle of castor oil, and a road trip down to Galveston.

  96% of women want their partner to have a vehicle. A devastating stat. Honestly, I’m surprised it’s not higher.

  Luckily, Jim’s Burger Joint is within walking distance. It’s 1.6 miles from my house, meaning I walk 3.2 miles per day, counting only the commute. I probably walk four or more miles if I take into account the rest of my day. This should be beneficial to my physique and overall health, though I’ve yet to notice any real changes to my frame.

  63% of women want a man who exercises regularly. Though, this is misleading. They don’t generally want men who spend hours a day at the gym. They want men that are strong, but not overly muscular. They want men that are fit, but not fat free. That being said, my walks back and forth from work are probably not sufficient. So, during the fifteen-minute breaks at work, I do standing hip thrusts to work my glutes and core. To work my upper body, I sometimes throw punches—shadow boxing, I think it’s called. I also throw things when the opportunity arises; like if a cat walks into my yard, I’ll throw it into the street.

  The late morning sun feels good on my face. It’s still early enough in the year for the heat not to be exhausting. Walks to work in the summer months are grueling. I have a decent tan from these walks. Regarding white males, like myself, women prefer a medium tan over dark tans or none at all. I guess I have what could be called a medium tan, though that’s very nonspecific.

  I’m about halfway to work when I see Miss Danbury walking from her house to check the mail. It’s too early for the mail to have arrived, which she should know since she’s lived in the neighborhood for over half a century. But when you’re eighty, I suppose an extra walk or two to the mailbox is good for the old body. Unless she were to fall and break a hip or something. She carries a cane and walks very slow. Painfully slow.

  “Good morning, Bartholomew,” Miss Danbury says as I walk by.

  Yes, my name is Bartholomew. Studies have shown women prefer men with short names, like John, Jack, Curt, and so on. I tell people to call me Bart but, as you probably suspect, I then get compared to a popular cartoon character. My last name is Bartley. I have no middle name. So, I have to introduce myself to new acquaintances as Bart Bartley. It’s quite comical, I know.

  I te ll Miss Danbury hello and give her a wave and move on. She was probably a decent catch in her younger years. Seems nice enough and her sagging face shows hints of attractiveness, marred by time. She’s a widow, but I have no intention of making a move on her. For one thing, the age difference. For another, studies of widows have shown that they always hold their deceased spouse in equal or even higher regard than the mate they replace them with.

  I have masturbated to Miss Danbury three times, though. Once while I was at work.

  I leave the neighborhood and cross an intersection and am passing by a Chevron station when a cricket goes hopping across the sidewalk in front of me. Lunging forward, I stomp on the cricket, feeling it crunch beneath my shoe. Turning my shoe to the side, I notice half the bug sticks to the rubber tread, while the rest of it remains on the sidewalk. It’s gooey looking. I scrape the cricket remains off my shoe with the end of my fingernail, then pick up both crushed halves, at the same time removing the empty zip-lock baggy from my pocket. As I put the cricket into the baggy, I notice a kid on a bicycle in the gas station parking lot is watching me and chewing gum. I smile politely and seal the bag and continue to work.

  I get to work right on time and clock in. I’m always on time, if not early. 69% of women prefer a man who is punctual, or at least able to keep a schedule. After putting my lunch pail in the breakroom fridge and donning an apron, I go to my work station and turn on the grill and fryers. The grill sizzles and smokes from the remnants of old burgers. The canola oil in the fryers smells somewhat sour and I really should change it out, but I figure it’s got another day or two before it would be noticeable to customers.

  We open at 10:30. Too early for lunch, in my opinion, but I don’t own the place. Jim Clark does. He’s a pompous fellow, loud-mouthed and vulgar, with a red face, yellow teeth, and bad breath. He wears a tie to work at his burger joint for some reason, and on more than one occasion he’s leaned over my fryers to inspect whatever owners inspect and seared off the end of his tie. Jim once had a week-long stomach condition that landed him in the hospital after eating a triple cheeseburger I cooked for him. Actually, I was surprised he survived.

  “Bart, where is Hector?” Jim says, staring at me in the kitchen from his spot at the front register.

  I have no idea why he thinks I should know where Hector is. Hector is always late. I shrug and scrape at the grill with the end of my spatula. The black crud that comes off looks like it could’ve come from the inside of a septic tank.

  Jim groans and says something I don’t understand. Something about “no good piece of” something or other. I’m not sure if he’s referring to me or Hector. Not that it matters. One January, Jim slipped and fell going out the back door of the burger joint after someone poured dishwater over the concrete steps back there.

  Five minutes later, Hector walks in. Jim yells at him for being late and tells him one more time and he’s gone.

  Hector says, “Yo, I’m here, dog. And we ain’t even got any customers.”

  “It doesn’t matter!” Jim says, a little too forcefully. “You should be here when the schedule says you should be here!”

  “You need to chill, dog.”

  This is a scene that plays out almost every day. Jim always tells Hector he’ll be fired next time, and Hector always calls Jim a dog.

  “Sup, Shorty,” Hector says, giving me the ‘sup nod.

  I’m not really short. I’m five-eight, shorter than the average male, but not short. As you likely know, most women prefer men on the tall side. However, shorter women are typically more inclined to date men who are also of smaller than average stature. So, I don’t really consider my height a hindrance in my quest for love.

  Hector calls me Shorty because he’s six-five. Absurdly tall, in my opinion. Hector, a Latino, has slicked back black hair, fake diamond earrings, too many tattoos to count, and baggy clothes that I think look ridiculous. He also smells of marijuana all the time. If his stories are to be believed, he is a real success with the ladies. Though, we measure success differently. All those things about his appearance are clear indicators, studies show, of a man who is not seeking a life partner.

  If they have tattoos, they screw. This is true of men and women alike. If they smoke, they poke. Also true, studies show.

  I’m not simply looking to get my man rod wet. I can just as easily derive sexual pleasure from mayonnaise jars or crawdad holes. And have. No, I’m looking for my true love, my life partner, my 100% perfect match. So, when it comes to women, I stay away from tattoos and smoke. When it comes to Hector, I’m unimpressed by his exploits.

  I nod to Hector and tell him good morning and wave my spatula at him. Some of the black gunk falls off and sizzles on the grill.

  “Yo, Shorty, you should have seen this banging chick I was with last night.”

  I smile at Hector without comment. Luckily, the drive-thru bell sounds, indicating we have a customer. Hector works the drive-thru until noon, at which time Lacy arrives and Hector goes between helping me package meals and helping Jim take orders from the dining area. Hector takes the order—a double cheeseburger with all the fixings and a large fry.

  I take two frozen meat patties from the cooler and toss them on the grill. Then I throw an order of fries in the fryer. I take the squashed cricket from my pocket and throw it in the fryer with the fries. While this cooks, I retrieve buns, cheddar cheese, lettuce, tomato, onions, and pickles from the bar at my work station. The customer ordered the burger with mayonnaise, so I get one of the large mayonnaise jars. I don’t think it’s one I’ve masturbated into before. But it’s hard to keep track.

  When the patties are done cooking, I put the burger together. In between the patties I apply the yellowish-green snot from the zip-locked tissue in my pocket. I spread it out over the cheese, the heat of the patties making it more liquefied and less globby, making it look like a secret sauce of some kind. With the food prepared, I wrap the burger in paper and dump the fries into a cardboard container. Hector takes it from there.

  The day goes by about like any other. It gets busy around lunch. I make lots of burgers and cook lots of fries. I blow my nose in a piece of lettuce once and find a roach under the fryers, which I add to an old man’s milkshake. I do my standing hip thrusts in the breakroom on break and Jim comes in asking what the hell I’m doing. Lacy comes in at noon looking slutty as ever, smelling of cigarettes and dirty diapers. She has a newborn and doesn’t know who the father is. Not me, that’s for sure. Lacy is about as far away from my match as a woman could be. She’s had more penis in her than…I don’t know…a penis factory. A lot is what I mean. Not my type. Nevertheless, she’s a nice enough person and I’ve even masturbated to her thirty-two times, once in the dumpster behind Jim’s and another time at the DMV. Anyway, my shift ends at 6pm and I clock-out on the dot and walk home and throw a cat out of my yard and watch a documentary on how the amputation of a limb affects long-term relationships.

  After the show, I take a poop into a zip-lock and put it in the fridge next to a used jar of mayonnaise and Mimi, the next-door neighbor’s dead Chihuahua. She’ll need to be used soon, before she spoils. I take a shower and wash myself with sandalwood-scented soap—voted the best smelling among women twenty-five to thirty-five—then brush my teeth and wash my mouth again.

  Before heading to bed, I shoot the kid I have chained up in the basement. 76% of women can be convinced that the sound of a gunshot was actually a car backfiring.

  Debra

  I went on a date with a blonde once. Statistically speaking, blondes are the least likely to give you a lasting relationship. You’d think it was redheads, but you’d be wrong. In fact, non-blondes who dye their hair blonde instantly become more likely to cheat and otherwise see themselves out of whatever current relationship they’re in. I’ve read the data. All the same, I went on a date with a blonde.

  Her name was Debra and she worked at a department store and had aspirations of becoming a doctor. She would never be a doctor; I knew this right off. Sometimes you can just tell by the way people talk that they’re not as smart as they think. Debra would say stuff like ‘intensive purposes’ instead of ‘intents and purposes.’ And ‘pacific’ instead of ‘specific.’ Stuff someone smart enough to get through medical school would know, in my opinion.

 

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