There’s one item I’ve never used in deciding whether to meet a man —and that is their physical appearance. I’ve even met men throughout the years without ever seeing a photo of them first.

The reason is quite simple. When I was 16 years old, my mother decided I was too heavy. She’d taken to slapping my hand whenever I reached for a snack between meals, no matter how healthy it was. And to telling me how awful I looked. It didn’t matter that I was involved in competitive swimming, tennis, track, and badminton. I’d always been a chunky kid.

When shaming me into slimming down didn’t work—she was all of 98 lbs given she smoked three packs a day of king-sized Chesterfield’s, unfiltered of course—she took me to a physician for my first medically supervised diet. He tried the same approach: yelling at me first and then putting me on a 600 calorie a day diet—a neighbor of starvation.

On top of this, I wasn’t the most attractive of teens. My dark brown hair clung to my head like a wet doormat. My thick eyebrows were close to being one across my forehead. And my complexion was fraught with acne. Plus, I bit my nails till there were practically none left.

And then something happened. I morphed. Right before I went to college, a week after my 17th birthday. My body shape became feminine and curvy—and my facial features suddenly softened—a feat I attribute to a gorgeous high school friend who was totally into make-up. (The nails would have to wait until I got my first engagement ring.)

As a result, I have great tolerance and appreciation for all types of looks and appearances.

Until one Sunday.

That’s when I met my first potential swing partner. We’d agreed to meet in the coffee shop at Borders at the local mall. As I approached the entrance, I saw a strange man milling around the front door. Scraggly hair, clothes that were practically falling off his rail-thin frame, buck teeth, long, yellowed toenails, long strands of hair growing out of his ears.

When he smiled at me I realized it was the man I’d agreed to meet. I could barely make eye contact with him. My discomfort was palpable.

He suggested we walk through the mall. At the opposite end on the second floor, we stumbled upon some comfy chairs. I don’t remember the specifics of our talk, although I do recall him being worldly and hearing that his long-time girlfriend had left him and that he’d landed in a large sum of monies through a successful business venture. Unfortunately, I was too busy plotting my exit strategy. How sad.

Guy number 2 agreed to meet me at Starbucks the very next day after work. An unassuming man, the sort of guy that most good girls would like. After downing a cup of caffeinated coffee, he asked what I’ve affectionately come to label the “every guy wants to know” questions, which always make me laugh:

Are you fully shaved?

How well do you kiss?

Do you taste good?

I balked when he gave me a one-arm hug by my car in the parking lot. When I turned to embrace him with both arms, I learned why: He had a huge hard-on that was extremely noticeable. On the way home, I decided to move on; we hadn’t “clicked” as I had hoped.

Guy number 3: I learned he had a roommate. That was the end of him. Note to self: Add this to the selection criteria.

Guy number 4: When we met by phone, I found out he’d had a stroke eight years earlier and had lost sight in his right eye. He often hangs in a machine upside down to strengthen his heart because he also had a heart attack. Swinging was just a way to pass the time until he found his true love. Note to self: Mom was right. I do not want to be a nurse with a purse.

Guy number 5: Great emails. Chiropractor turned day trader. We had a fabulous phone conversation. But, something he said kept nudging itself into the forefront of my mind. Ashley Madison. Huh. Maestro had mentioned that website, too. I need to check it out. He canceled our meeting via text message. Grrrr.

Guy number 6: It didn’t matter that he was 62 years old. He was the only Jewish man to comment on the fantasy in my profile: My biggest personal fantasy is to find a Jewish man who is into this lifestyle. However, I think that’s about as likely as me walking on the moon!

Good Morning,

Hello. Everyone should try walking on the moon, I’ve heard. The view of Earth is beautiful. On a more serious note, I have information you may find very useful in view of the interests you’ve indicated in your profile. I’m a candid, no-nonsense, professional who has been guided by others and would be happy to share what I’ve learned over the years, with no strings attached. I think it would be fun to chat and know of a nice Wine Pub you might enjoy.

Best wishes.

I couldn’t help but be intrigued. So we met for wine and cheese. Attractive, smart, well established in the business community. Only, he had no interest in being my partner—as a highly trained Master, he already had a slave in another city. As a member of the “tribe”, he’d felt a responsibility to teach and guide me. So I listened . . .

I drove home feeling sad—and exhausted. After 14 days of responding to hoards of messages and meeting plenty of men, I’d come up empty.

As I laid in bed that night, I couldn’t help but wonder, “Am I really on the right path?” I consoled myself by thinking about what I needed to pack for my  rendezvous in 48 hours with Boston Boy at the Marriott in Burlington.