Imagine for the sake of argument that it’s true.

I mean, it theoretically could be, right? In a world filled with billions of people with as many different sets of experience and aesthetic preferences, its likelihood cannot be boiled down to absolute zero, just near-zero.

So it is that minimal fraction of a possibility that I address.

Somewhere in the world, she struts:

Long-legged. Smoldering. Sultry. A portrait of female sexuality at its most steaming, a woman whose personal profile picture is the most explicit of all possible come-hithers. She is, however, chaste, because though the photograph taken of her by her friend at the Our Lady of Perpetual Frustration convent is as alluring a promise of hot coitus as has ever been produced in a captured image, she has yet to meet the man who enflames her passions, makes her helpless with longing.

Her name would strike anybody else as random syllabification, but this just adds to her mystery. “Ber Nudgap.”

She joins Facebook, and sans all other posting activity, sans all other evidence of an existence driven by other interests, does establish her profile and for two days of making no other friends is as much at a loss in this virtual world as she is in that beach she prowls alone, despite being as shiny with sweat as a new raincoat and so alluring she could likely get an erection from a fire hydrant.

Then somehow, despite being half a world away, despite having no friends or apparent interests in common, a compassionate providence leads to the profile page of one bald, overweight, fifty-something Jew in South Florida, and all the sensitive parts of her anatomy go liquid. Her prior reserve, her previous cloistered existence, all go the same place as her innocence. Waves of throbbing heat racing up her inner thighs, she somehow staggers away from the sun-dappled turquoise waters that have always provided her photographic background and, sobbing with need, makes her way to the laptop, where she must gather up all her desire and vulnerability and produce the overture that she can only pray capable of forging the connection that will fill the caverns of her hitherto-empty heart.

“hi your profile looks interesting can we meet?”

She fires it off, wondering if she’s been too bold.

The celibate ladies who attend her every need murmur among themselves as they watch the wild creature so treasured by their order reduced to a pining ghost of herself, haunting her message board in vain hope for a reply. None arrives. At length she falls prey to the fear that perhaps she was too bold, and sends a follow-up:

“hello again please answer I want to talk to you”

Surely, this, this eloquent and naked plea for attention, this missive drenched in authentic human feeling, with batter down the distant nebbish’s fortress-like inner being! Inwardly, she already dreams of the long nights of tireless rutting that will no doubt result from this moment of laying her heart bare; not just the sex, which will be historic, but all those fascinating other depths to which his wall alludes, while he strolls about the storms of online discourse like some Hebraic Heathcliff: Cats, Korean Horror movies, editorial response times. It is the life she wants, the existence she now knows she can longer live without.

But still no response comes, and so she tearfully returns to the laptop.

He has blocked her.

That savage, unfeeling brute! Does he not know that he has destroyed her! Is he so busy with the rest of his international harem, all drawn by his magnetic profile, those magnificent women not up to her own standards but still goddesses on Earth, Pel Hur, Girra Nastip, Zx Nbg, whose sole point of superiority over Ber is that they professed their adoration first? No, it cannot be! No, no no! Lost, with no other reason to engage the world with all she has to offer, she joins the order, and submits to a lifetime of silence, her dreams denied.

This is the tragedy of Ber Nudgap.

Hypothetically possible. If only just.

It is heartbreaking, is it not?

Tags: humor, Life Wisdom | Category Humor, Life Wisdom