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Data Miners


One
June 23rd, 2009
2:35 pm.
Yamal Pradchaphet eyes the preference line for what feels like the millionth time in the
last few minutes. It’s not an easy question and he needs to think it over for a minute or two. His
right hand poised over the keys, his left scratching at the tuft of greasy hair hanging in his face.
He looks to his right and spies the big pile of blank reports and worksheets next to his monitor.
He’ll be sure to get to those just as soon as he takes care of this little task.
“What kind of women do you want to meet?”
The undressing lady holds her pose after pushing her lace-covered chest outward. The
gentle soprano that is her voice is still ringing in his ears. He dares not say Asian, or Filipino.
That would limit his options greatly in the latter case, and he doesn’t much trust the former. If
he wants to meet girls his mother approves of, he might as well date the girls they keep
suggesting for him. The old joke he used to tell his parents runs through his mind.
Mom, I bring home nice girls all the time. You don’t need to.
Still, the woman is looking for an answer. Damn she’s hot too. Why can’t he just say he
wants her? Her black lace underwear and shapely curves are something he could wear all day.
Why doesn’t she come with the service?
Because she’s a fucking model you idiot, and those curves are digitally enhanced!
So many years and so many kilometres separating him and his heritage, and he still can’t
seem to screw up the courage to be honest, not without looking over his shoulder. He checks
once more, then clicks on the boxes he really wants.
Blonde, Brunette, Redhead. And Caucasian just in case that’s not clear enough. He
looks at the other possibilities for a second too and selects Latina and Mediterranean. It’s
interesting how specific they can be, but preferences tend to be that way. Those were the women
he truly fantasized about, the ones he thought of whenever... you know.
“What kind of relationship are you looking for?” the woman asks, and starts to undo the
hook on her bra. Pradchaphet’s breath goes shallow and he lowers the volume to one shade
above mute. She’s on the verge of exposing her tits, the straps dropping and exposing the slip of
pale flesh above the nipples. He’s never found the nerve to go this far at his desk in his place of
work. But boredom and horniness are the fertilizers of impetuous acts. And right now he is
really, really bored… and the rest.
He clicks once on discreet relationship and again on erotic chat/email, just for good
measure. Please let this be the last step, he prays to any God that will listen, and hits Enter on
his keyboard.
Her breasts are now bare. Prad is momentarily excited, then slightly disappointed. The
fine, pink globes and the tiny brown nipples just don’t seem so thrilling now that they are out.
Perhaps it was a buildup. Still, he’s not going to count his chickens until he sees her totally in
the buff.
“What’s your name?” she asks, undoing her short skirt. The panties match the bra, black,
thin and lacy, showing just enough skin around the most sensitive areas. But alas, a name for his
account… He really didn’t give that one any thought until now. It’s important not to use his
Society name, the one his friends see whenever privileged emails are sent. Lucky he has a family
name that translates so well when it comes to internet handles.
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