I recently answered an ad from a website heralding women across America who were incarcerated for “reasons beyond their control,” seeking “pen pals,” guys who would understand their situation and write to them.

I bit on the ad like a hungry trout on a fake fly. After all, where better to find an audience to tell a sad life story to than a woman looking a fool to tell them their sad life story?

I eagerly searched the site in an attempt to find the perfect pen pal. It was a virtual fishbowl of barred beauties. I scanned the pictures and profiles and found a particularly interesting photo.

Her name – #1739810; release date unknown. She was beautiful. She looked like she was raised on quarts of wholesome milk, juicy red meat, and an abundance of sunshine that must have stretched from head to natural toe. Her innocuous smile portrayed a beauty who had been unjustly wronged. Her rap sheet read that she had been incarcerated for busting a beer bottle over some dude’s head.

I wrote #1739810 telling her how sorry I was that serving beer had become a punishable offense. She wrote back telling me what a compassionate man I was and asked if I would writer to her weekly. “I’m so lonely,” she wrote.

“I understand lonely,” I replied. Our letters soon became more numerous and intimate. We decided, through our letters, that I would drive to Indiana’s Women’s State Prison and meet.

I picked up the jailhouse phone the morning of our first meeting, and gently touched the smeared glass that stood between us. She replied in kind. Although the glass was cold and greasy, I felt an instant connection. She was stunning. Number 1739810  leaned close and breathed a breath of hot air on the glass and drew a heart. Mine melted.

I was quick into my bachelor speak: “Do they allow conjugal sex here?” I whispered into the phone.

“They do, but we have to be married,” she answered, brushing her auburn hair from her face. She looked to her left and right. “You know, if you leave me a thousand dollars I can have one of the guards draw up some legal-looking papers. If you meet me here next week we can go to one of the trailers for married couples. I know it’s a lot of money. And I’ll understand if you don’t want me.” She paused. “Do you want me?”

I dropped the receiver and rifled through my wallet looking for my ATM card. When I looked up, #1739810 was pointing to an ATM machine near a window directly behind me. “Do you believe in love at first sight?” I asked, drooling into the phone.

“I believe in you, baby,” she answered, sensually licking her upper lip.

My hands shook uncontrollably as I withdrew the $1,000. When I finished, I told the guard I wanted to make a deposit.

Number 1739810 carefully counted the stack of twenty dollar bills and tucked the wad down the front of her shirt. Picking up the phone receiver, she blew me a kiss and whispered, “See you next week…you macho stud.”

I did everything in my power to help the following week pass quickly. I got a haircut, bought new underwear, polished my sneakers, helped old ladies cross my street, volunteered at the Y, jogged four miles a day, took tranquilizers, bought a puppy and wrote a poem for my new-found lady.

When I returned to the prison the following Saturday I was looking and feeling good. I felt as though I had finally found the true love of my life, despite the fact that she was behind bars. I explained to the old man at the desk in the lobby that I was wishing to see an inmate who was expecting me.

“What’s her name?” he asked, opening a big black book that lay before him. I thought for a moment; and then two. I quickly realized I didn’t know her name. She had only signed her letters with the letter “Q.” Lust had replaced logic. “I, I don’t know her name,” I said somewhat embarrassed. “Wait! Wait! I wrote a poem,” I said excitedly. “I have her number. Let’s see, I said unfolding the piece of paper in my shirt pocket; ‘One, seven, three, she’s hot for me. Nine, eight, ten, babie’s in the pen.’ Yes! She is number 1739810. Yes, that’s it. 1739810.”

“Inmate number 1739810 was released yesterday,” the clerk said closing the book. “Oh, yea,” he reminisced as he rubbed his chin. “I remember her. Stunning. She left with one of the new guards who quit. They said they were goin’ up to Harmony to get hitched.”

I stood in stunned disbelief. My psyche once again went into mental meltdown. I had been duped by a pretty face wearing pinstripes. My bachelor itch quickly became a rash. How pathetic, I thought. I couldn’t even get a woman behind bars.

As I left Indiana’s Women’s State Prison, I vowed to shave my head and move to Tibet. That would teach them all, I thought. They wouldn’t be able to taunt me in Tibet.

I’ll send my “hellos” from the Himalayas.

Poor Man’s Nachos

1 box of wheat or rye crackers

1 pound (16 oz.) of yellow cheddar cheese

Olive oil

Hot sauce

Arrange crackers (any amount) in a single layer on a plate.  Thinly slice enough cheese to cover all your crackers.  Before topping the crackers, break up the cheese into pieces to help it melt faster.  Put enough cheese on the crackers to cover the face of it well.  Next, take your bottle of olive oil and lightly sprinkle all your crackers (a couple drops on each cracker will do nicely).  Do the same with the hot sauce.  Microwave 30-40 seconds or just until the cheese melts.