Sometime this winter, I answered a work-related email from a man I'll call Joe, whom I'd never met before. Joe responded in turn; he lived in New York, near me, and had some further questions. Suddenly, at the unpredictable pace with which attraction flares out of nowhere, our exchange became charged. Within an hour we went from professional niceties to quick-fire one-liners; we were teasing and playing and showing off our wittiest plumage. We were flirting. And I was Googling him, wondering: Who is this guy? Is he straight? Single? Hot? Hitting on me? Then came his invitation, "to take this to a bar where it belongs."

Before I could even work up a suitably piquant reply, I had another email in my inbox. It began, "Hello, I've added you to my Joe'sJournal group at Yahoo!" Joe'sJournal's "introductory message" to me read, "I hope you'll enjoy this. It's fun, if I do say so myself, and you can learn all about me before we meet!"

He wasn't kidding. Among the things I learned about Joe? He was planning a big party in the next couple of weeks, at which he'd be serving cucumber sandwiches made specially on spelt bread; that his seventy-year-old mother would be a guest, that she had just broken up with a boyfriend and had reactivated her eHarmony account, that she has a blog, that her blog is all about her dating life, and that her son's blog is all about her.

And with that, so many question marks surrounding my promising email exchange with Joe evaporated. Attraction? Squelched. Fun? Over. Mystery? Sucked dry. Curiosity? I know all I ever want to know, please do not write to me again, it's been real, good-bye and good luck.

There used to be few moments in the sexual universe better than those early, butterfly days of love . . . or lust . . . or like. Whether it was the did-I-imagine-it look over beers, the gaze held across a party, or suddenly saucy email banter, the pleasure leaping from belly down the legs was all about the lurching joy of early-stage discovery. The first acknowledgements of chemistry made way for the slow reveal, the hopefully languorous unfurling of personal intimacies: who are you, where are you from, what do you read, who do you do and how do you like to do it, where do you live, who do you love? These are the questions that determined how many ways I would be pulled toward a man or repelled by him as he began his transformation from stranger to fling, dud, or lead character in my romantic narrative.

Alas, no more. Gone are my days of lazily unwrapping new prospects like birthday presents, asking intrusive questions as seductively as possible over brunches and lengthy drinks.

Nope. These days, you can't swing a cat in this town without hitting a boy with a blog . . . or a chat group, or listserv, or food diary, family website, online poetry monograph, or collection of unpublished photos of meerkat babies accompanied by a lengthy bio that he is eager to share with you, the stranger he's just met.

One of the soul-squooshing truths of computer-age congress is the speed with which we can turn up information on people we're curious about. It's useful, I guess, if you're trying to screen for convicted stalkers or major Republican donors, but not so much if you're hoping to preserve even a bit of enthralling mystery about your latest catch.

It's simply not hot when, after an evening of come-hither stares and maybe some foot frottage, you receive an email inviting you to visit ComeHither.com, "a random collection of thoughts on life and love!" Random thoughts on life and love are the crap you put up with — happily, perhaps — once you've decided that Mr. Hither fascinates you so much that you'd like to temporarily bind your own life and love to his. Until then, they are just embarrassing journal entries guaranteed to tamp the flames of desire.

Trust me, it happens all the time. Joe's mommy-and-me tea party wasn't even unique enough to be intriguing; at about the same time, a friend received an email blast from a guy with whom she'd been on two dates, advertising his blog about his elderly mother's adventures on JDate. (Perhaps there's a another story to be done about single guys' online investment in their single mothers' online sex lives, but I hope never to be the one with enough experience to write it.)