He seemed nice enough the night we met. Good conversation. Our marketing careers and Greek heritage in common. Then he called me the next week to meet for a drink, but I was halfway across the country and couldn't. So we connected again last week and made plans to go to my favorite Greek restaurant. He even joined with my group of friends Friday night and we had a couple of drinks at the pub. He blended pretty well; got along with the gang okay and even bought my drink.
Then we had our Sunday night date. He picked me up and dinner was nice. He was agreeable and seemed pretty easy going. Toward the end of dinner though, I realized we had spent the majority of the last two hours talking about him. He told me about growing up in Puerto Rico, living in The Bronx in college and some of his travel adventures. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't bored. They were interesting stories, but all about him just the same. I felt like a journalist doing an interview, and he showed little interest in knowing anything about me.
The first clue was right after he picked me up. We drove past the fire station and saw what I thought was a moving 9/11 display they had put up to memorialize the day. I asked him where he was on 9/11. He told me but didn't even ask the same of me. I know when his birthday is, which gym he's going to join, about his parents and his college athletic adventures.
He knows almost nothing about me. But I did drink pretty close to a full bottle of wine.
After dinner, we went by his place to put his takeout food in his fridge. We ended up staying to watch the last quarter of the Sunday night football game. It was a nice place; well decorated but still moving in a bit.
"Can I kiss you?" he asked when his mouth was about two inches away from mine. I let him. The first kiss was gentle. Not bad.
Then his hands went everywhere. He was rubbing my belly just rough enough that I had to mention something I had hoped would never come up. I had just had my belly button pierced and it was tender when he touched it. (blog to come on that)
"Let me see," he said.
Just as I was saying, "I can't, I'm wearing a dress," he pulled my dress up. I yanked it back down as fast as I could. He kissed me again. This time it wasn't gentle. In fact, he almost bit my face off - so much I just noticed a couple of bruises on my bottom lip. And he grabbed a handful of my hair and pulled. He didn't pull it in that sexy way. It was the let-the-fuck-go-of-my-hair way.
"Ouch, that hurt," I said.
He let go but didn't respond. But then he asked another question.
"Will you sleep with me tonight?"
"No." Not that I would've had sex with him on a first date, but by that point, I didn't even want to kiss him.
"Would you have the nerve to ask me the same question?"
"No," I answered. "If I wanted to 'sleep' with you, I wouldn't ask. I just would." I don't think he knew how to respond.
That was my cue to grab my purse and leave. So I did, but he insisted on walking me home after he went to the bathroom. That's when the ginormous fart happened. I'd had to have been totally deaf to not hear through the bathroom door it in the quiet place.
He walked me the three blocks to my building and to my door. We couldn't walk fast enough. Then he left.
I had seen some people I knew at the pub when we walked by, so I gave him a few minutes head start and walked over there. I was too wound up to go to bed, so I sucked down two vodka cranberry cocktails and we laughed like crazy about the night's experiences. They all thought he was out of line. This morning I regretted those two drinks after all of the wine when the floor was still moving at noon after coffee, a little food and a shower.
There is good news. He's not a narcissist. He still knows little about me except the color of my panties. And I'm not going out with him again.
Love to the single girls,
Addison
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