Look at you. All dressed up and excited walking in to meet Mr. Blind Date.
On paper Mr. Blind Date has everything in the triple-plus column… like a job.
Kidding—but not by much.
Mr. Blind Date is there waiting for you at the bar.
Handsome, athletic build, he’s dressed well and wait for it… on time.
You begged your mutual friend Tricia to set you up with a great guy. Tricia always likened herself to a matchmaker and told you she was thinking of making it a side-business. Here was her offering, and Mr. Blind Date looked fine.
Self-deprecating, his charm catches you off guard resulting in a heady rush. His first sentence, “I see that Tricia has worked her magic to convince you to come out this evening and the pleasure is all mine.”
You realize this will be a ride of a lifetime. Later, you realize how profound you are.
Then he says, “Listen, there is a spectacular martini here made with a Japanese plant leaf that is in season only this week. I’d like to order it for us and if you find it—or me—not to your liking we’ll dispense immediately with either option.”
Dates like this are rare. Unexpected. He’s charming.
What a far cry from the usual interview-date. So, tell me about yourself over spinach-crab dip with pita points at Red Lobster.
Trying not to get too excited, you realize something.
You’re being swept off your feet.
It’s a mash-up of little things that count… he smells good, he maintains eye contact, he’s an easy conversationalist, his shoes aren’t scuffed, and he seems genuinely interested in hearing about you.
You relax in a way you’re not accustomed. Is this the falling—in love—part you wonder?
Enthralled with Mr. Date’s magnetism, everything becomes magical… the low lights, the way he holds his glass, and how aware he is of you.
He talks about Paris when he pays the bill… one day we both should go.
Like Fred Astaire, he swoops you up from the cozy banquette and gracefully guides you to the sushi restaurant.
“Wow. How convenient there’s food nearby. Not too far in the stilettos,” you think as he offers his arm for the walk.
If you had brain cells left, you’d pause to consider that the date could have ended after one cocktail with him feigning, “Have to head to bed early… work you know…”
And, you’d also catch he knew the bartender and the regulars back at the bar well.
But no time for that. You feel like a Princess.
Kicking yourself not to go there with the Princess crap, you can’t help but feel a fairy-tale high as Mr. Date asks the restaurant to have a chef’s special assortment of sushi delivered to the penthouse. His penthouse.
More Princess energy kicks in. I mean, what guy has sushi delivered? And to his penthouse?
He makes you comfortable on his piece-of-art sculpted sofa as he uses the remote to play his collection of pure jazz music. Nothing trendy; just the classics baby.
The sushi arrives and it’s a food orgasm. Okay, this is a perfect date you think.
And with the lightning out his apartment’s massive plate glass window dancing across the sky, it’s time…
…for the kiss.
It’s divine. You melt.
If your already relaxed body could relax more, it did.
…freaking *RECORD SCRATCH*
Mr. Date, out of nowhere, has jekylled into Mr. Hyde the Octopus. You don’t have enough arms to push him off. You can sense he’s diving in without you being on board. He wants you. Now.
It’s not clear in this millisecond if he’s not heeding your insistence to stop or if he’s hoping you’ll give up under his muscles.
WTH. What happened to Mr. Charm-Savoir-Faire?
Is he having an Incredible Hulk reaction to shellfish?
Your Princess mind can’t sort out if this is a really turned on guy or the beginnings of assault.
Again, what is going on?
Did I miss the manual of first date plays? you wonder.
Is this heated passion? Am I a prude? Am I supposed to be into this?
Even though your mind was blown earlier, now it’s blown in a totally opposite way. How can the date go hard off the cliff like that?
He’s not trying to rape, because he could have done that already. It’s just that he’s a friggin’ octopus and maybe it could turn into rape. Who knows. Maybe it’s non-stop groping until you’re so weak you can’t say no and then he can rape and say it was consensual.
Why oh why is he ruining this good thing? I hadn’t planned on sex, but clearly he has, but is this sex for us, or him to get off? Where did you fall out of the us you wonder as you go back to pushing his eight arms off.
You try to get out alive by countering feeling scared with appearing to smile with a Melania-esque “you silly bad boy.” Because sometimes if you tell a person how big of a line they are crossing, they lose it right there—then you have all that to deal with on top of the insult.
How could he have jekylled and hyded like that? How can a guy go from enchanting to missing all of your cues?
You wished you had a few days to wade through all the issues coming up before you can respond—verbally. Like a victim’s statement to him. But you don’t. You’re still blocking his ninja gropes.
You’ve given up with “No, not now” to bad dog trainer barking out “SIT” over and over. Mr. Hyde in his metamorphosis is shaking and you’re not sure how much uglier it’s gonna get.
Somehow, you exit.
In the sanctity of your home, you replay how one date could go from the best ever to the worst ever. Was there a clue? Or was he truly a Mr. Hyde?
So many things are troubling. You’re not sure you can list all of them.
He was going through his moves from a playbook he’d created, and you were the stand-in of the night. His spotless attire, his rare charm, knowing everyone at the bar close to his apartment, dropping the one-liner about going to Paris and having sushi sent up. He’d done this before. There was a practiced air to it all.
You wonder if this worked for a bunch of women before you. Or if they acquiesced out of fear and he thought his playbook was mutually satisfying.
You think of the tiresomeness of your wishes being excluded during the penis launch sequence.
You dread that dating includes this dance of being polite and hopeful AF as you meet men knowing you must sort out the sociopaths.
This was his date marketing funnel and he was moving you through from bonus material, to opt-in, to hard sell. A used car salesman has more finesse in the close.
You weren’t interested in sex that first night. You don’t need to be date-shamed. He doesn’t get to be charming and then a monster. He doesn’t get to push you down hoping you’ll go with his desire like you’re incapable of knowing what you want. He doesn’t get to not listen to your “No—not yet” the first time.
Time to call Tricia and tell her not to give up her day job.
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