I thought I had seen it all. During my years of on-again, off-again online dating, I felt as if I had earned an honorary phD in dating psychology (or should I say a purple heart?). The upfront-leech, the alcohol-pushing leech, mama’s boy, social odd-ball, bitter misogynist, you name it, I’ve dated it. Albeit not for long.
“Tony” had seemed charming on the phone, and his Match.com profile seemed refreshingly honest. The photos were obviously scanned in, the quality of which wasn’t the best, but he had a full head of hair, warm smile, and an athletic physique. A sales manager at a high volume sales firm, he regaled me with stories of a quick ascension up the career ladder and remodeling his home no expenses spared. Having dated a career pothead in college for a year and a half whose idea of planning for the future meant having enough money left for the next stash, Tony impressed me thoroughly.
On the evening of our first date, Tony claimed he was swamped, but would be free shortly. I agreed to meet him at his workplace; the plan being to follow his car to a fine Italian restaraunt that a good friend of his owned. I located the appropriate suite, having stopped briefly in the lobby to glance over my carefully-selected first-date attire. Black skirt that fell about four inches above my knees- not too short or too tight, fitted patterned blouse and modest heels. Nothing too conservative, nor too sultry.
As I walked in the door, I quickly learned that high volume = sales-generating (aka telemarketing) firm. A dozen young men plied their wares over the phones, cajoling and from the sounds of it, getting hung up on more often than not. Annoyed that he could not be bothered to greet me at the door, I waited in the common area for a slouching teenager to fetch his esteemed mentor.
I’ve never been good at being a bitch. What I wanted to do, and should have done, was to turn promptly on those two inch heels and make a wild run for my car, swearing off scanned pictures for the rest of my single life. But alas, I had always been taught to be polite (thanks, Mom).
Tony graciously tore himself away from work a few minutes after introducing himself, during which I was given ample opportunity to give into nature vs. nuture. Again, behind the wheel of my Subaru, I contemplated veering off to a side street at the last minute, letting loose all 1.8L of my engine as I made a mad ala James Bond dash for freedom.
We were seated promptly at that fine Italian restaraunt, if S’Barro’s could be called Italian, let alone fine. I did my best not to stare at his lazy, blood red eye. The fact that it failed to move with the other eye was unnerving at best. At least the balding head and thirty extra pounds explained the eye- the picture was obviously taken years before.
Tony offered no explanation let alone apology for his deception, and wasn’t the least bit nervous or guilty (must be that sales manager confidence). I let him brag incessantly about himself, gulping down my reheated spaghetti despite my lack of apetite. The quicker I finished, I figured, the faster I could end this.
As I thanked him for the dinner, edging closer to the end of the booth, I felt the most peculiar sensation. Tony’s hand had found my knee, and was pushing my skirt slowly upwards. I gaped at him, dumbfounded, as he invited me back to his place for a drink, meanwhile attempting to wink at me with his good eye (the red one spasmed along).
Shoving his hand off my knee, I sweetly told him that I would love to, but that my taxes were due tomorrow. Gazing into his eyes and sighing, I confessed my procrastinating ways in that I hadn’t even started gathering receipts to itemize.
Tony did not take this well. He argued, eye twitching further with his indignation. I stuck to my story, insisting that my taxes must be done tonight to avoid penalty, and surely he could understand and appreciate my honesty. After locking my car door, I finally did give the Subaru free rein.
The date was April 12th.
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