You’ll read this story and think I’m a bonehead.
I joined an online dating site, and one night I met a guy I’ll call Freddy. He worked part-time at UC Santa Barbara and was also a grad student. Beyond his uber passionate-bordering-on-fanatical liberal beliefs, he seemed like a cool-hipster kinda guy; shaggy hair, cute lips, glasses, and an old-man’s golf hat.
We clicked in email and decided to speak on the phone for a few nights. Eventually, we decided we would meet.
Friday night he was in Ventura, hanging out with his friends at Sans Souci (lovingly called ‘Sans Sewer’ by the local yocals on Yelp!). He called me afterward and I, having guzzled a couple of Blue Moon beers to help my nerves, walked down to Main Street to meet him.
Halfway to meeting this complete stranger, I realized I left my wallet at the apartment. I had my cell so I could’ve just called and said, “Hey, I have to turn around and get my wallet, but I’ll meet you at Dargan’s” or something like that.
Instead, I pulled the move that you only see in movies when you’re yelling, “You dumb bitch!” at the TV (have I mentioned that I’ve never met him face to face before?).
I invited him back to my place.
This is after noticing that Freddy had chugged a few brewskies himself.
Together, we walked up the hill to my apartment.
I invited him in and he closed the door behind himself.
He sat on the edge of my bed and asked: ”Got anything to drink?”
(I live in a studio in case you were wondering about the bed)
I gave him a Blue Moon; I didn’t think one beer would hurt before we went back to Main Street. Then he asked if I had any candles to ‘set the mood.’ It was at this moment that I realized I was in a Bad Idea Jeans commercial.
10 minutes of nothing-conversation and halfway through his beer, I said, “Okay, well let’s go!”
He said, “I’m so tired … you think we could just stay here and rest for a minute? I’ve been on my feet all night.”
I hoped my discomfort was obvious when I said, “Okay, but we should hit Main Street soon.”
A minute turned into five and soon he was on his back, legs hanging over the edge of my bed, asking me to lay next to him.
I could already hear my friends and family berating me tomorrow morning (if this guy didn’t pull out a switchblade and put me to sleep). Richard Ramirez, the 1980s Los Angeles area Night Stalker, was in prison doing a happy hip-thrust at how lucky this guy was.
Freddy wasn’t going anywhere.
Now, somewhere between being annoyed and slightly buzzed, I kissed him. Don’t ask what my logic was because apparently, there was none. We kissed, and kissed, and suddenly, I felt Freddy’s fingers on my neck, then face, then they feathered against both of our lips. Then, like a man checking his oil, he shoved his fingers down my throat. I gagged.
I backed away and his fingers slipped out of my mouth.
“You like that?” he asked, excited. “I know you did. You’re a dirty girl, aren’t you…”
He whispered about the website where we met, and how I was rated “more freaky” than all the other girls on the site’s rating system (Match Questions directed at ALL users to rate each person’s freakiness, spirituality, dependency, etc). He was just testing the “freaky” waters.
I argued, “A rating system on a website is not a gauge of who a person is.“
This coming from the mouth of a girl who had just brought this stranger into her apartment, lay him on her bed, and made out with him–all in the space of one hour. My contradiction was as obvious as lemon juice on a new wound.
I had worn out his welcome. I said, “I think you should go.”
He made a pained sigh, “What? Really?”
I nodded.
He grabbed all of his hipster gear, his coat, his scarf, his ugly little golf hat, his pervert glasses, and said, “Are you sure?”
In the words of Mr. Big on Sex and The City: Absofuckinlutely.
The moment he was out the door, I locked it and closed the windows.
I realize this situation became a shit-uation because of my own doing. I’m in my 30s and there is absolutely no reason and no excuse for having willingly let a possible rapist/killer get that close to his goal. Granted, I’m alive and typing this blog so calling him a rapist/killer is a mighty exaggeration… but what if it hadn’t been? We can’t always control dangerous situations, but why on earth would one purposefully place themselves in one? Poor Freddy. He was probably normal, but simply letting his freak flag fly.
No, on second thought… who shoves their fingers down a person’s throat on the first date?
The next morning, my friend Rod Steele called and, hesitantly, I told him what had happened. As expected, I was given an ear full. And I’ll paraphrase:
“What happened was one stupid act after another. Not only did you not know this guy, but you willingly brought him into your apartment, invited him in, and wait, it gets better, you kissed him. So what’s the guy going to think? Of course he’s going to think he’s getting laid, cuz ‘hey, this broad took me into her place, she’s kissing me, we’re on her bed, she gave me a beer.’ But, instead, you sent him home with a raging hard-on, cursing you for being a cock tease. Oh wait–Here’s the cherry: He now knows where you live. Congratulations. You’ve now given this guy everything he needs to stalk, rape, and then kill you.”
Really Rod, don’t sugar coat for me. Give it to me straight.
So, there is a lesson here that goes without saying, but I’ll say it anyway: even if you’re new to the dating game, like me, you must think and be smart. You must use common sense. I believe myself to be a very smart girl but even a smart girl can be a dumb bitch sometimes.
Published by permission. Visit Mari's blog at http://www.mari-go-round.com/
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