We decide to walk down to 219, a New Orleans style restaurant closer to the Potomac. An Old Towne icon, a classic choice and relatively uninspiring for a foodie. As we start down King Street every restauranteur on the way calls out to this guy. He knows everybody or maybe I should say everybody knows him. Apparently this thing about him loving to cook is bull sh–t. I learn that he eats out every meal except Sunday breakfast that he prepares with his son. Hmmmm that part of his profile was completely misleading. What else did he lie about?
We get down to 219 and of course, the doorman, the busboys, the hostess, the manager all know him. He doesn’t ask he just walks up the stairs towards the club/bar area and announces we will be eating up there in the empty bar with only a bartender for company. It is odd to be alone but he claims it is better for talking and getting to know each other. He orders the first of four martinis for himself as I nurse a glass of wine with dinner. We are talking but he seems to be more interested in himself than me. Half-way through his third martini, and in the middle of my sharing something about myself, he blurts out, “Are you passionate about anything?”. I am stunned. I have been accused of many things in my life but lacking passion is far from one of them. In fact, most people would describe me as quite sensual and full of life and passion. Without a hint of irony I ask for clarification. “Excuse me?,” I say. He repeats, “Are you passionate about anything?” “Well yes,” I respond. “I am passionate about many things.” He looks puzzled for a second then says, “Because I am getting that you are a bit cold.” “Really?” I declare a bit shocked. “ Are you passionate in bed?” he retorts. I am no shrinking violet and another woman, perhaps a smarter one would have walked out right then but I grew up in a society where you were taught to be polite no matter what so I sat there a bit stunned and wondered where this conversation would possibly go next. I also have the fault of defaulting to answer any question asked of me. I answered with, “My ex-husband would say I am.” Not the best choice of an answer, I am sure but what came next was priceless.
D#3 sits back in his chair, martini number 3 or 4 in his hand, cocks his head and says, “Let me tell you what I am looking for in a woman.” I am all ears at this point and he continues, “I want a beautiful woman who looks good in clothes to go with me places and to events. Who talks about the things I want to talk about and is passionate. In exchange for this,” (break here just for a moment… he actually used the word ‘exchange’ which now makes this conversation a business offer rather than a romance)..”In exchange for this, you (now it is me and not just any woman) will travel first class, I will pay for your clothes and the first place I want to take you is the Four Seasons in Costa Rica for two weeks in October (it is now August).”
Rather than being speechless I pipe up with something like, “Thank you for being honest. It is so refreshing.” and then note that it is close to the time to go. He walks me up the street towards my car and stops at a window of a shoe store. Peering gleefully through the glass he invites me to come in with him. He used to work in the shoe business he explains and he would like to take a look. Again, I probably should have bolted right then but hey, I am a woman and it is a shoe store. I have had a couple of glasses of wine, I have lost all sense. We go in. I grab some boxes of shoes and go to the back of the store to try them on.
As I happily slip on different pairs, he is selecting some styles for me to try. He produces a cute pair of low pumps and unthinking I slide them on my feet and start to walk up the the short slanted shoe mirror at the front of the store. As I walk away from the back of the store, where D#3 is seated, he says in a low toned voice, “Walk a little slower, sweetie.” Suddenly, I get it. This guy has a shoe fetish. I turn around to see his ear-to-ear Cheshire Cat grin as he grabs his crotch. He begins to sink down to the ottoman next to my recently vacated seat saying, “Oh I’ve gotta sit down!” He has a hard on in the shoe store! OMG!!!
My fuddled brain tries to make sense of the situation. All I can think is that I am wearing the store’s shoes and my purse is in the back of the store next to psycho man. I cannot run out the front door. So I muster up all my acting talent and walk back to my spot to change shoes and run out. He deftly swoops down and snaps up the shoe box and pays for the shoes before I can stand up. Shoving the bag in my hand he says, “You look so hot in those shoes, baby. I want you to wear them the next time I see you.”
He’s got his arm around me like he owns me as we walk across the street to my car. Without a word the plants a sloppy kiss on my lips and storms off with his hands shoved in his pockets. I am truly baffled.
Nervous and shaken, I drive with conviction the 100 miles home hoping he is embarrassed and will never contact me again. The next two days pass without any word. Then the third day I get a text, ” How is your day going?” I text back, “Thank you for the evening. I am looking for something else in a relationship. Good luck finding your match.”
He retorts with 5 successive nasty, berating texts.
I know I have made the right decision in not even speaking to this guy on the phone to dump him.