Johann and I met via an online dating service and, though wary about meeting a stranger this way, I was intrigued by his profile. He had been raised in the Netherlands, was fluent in five languages, had traveled and worked in numerous countries, and had settled in Southern California to run his branch of a successful family business. He was worldly in ways I could only aspire to. We began corresponding through e-mails and I was further impressed by his intelligence, humor, and communication skills.
When he picked me up for our first date, he more than lived up to his online photos, a nice surprise since I was by now accustomed to meeting men who were clearly decades older, several pounds heavier, and less air-brushed than their posted headshots indicated. Tall, fit, handsome, and trendy, he was the definition of metrosexual a few years before George Clooney made the term a household word. Intelligent eyes sparkled behind fashionable glasses, hair was gelled to perfection, and the hands, oh, the hands: strong and manicured, masculine but gentle. He charmed me with his sophistication, manners, and voice, a melodious mix of European accents that resembled Arnold Schwarzenegger with an extra dash of polish. I tingled with anticipation, sensing that I would not need to fake an early morning staff meeting to escape an awkward evening. And then there was his car, a stunning, brand-new BMW with leather seats, full stereo system, and all the bells and whistles. I looked briefly to the heavens and whispered, “I take it back, God. I think I could be a trophy wife after all.”
A leisurely walk on a path along the bluffs facilitated a stimulating get-acquainted conversation about family, work, and life in general, and was good enough to inspire moving on to dinner at an upscale seafood restaurant. But, alas, my picture of the perfect knight in a shiny white sedan began to fade as he downed several glasses of wine, encouraged me to drink more, and then, ironically, tried to convert me to his extremely strict form of Christianity. I was further disappointed when, back in the car, those perfectly manicured hands were a little too persistent for my comfort, and my evening ended with an unexpected, unwanted, big, wet, sloppy kiss.
Nevertheless, a couple of weeks later I accepted his invitation for a second date because I figured everyone deserves a second chance, and I had enjoyed the first half of our evening.
Okay, I really wanted to ride in that car again.
Hoping to cool things down a bit and maybe find some common ground in the religious beliefs department, I suggested he join me for a mid-week church service. Over dinner beforehand, I conveyed that I wanted to take things slowly. I wasn’t looking for any kind of fling, I was dating other people, and I wanted time to get to know him before getting more intimate. He agreed, and we headed into a nice evening. He even held my hand during the service, which I thought was quite sweet.
But there were more chinks in his armor. I like to think I have pretty good instincts, so I couldn’t ignore his little comments as we walked to and from the service, such as how much he enjoyed the view as he walked up some stairs behind me, or his repeated invitations to come down and see his boat later, wink wink. Each remark rankled me, and I felt his charm was swiftly turning into smarm.
We went to a cozy bar for a drink and more conversation after the service. Over his glasses of wine and my pot of herbal tea, we again got into a lively discourse until he interrupted me with,
“You have a beautiful ass.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Stunned, I took a deep breath and then I let him have it. “What was that? This is completely inappropriate and completely out of line on a second date, especially since I have made my intentions very clear. Did you not agree with me earlier that we would take things slowly? Perhaps this is the European way of doing things, but you’re in America, buddy, and in America, you just don’t speak to nice girls this way!”
