The Champagne Flute Might Be Plastic

I should have known anyone calling himself Alexander the Great may be a narcissistic psycho maniac in disguise; the proverbial wolf in sheep’s clothing.  That said, heed the warning, ladies.  Dating is like learning to fish.  Know when to cut bait.


We met on an internet dating site.  He sent many pictures of himself having fun, the view from his patio.  He called me “princess” and “angel eyes.”  I’m not easily won over with the sweet name trick, but it was honey covered manna when he said it.  I put my girlfriend on the phone to hear his playful voice.  She gave him a thumb’s up.  She told me she was married many years and would have paid a million dollars to hear her husband call her a sweet name just once.  I don’t know.  My take is men will use divine names to draw in their pray like a juicy worm on a hook.  I ignored my red flag for her green flag.  Go.


Properly wooed and drawn in, I prepared myself for our first date.  He promised to make dinner at his mountain-top-lake-view-home, a lemon-thyme chicken, and champagne for his birthday.  I toyed with the lure.  I hem hawed.  Alexander gave me options, this night or that night, how he had to go out of town to take care of hisLas Vegasproperties.  I chased the lure.


I drove 53 miles for the date.  That didn’t sit right with me, but I waved it off as his wanting to show me a beautiful time, and it was his birthday.  The location was, as he called it alternately, heaven or paradise, and I was an angel in his paradise.  It was beautiful.  He opened a bottle of champagne.  I did not watch him remove the cork.  He poured champagne into flutes. 


After toasting his health and happiness, I looked around; nice remodel, nice furniture, crystal collection everywhere.   

We chatted.  I asked him to show me his office so I could see his Ph.D. diploma.  (Another friend had warned me to see the diploma, not to believe anything I read on the dating profile.)  He said he was sad that I didn’t trust him.  We returned to the living room where he lit a cozy fire in the fireplace.  He told me all the renovations he made with his own two hands.  He opened a book that contained the works of many poets including his.  He chose a poem he wanted me to read.  Honestly, I didn’t think it was that good.  Since he was a retired professor from UCLA, I figured he had connections to be published.  Then he told me he used to run a night club in LA, that was how he learned about champagne and that this was good champagne, and these were Lenox crystal flutes.  He said he collected crystal from his world travels. 

Now, even after two flutes of champagne I had enough head about me to wonder on his versatility, a renaissance man.  He asked me if he should open another bottle.  I said yes.


With my next sip, I felt dizzy.  Alexander asked me if I was drunk.  I said no, I couldn’t be drunk on two glasses of champagne.  I pinged the rim of my flute.  It was plastic.  I had a hard time controlling my thoughts.  Head spinning, I saw cheesy blown glass collection, everywhere.  I’m sure it wasn’t cheap glass, probably was crystal because he said so, but I was not impressed with the clutter, a collection gone awry.  Why did the crystal flute feel like plastic?  Why was my head spinning?  Why was he slipping his hand down my top?  I finished my champagne amid a flush of questions, unvoiced.  He led me to his bed. 


He stripped me and mounted me.  I struggled.  I said I’m sick.  I went into the bathroom and vomited into the toilet.  I started back to bed because I was weak.  When I got back in bed, Alexander asked me if I was alright.  Stupidly I answered yes, then went back to the bathroom and vomited again.  This time I stayed awhile.  I was sure I was not finished vomiting.  I heard Alexander leave the room.  Just as I heard him return, I vomited again.  He asked me again if I was okay.  I said yes.  Then he said dinner was ready. 


I poked at my meal, even tasted it, the worst.  I couldn’t eat.  Then my nose began to run.  Alexander looked at me with mild exasperation.  Perhaps he thought he could salvage his birthday plans, sex, sex, sex. 


From bed, I heard Alexander pile dishes in the sink.  He climbed in next to me breathing hard in my ear, not sexy, but like an old man, wearing a sweat shirt and sweat pants.  I got up three times to blow my nose, waking the old man each time. 3:00 a.m., my head was back.  I got dressed, told him I was going home.  He said he was tired and I ruined his night.  I said I was a working woman.  He went out in the cold to direct me so I would not back over the cliff of paradise. 


Some times you throw your catch back, too short, too weenie, too out of season.  Ladies, never go to a man’s house for a date.  It’s a lure, a trap, a set up.  Sex is rape when you are incapacitated.  What was in the champagne?  Why did the flute feel like plastic?  Maybe nothing was in the champagne.  Maybe the flute was Lenox.  Maybe I caught the flu.  Maybe I knew better.  Maybe I should have remembered my mother’s words of wisdom on dating.  Maybe, maybe, maybe.  What was so great about a guy named Alexander?  He’s a beast, a maniac, a selfish, old man.  He’s the fish to throw back.  Catch and release.


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