It was our third date and I’d just arrived at his place for the first time to watch a movie. “So… Why do you need all of this ammunition?” I asked as I stood at the edge of the living room nervously trying to devise a route through the boxes of bullets to the couch…
For our first date he asked me out for drinks on a Thursday night at 8:00 pm. I ate dinner before I went because it was clear we weren’t going out for dinner and I wasn’t about to have drinks with a stranger on an empty stomach and then drive home. When we met he was playful, in a strange way. He thought it was really fun to antagonize me and see how far he could go. Poking at me… Literally poking me repeatedly, in the ribs. And pinching my side in that “I’m going to tickle you” way. But it felt more like, “I’m going to find your love handles and embarrass you by squeezing them.” Good thing I’m an Australian super model with 10% body fat. (You can’t see me. I could be.)
An hour or so into the date, when the waitress came to ask if we wanted another beer, he turned to me and said, “So, are we not having any food?” Surprised, I explained that I ate before I came because he had said “drinks.” “Oh, well, then I guess I don’t get dinner tonight,” he said as he pushed the menu away petulantly. “Please, feel free to eat! I really don’t mind at all. I’m sorry I misunderstood.” This introduced an awkward discussion about the meaning of “drinks,” the rules of eating on a date when the other person isn’t eating, and a good deal of sulking on his part and confused embarrassment on mine.
So we kept drinking our beers and he continued poking at me with fingers and words. But then right after he’d say something sideways mean, he’d pull me into a hug and kiss my hair. It was weird, then uncomfortable, then felt nice, then confusing, then bad again. Finally, I said I probably ought to head home. “Look.” he responded, “You’re the reason I didn’t get dinner. I’m starving. Come with me to the Fridays across the street.” And somehow he guilted me into accompanying him in the pursuit of late night chicken wings and ranch dressing.
The next day I emailed and thanked him for a lovely evening, but explained in so many words that I didn’t enjoy the way he’d treated me and I didn’t think we were compatible. He responded that he’d been on so many bad dates, he had assumed I’d be crazy and he shouldn’t have been so rough with me. He asked me to give him another chance. We met for a movie a few days later and he was a totally different person, kind and gentlemanly. It didn’t occur to me to be concerned that he could change so easily. I rationalized that he was a nice guy, who just hadn’t quite grown out of the “pull the pigtails of the girl you like” habit. This time at least, he seemed nice…
On our third date, we went his house to watch a movie. When I stepped into the living room, I was greeted by more ammunition than I had ever seen (and that’s saying something – my grandfather kept shotguns under his pool table). “So… Why do you need all of this ammunition?” I asked as I stood at the edge of the living room nervously trying to devise a route through the boxes of bullets to the couch… He shrugged. The ammunition seemed strange, but I got really worried when on the tour of his house he pointed out a locked room and explained that I was not allowed to see what was inside. All the guns that went with the ammo, I assumed… What else could it be? (Don’t answer that). Maybe it was stockpiles of canned food to complete the hoard of a closet Doomsday Prepper? I tried not to think about it.
When we sat down to watch the movie, he sweetly took me into his arms and then whispered into my hair that he was glad I was his new girlfriend but that he just wasn’t getting the attention that he needed from me. I leaned back and looked at his face thinking he had to be joking. He wasn’t. This began an awkward discussion about the meaning of “girlfriend” and the need of “all men” (his words) for attention… Extracting myself from the couch, I explained as I navigated the munitions stockpile that I really needed to be getting on home. Looking back, I’m lucky I’m not still a prisoner in his locked room. Ladies, this is a cautionary tale. Ammunition stockpile + locked rooms = date over. Why did I have to learn that through experience…?