We met at Old Chicago. He was… passable. A little weird, a little off, but not in a "you're gonna end up on a missing persons list" kind of way. More like the human equivalent of stale bread. Dry. Forgettable. Maybe salvageable with enough marinara.
He told me, within ten minutes of sitting down, that he was dating to marry.
Not a red flag on its own. But for me? A soft orange glow of "Sir, I just escaped a situationship with a man named after furniture, can we not talk about centerpieces right now?"
Then he ordered two beers. Again, not technically a problem. But I have a strict no drinking on first dates rule. (Thanks, Sterling.) I didn't say anything. Just clocked it. Strike two.
I used to give guys like this the benefit of the doubt. Used to laugh off the awkwardness. But I've been on enough dates to know that weird vibes don't age well.
The conversation?
Amazing. On my end.
I was charming. Effervescent. An absolute delight. He, however, responded like I was a substitute teacher trying to get the class to participate. I swear I could've held up a neon sign that said "Please Laugh Here" and still gotten a blank stare.
He barely asked me anything. I was steering this thing like it was the Titanic. Only instead of an iceberg, I was about to hit THE AUDACITY.
Dinner ended. He paid. Great. Thank you. I told him I appreciated it.
Then, he leaned across the table and said:
"Wanna come home with me?"
I blinked. "Oh, no thank you," I said politely. Still smiling. Still hopeful.
He asked again. And again. Each time, his voice got a little sharper. A little more impatient. Like he was trying to close a business deal, not flirt. His voice lost its charm and found its edge. He didn't want a connection. He wanted compliance.
Then with the confidence of a man who has never once been told no by someone who meant it, he said:
"Okay, well… will you at least suck my dick in the bathroom?"
I stared at him, trying to process whether he had just asked me for a blowjob next to the family restroom sign. He looked at me like he'd just offered me free dessert.
I said nothing. Because I was trying to figure out if I had blacked out and was now in a parody of my own dating life.
Then he added:
"I mean, I bought your food."
I. Bought. Your. Food.
As if my calzone came with an obligation. As if a $15 entrée meant my body was now part of the evening's payment plan.
I stood up.
Pulled a twenty from my purse. Threw it on the table like I was slapping down a reverse Uno card. And said, loud and clear:
"Here's your refund. Go FUCK yourself."
And I walked out. No bathroom pit stop. No polite goodbye. Just me, my dignity, and the sound of my heels clacking across the tile like a gavel on a courtroom bench.
Because if dinner comes with a side of sexual entitlement, I'll take the check and leave.
Every. Single. Time.
Because consent isn't conditional. And kindness isn't currency.