He looked like Sean Penn and had the accent of a man born and raised across the pond. We met while he was tending bar as a favor for a friend and I was sipping cocktails with one of mine. “You know, we should exchange information,” he said with a half smile. A photographer with a lovely talent, it seemed we had several things to talk about, at least professionally. Besides, I liked Madonna and he looked a lot like Sean. Enough to make you think it was Sean. The novelty itself was worth an exchange.
He gave me his number and I passed on my card. A few days later, the texting began. He was funny and witty and quite full of himself. “Come out tonight,” he demanded. “I can’t, I have plans,” I replied. “We both know you’ll be in your apartment, drinking wine and watching movies. So, when you are bored of that, come and meet me,” he responded. A few hours later, “You ready to get dressed and come out?” he texted. I was out, but I enjoyed his confidence, just the same.
Finally, we met for drinks at Elsa. We exchanged summarized histories, ideas on how to work together and finally bid one another goodnight. He had a poker game and I had a deadline. He texted me frequently for the next month, occasionally inviting me here and there. My schedule and interest levels never allowed me to accept. The truth is that there was a Cuban in the picture and everyone knows that, in a BDC-sponsored Celebrity Death Match, Andy Garcia will destroy Sean Penn in every round.
Fast-forward two months when Sean decided to reconnect. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Stranger,” said a text from a number I did not recognize. My girlfriend’s and I had received several of these kinds of messages throughout the day (all from men we had met once or twice or several years ago) and none seemed to enjoy it when we asked who was behind the acknowledgment.
When Sean identified himself, I returned the greeting and went on with my day. “We should have a drink soon,” he said. “Sure,” I replied with little intention to follow through. A half a month later, I found myself in a comedy club, laughing with Sean. Afterwards, he invited me to a local wine bar to chat. Vincenzo, the bartender, looked like he could be my brother and I asked where he was from. “Naples,” he replied. “That’s where I originate from as well,” I replied. “I can tell, you look very Italian,” he said, grinning. We weren’t flirting, there was no attraction, but it was a lovely exchange and I enjoyed hearing his thoughts on life in New York VS Italy.
Sean applauded Italy and serenaded the food. I listened intently, trying to soak in as much information as I could all the while daydreaming about my impending trip. Finally, Sean focused on me and the smile faded. “I notice that a lot of men look at you and speak to you,” he said. I hadn’t noticed this at all. In fact, there weren’t many men around. I did, however, notice the red flag whipping in the wind.
“I just want you to know that I have a lot of issues!”
He told Vincenzo I was his wife. I told Vincenzo that he was lying. Vincenzo shook his head and poured me a glass of wine of his choosing.
Sean started asking me questions.
“Where were you born? What is your favorite place to go? How old are you?” “California, too many to answer, and it’s rude to ask a lady her age,” I replied.
“I knew you would not tell me,” he said. He knew because we had discussed this months before. “I will guess,” he said. “This is not a game I’d like to play,” I responded. “But why are women so secretive about their age,” he asked. My age is not something I am ashamed of nor is it so high or far off from his (a year and a half) that I should want to hide it, it’s just something I have not shot through a blow horn since my 17th birthday.
I learned this from my Grandmother long after her death. Through printed documentation of her actions and thought process (and the stories and values of her sisters who helped my grandfather raise me) I learned that there are a few things a lady should be allowed to keep to herself: the hair color she was born with, the eye cream she uses, how many men she has kissed and how many candles should legally be placed upon her pink coconut birthday cake.
Though my grandmother was older than my grandfather, only she and a select few knew her real age (and the men and women in the courthouse weren’t counted into that group). After snooping through her private documents (with Grandpa’s permission) I learned that it was not only perfectly fine to marry a younger man, but it was also downright ladylike to hide or even lie about your age.
Besides, everyone knows that a complete woman is a woman who cannot be defined by a number. Some days we feel five, some days 16, and some days (usually post soiree) we feel eighty.
“I’m going to guess anyway,” he said. “If you must, but I find this dull,” I replied. He then started shooting high–like, really high. So high, in fact, that I laughed. “Uh, no,” I responded. He looked shocked and then took a year off.
Was he kidding?
He knew my college graduation date. Did he think I started in my mid 20′s?
“I might have reached an age where eye cream and microdermabrasion have been incorporated into my routine, but I’m hardly menopausal,”I said.
“Well, you look great for your age,” he said in a snarky tone. It occurred to me that he had clearly read “The Game”. There is a chapter where the author, Neil Strauss, instructs men to “neg” women as a way to gain the upper hand. By making the woman feel insecure about something, she becomes weak and he steals a bit of her power. The trouble is, not all women want to spend time with a jerk who thinks it’s a “turn on” to be put down.
“Are you really doing this?” I asked. “We’re almost the same age.”
He argued with me. It was not possible. I dressed “older” (I was in a leather mini and heels). I “acted older” than he did (duh) and I had “wrinkles”, needed to “stay out of the sun beds” and “worked out too much”.
Vincenzo looked at Sean and then at me and shook his head. Sean’s drunken eyes focused long enough to see the look of disbelief on my face. ”But you’re beautiful,” he said.
“What are you trying to prove?” asked Vincenzo. Sean either didn’t hear or ignored him. “Thank you for your honesty,” I said. “Would you mind if I called it a night?”
Sean frowned. “Oh, no. I went to far,” he said. “Thank you for your honesty,” I replied. “I’m going to go.” ”Sh*t, I am drunk. Wait,” he said. I waited for him to pay the bill and we walked out together. “Goodnight,” I said as I hopped into the cab and read his texts telling me that songs on the radio in his cab made him think of me. “I wish you the best,” I texted back.
The next morning, Sean started texting me to ask if I was mad and explain that he had 5 Jameson’s, was drunk and that I was beautiful. When I explained that I thought his behavior was rude, he responded that he had a dark sense of humor. When I told him I didn’t think he was all that funny, he called me a drama queen. “That’s the response of a man who was rude and doesn’t want to be accountable,” I replied. “You got me there.” Hours later, he told me he felt bad and I responded it was a lesson learned. He replied that there was, in fact, no lesson because–wait for it– I asked for it.
I explained he was a child and why he should never reach out to me again.
I may need more eye cream but I definitely don’t need another a**hole.
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