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Writer's pictureCarla Webb

The Eligible Date pre #metoo

I wrote this in my late 30's, I was 15 kilos lighter, 15 years younger, living in LA and dating up a storm. I found this whilst clearing out some old folders and it brought back some not so pleasant memories.



After another failed relationship attempt, I try and look for someone a little more suitable - someone without a wife, with a decent job, who is aware of the difference between various European countries....


I find one on Craigs List – his post is funny, well written and not overly misogynistic. He appears to be well educated, wealthy, good job etc…. I write a witty reply and it piques his interest.

We throw a few mails back and forth, have a long chat on the phone and decide to meet. The phone call was good although he droned on a bit – he apologised for this the next day and blamed it on being tired. ALARM BELLS. I give him a second chance for the sake of dating the ‘right’ sort of man.


I go to Malibu where he is based – mainly because I have never been there and know it is the hip place to be and also because my part of town is pretty average. He has just moved here from Boston to set up a company headquarters for his software company. He is renting somewhere along the coast and doesn’t know many people. It's a nice apartment with perfect views; waves crashing on the rocks are the only sound. There is a massive hot tub on the terrace, the furnishings are white and minimalist.


Him – 6ft 2, slim, dark hair, good dress sense, not bad looking. Not drop dead, but would be considered handsome on most scales. Charming. Polite. Opens doors. He smokes. Not a showstopper but so unusual in LA that I'm shocked.


He takes me to a perfect place a mile down the road. Beach restaurant with leather ‘beds’ to lounge on, stunning view, heaters take away the evening chill. It could have been Cannes. Conversation flows – well his does. Mine gets interrupted quite a bit and I’m not sure if I ever finish a story. Which is pretty amazing because not only am I difficult to shut up but I have a story for most occasions. His stories are interesting, but soooooooooo sloooooooooow. The pregnant pauses are unbearable, I keep thinking he has forgotten what he is talking about as he goes off on a zillion tangents, but then there's a massive pause and lo and behold he remembers and keeps going….. Worse are the bits when he says… ‘and this is hysterical’ and you wait 20 minutes for the hysterical bit and then hope that you are laughing at the right bit because 1 – it isn’t funny and 2 – you lost track about 15 mins ago.


I keep an open mind as his intelligence and ability to talk about anything sort of makes up for the long slow boring dragged out sentences. If he wasn’t a Harvard educated MD I would have assumed he was dead thick. He comes from a ‘good’ family – father died a few years ago, mother from some mega estate in Scotland, now lives in Bermuda, boarding school in Massachussetts, my mum would love him (as long as he didn’t tell a story as she might nod off).


We close the restaurant, it was great food, lovely wine, he pays for everything including valet parking with an impressive discretion. I'm a sucker for manners and charm. The bartender says ‘bye – see you soon’ and gets rewarded with a 10 minute monologue about when, how and if he will see him next.


He invites me in for a drink and the hot tub. He hasn’t made a move yet, I assume he’s interested but it isn’t glaringly obvious. I’m not nervous – the boy has manners. And hey, how often do I get invited into a hot tub in Malibu? He sets the tub up and I ask for a t-shirt. He makes pretty good cocktails although I’ve probably had a couple too many at this point – 2 martinis and a large glass of red. I get in – it's magical, the warm water of the hot tub, the moonlight, bougainvillea climbing the terrace and waves crashing on the beach. He goes for a fag (ew), I see his reflection in the door as he returns - he's naked! Average bod – disappointing dick.


We’re there for like 2 hours – I am a prune. His stories are unending. He doesn’t make a move, he sort of sits close but nothing tangible – which is strange as its not like the setting wasn’t perfect. I don’t really want a move, but I’m kind of surprised I don’t get one anyway. He’s had 3 beers since he got home so the long rambling stories are getting even more repetitive. Whenever I try to interject to show a vague spark of interest, this causes a debate and makes the story longer. I decide to just shut up.


I finally get out when he says he's going for another fag only my exit causes him to delay going for the bloody fag. He just keeps talking and talking. So now I am freezing and dripping wet. Then he kisses me. Ouch – awful – dreadful – horrific. I can’t even describe how awful. Not grossly wet, or even darting lizard tongue. Just engulfing consumption of my mouth – and not even managing to get the right spot. I practically gag – he bites my lip – is this supposed to turn me on? He finally pisses off for the fag and I get back in the tub to warm up. He returns, I make my excuses to escape but he launches into a final monologue. It's the story of some friends twin sister who was dying of a brain tumour and he flew to her death bed in London from New York. This story went on for AT LEAST an hour. I couldn’t leave – I mean I thought he was going to start crying. It was dreadful. I almost felt like kissing him just to shut him up but thought that 1 – it was inappropriate, 2 – it probably wouldn’t shut him up and 3 – couldn’t bear the thought of kissing him again.


It is 3 am when I finally manage to get out, he asks me to stay and I say no. I throw him a towel and he doesn’t quite catch it and an inch of towel lands on the floor. He freaks out. He doesn’t like things touching the floor. OMG he is a psycho. He berates me for not passing the towel, I try to laugh it off with a – well if you hadn’t drunk so much your reactions would have been quicker – this doesn’t get a laugh. I try to get dressed – he grabs me and holds me and says that there is no way he is going to let me drive home at this time of night, that I must stay, that he will be a gentleman….


He has a point, I have drunk too much and have a 45 minute drive home but I really don't want to be there. I go to the bedroom, it's a single bed, he's in the spare room coz someone else hasn't moved out - it's not making sense any more. I say there is no way I am staying in that – he won’t take no for an answer and I end up relenting. We snog some more once in bed – I manage to convince him to be a bit more gentle but I am revolted by it. The smell of smoke is foul. He starts playing with me down there. I fake come hoping that this will make him a happy chappy thinking what a sex god he is. I roll over afterwards to face the wall.


He asks me what I am doing – I say going to sleep – he’s like aren’t you going to blow me? I’m like errrr no. He says well that’s not fair and I said I didn’t realise we were under contractual agreement. He is pissed off – I want to leave but I am trapped against the wall in the midget bed. I explain that I find that sort of thing very intimate yada yada – he carries on about how unfair. I am really uncomfortable now. He starts messing with me again, I say stop because I am not going to blow you. He says that’s not what he wants and continues – then he starts begging me to blow him. It's horrible, I am a little scared at this point, he says he is on the verge of coming so I grab him to hopefully end this whole fiasco and HE’S SOFT. I’m like WTF (in my head). I get him vaguely aroused and decide to blow him just to avoid any more confrontation. It's horrible. I feel like a prostitute. He KEEPS ON TALKING THROUGHOUT. He also tells me it is the MOST AMAZING bj ever. I am on the verge of throwing up. FOUL. Then he wants to cuddle – he totally suffocates me. I manage to escape and say I am leaving – he is SO UPSET. He walks me to the car – even this takes 15 minutes.


He says call me, I’m like ok, he says when, I’m like errr soon, he says tomorrow, I say oh ok then, he says before lunch, I say – look its 5am and I haven’t been to bed yet. I will be sleeping before lunch, he says during lunch, I just drive off at this point. He calls 3 times before I get home saying he is worried about me driving. He makes me promise to call him to say I get to my room safely. I do, but he talks for 10 minutes – WHAT IS THERE LEFT TO SAY? At one point he said I don’t understand why you left, you could have stayed, I would have taken you to the best breakfast in Malibu etc….. I replied, you never stop talking, I wouldn’t have gotten any sleep! He doesn’t refute this.


He kept calling, wanted to see me again, I blocked his number.



Would this have been different today in the #metoo era? I don't think his behaviour would have been different, but I'd like to think that mine would have been. That I would have had the confidence to stand up and walk out and say I owe you NOTHING least of all a blow job. So to all of you who think that some of those #metoo 's had a choice, or should have just left or whatever - I felt obliged to blow this man because he was kind, educated, polite, had bought me dinner and tickled my bits for 5 minutes. I am ashamed that that is who I was then. That that is who I was all my life until very recently. I am ashamed. And this is NOT my actual real #metoo story, because, like many of us, I have one. This isn't it. I did have a choice here, and I could have behaved differently, I was just stupid.


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