Kate's First Mate
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February 24, 2015 - Updated July 23, 2015


(Names have been changed to protect myself, not them)

The first prince I chose was a younger man. Tall, blonde, blue eyes. An artist. After weeks of stalking his profile I made my move. I would be much more comfortable if I initiated conversation, because then I wouldn’t feel like he was an axe murderer. Don’t ask my reasoning.

He was well spoken and indeed a successful artist. He spent time teaching his art, and working in his field. This was going better than the horror stories I had heard. My confidence was building. I would be safe though, no last names or locations on my part.

We started texting. He was more experienced in the singlehood land than I so I followed his lead. Yes that means sexting.
I was both appalled and turned on by my agreement to be sexy, daring and live out of my comfort zone.

The next morning, I felt kind of gross. I guess cause I had never done that before and obviously had some internal slut shame happening. It was also the day we agreed to meet for coffee.

I texted him that I felt things had gotten a wee out of hand with the hot and heavy words but thought it was O.K. to still meet. Maybe once I saw him I would be happy that I was a hip MILF.

He was physically the person in the pics. Phew. But what doesn’t come across the “internets” is someone’s psychopathic tendencies.
The first clue was the lack of light in his eyes. Meaning they didn’t shine when he laid eyes on me. I don’t think, in hindsight that he was disappointed, cause honestly I am a catch. I think he truly is a sociopath.


We decided to get coffee to go and walk around his neighborhood. Seemed smart, as it was a community busy with others, daylight was happening and I had parked out of range to have my car identified by him.

As we were walking, I asked if he had any pets. He did not, in fact he had never had pets his whole life (Red Flag One.) I shared a sense of sadness for him, which he responded with this fun fact, “I would never let a dog sleep in my bed. I have heard things. Like they stick their butts in your face.”
I am now walking with a two year old man. Fantastic.

O.K. I can move on from that odd statement. He had told me he was working later that day so I asked where he worked. What I meant was, at which gallery are you spending time in today. He said “Dollar-Town.”

I’m sorry, what?!

Now, don’t judge my quick judgment. I simply was caught off guard by his omission of this career in our get to know me conversations.

“Yes, I work at Dollar-town and excitedly, I’m close to six months, so I will get benefits.”

Wow. I am a horrible, judgmental person, cause I ain’t having none of this. I see. I am walking with a two year old, cashier at Dollar-Town. We sat on a park bench. I am too polite to leave at this point. I don’t want to critique a man’s workplace, but honestly I was still stuck on the butts in faces comment.

He never once asked anything about me. In fact, it became a ranting speech about his art. He never gets fair price, he hates teaching students who think they can perform better than him, and so on.

I sat. Listening. Buying time. I nodded in agreement to several points he made about society, hand made goods and religious banter. He was in his own little crazy world.
Every now and then, for what seems like pure entertainment value, I encouraged his rant.

Wrapping it up with a bow, that was my good deed of the day goal to get out of this “date.”“Well, I do need to get me kids soon, so I think we should call it a day.”
He snapped out of his rant and focused on my eyes. He hadn’t looked at me once I’m pretty sure.

“So you said something about slowing things down, after we sexted.”

“Uh, yeah. Like right down, in fact I think…”

“Or, are you just playing hard to get, and actually want me to be more persistent” at which point he runs his artist hand over my chest.
I instinctively grab his delicate man hand and thrust it off me blurting “Not Fucking Really!”

Lose my number Dollar Town. And I ran to my car.

You’d think I’d be scared away from online love. No way. This was just the start.

Delete. Next

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