A few years back I met a plastic surgeon on a dating site. He emailed me a well written email talking about how great he was and complementing my pictures. He seemed pretty full of himself, but I thought, Hey, he’s a surgeon, I can let a few things slide.
We talked on the phone. Rather, I should say he talked. And talked. And talked. I said a few “mm hmm”s and such, but it was mostly just him droning on and on about how intellectually superior he was to everyone else. The few exchanges I can remember were him asking what I was into sexually. At the end of this “conversation” he asked me if I wanted to meet him. I should have said no. If I had a conversation with someone like that now, I would know better and would say no.
But back then, I was still looking for someone to validate me, someone to protect me, and take care of me, someone to use. I was shallow. I thought about how wealthy he was, the nice life I could have if I was with him, etc. Instead of listening to all his bragging and thinking, What a boring blowhard!, I thought, If a guy as successful and as rich as him likes me, then that will mean that I am worthy.
We met at a really nice restaurant. He was full of appearance-based compliments about my dress, body, hair, etc. I’ve always struggled with my body image so I felt hugely validated by this guy. I would have felt validated by any man that showered me with compliments, but this guy was a plastic surgeon. It was his job to make women beautiful. If he thinks I’m pretty, then fuck, it must actually be true, I thought.
He was working hard at charming me with the expensive restaurant and the compliments. But underneath that he was weird. The way he spoke, the way he carried himself; something was off. I still can’t quite put my finger on it, but he made me uneasy.
After dinner we walked to his car. He said he wanted to give me a ride to my car, which was only a block away. Of course this was just an excuse to make out with me. I was fine with the making-out, but not fine with everything he did.
At one point he pulled the straps of my dress down, exposing my breasts. It was late at night and there weren’t a lot of people around, but we were still on a public street. I wasn’t cool with this, so I pulled my dress back up and told him “no.” He didn’t listen to me.
He said something like, “Don’t worry, no one can see,” proceeded to pull the straps down again and suck on my nipples. I felt really uncomfortable, but begrudgingly went along with it.
After that date I went home, counted up all the red flags, thanked my lucky stars he had only tried to suck on my breasts, deleted his number and said, “good riddance prick!”
No I didn’t. That’s what I wish I had done. I googled him. Found out more about his plastic surgery practice, swooned over his ivy-leauge education, ignored all of my instincts, and told all of my friends, some of my family, and even my therapist about the “amazing” first date I had just had with this “amazing” guy.
*This is a long story, so I am breaking it up into two parts. I’ll have part two up tomorrow.