Valentine Story - Her Front Row Seat

I was dating a guy I probably shouldn’t have, but I was young (22) and I didn’t know any better. He was 30, he made a lot of money, and he was the sort of guy who liked to show you how much money he made, the sort who would aggressively pay for everything just to show you how little money mattered to him. At this stage in my life, I’d be repulsed by that, but at the time I didn’t know any better (or maybe I did but wasn’t listening to the voices in my head)

Did I mention he was hot? Um, yeah. He was kind of hot, which is probably why I let myself get swept up by him instead of running away.

We’d gone out a handful of times, and while we hadn’t technically slept together yet, we’d gotten pretty close. So when he told me he wanted to take me away for Valentine’s, I was pretty darn excited and very ready for the next step.

He picked me up in his Mercedes convertible, looking like a million bucks, and drove us out to a casino near Palm Springs, where he treated me to a fancy steak dinner and … a night of boxing. Yes, you read that right. Boxing. This might be a good time to mention that I’m an ardently nonviolent girl and highly squeamish when it comes to blood, puss, and grown men pounding each other senseless. So, you can imagine the thoughts running through my head as my date proudly escorted me to our seats in the very first row.

I hated every moment. Hated it. And he didn’t quite get that I hated it. He was having a grand old time, rejoicing in the violence and flirting with me whenever he had the chance – which, needless to say, did not work for me at all. But I grit my teeth and tried to make it through, and I was doing okay until … one of the boxers delivered a devastating punch only feet from where we were sitting, and I felt something wet on my head. Yes, that’s right, the bloody saliva of some punk boxer had landed in my hair.

I stormed out, and, to his credit, my date followed me. It was the last thing he did right all evening. “I don’t see anything in your hair,” he said, examining me. He tried to make me feel guilty for freaking out, guilty for forcing him to miss precious minutes of his expensive night of brutality. Things only got worse.

I insisted on going to our hotel room so I could shower and get whatever it was out of my hair. I told him he could go back and watch the rest of the boxing, but he refused and instead came up to the room with me, sulking the whole way. Then, when I’m in the shower, guess who entered the bathroom naked wanting to join me? I’m still not exactly sure how I managed to keep him out of the shower, but I did. Then, when I left the bathroom, I found him lounging on the bed in just his boxers. He was horny, sulking, and feeling entitled, not an attractive combination, and he couldn’t seem to get it through his head that this wasn’t making me want to have sex with him.

“I’m just not feeling very sexy right now,” I told him, to which he replied, “But you’re looking real sexy to me.” Idiot. The rest of the night was quite an adventure, me constantly rebuffing his advances and him slowly starting to realize that I was not going to be sleeping with him. It was almost enjoyable after a while, knowing that I was totally spoiling his plans, watching him seethe with anger and frustration mixed in with halfhearted attempts at wooing, always digging himself in a deeper hole. That is, it might have been enjoyable if it weren’t also really sad and demeaning. The drive back to LA the next day was long and quiet, and I couldn’t wait for us to part ways. Thank goodness, I’d gotten to see this guy’s true colors before letting things get any further. I was proud that I hadn’t let myself be bought.

Submitted by Meredith, Age 32, Pasadena, CA

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