The Champagne Flute Might Be Plastic

I should have known anyone calling himself Alexander the Great might be a narcissistic psycho maniac or the proverbial wolf in sheep's clothing. Heed the warning, ladies. Dating is like learning to fish. Know when to cut bait.

CHOOSING BAIT

We met on an Internet dating site. He sent many pictures of himself having fun. He called me "princess" and "angel eyes." I'm not easily won over with the sweet-name thing, but it was honey-covered manna when he said it. I put my girlfriend on the phone to hear his playful voice. She gave him a thumbs up. She said she'd give anything to hear her husband call her something like that, just once. I don't know, my take is men will use divine names to draw in their prey like a juicy worm on a hook. I ignored my red flag for her green one. Go.

DRAGGING THE LURE

Properly wooed and drawn in, I prepared myself for our first date. He promised to make dinner at his beachfront home -- lemon-thyme chicken and champagne for his birthday. I toyed with the lure. I hemmed and hawed. I chased the lure.

TAKING THE BAIT

I drove for almost an hour for the date. That didn't sit right with me, but I waved it off since he wanted to show me a beautiful time, and it was his birthday. The location was, as he called it, paradise, and I was an angel in his paradise. It was beautiful. He opened a bottle of champagne. I did not watch him remove the cork. He poured champagne into flutes.

REELING IN -- HIS TURN

After we toasted his health and happiness, I looked around -- nice remodel, nice furniture, crystal collection everywhere. We chatted. I asked him to show me his office so I could see his Ph.D. diploma. (Another friend had warned me to see the diploma, not to believe anything I read on the dating profile.) He said he was sad that I didn't trust him. We returned to the living room where he lit a cozy fire in the fireplace. He told me about all the renovations he had made with his "own two hands." He opened a book that contained the works of many poets, including his. He chose a poem he wanted me to read. He told me that this was good champagne, and these were Lenox crystal flutes. He said he collected crystal from his world travels.

REELING OUT -- MY TURN

With my next sip, I felt dizzy. Alexander asked me if I was drunk. I told him that I wasn't, that I couldn't be drunk on two glasses of champagne. I pinged the rim of my flute. It was plastic. I had a hard time controlling my thoughts. Head spinning, I began to really notice the cheesy blown-glass collection he had, everywhere. I'm sure it wasn't cheap glass, probably was crystal because he said so, but I was not impressed with the clutter, a collection gone awry. Why did the crystal flute feel like plastic? Why was my head spinning? Why was he slipping his hand down my top?

INTO THE FRYING PAN

I struggled. I said I was sick. I went into the bathroom and vomited into the toilet. I needed to lie down; I was weak. From the bed I heard Alexander pile dishes in the sink. Then I felt him climbing in next to me, breathing hard in my ear -- not sexy but like an old man. By 3 a.m. my head was back. I got dressed and told him I was going home. He said he was tired, and I had ruined his night.

THE FISHING LESSON

Ladies, never go to a man's house for a date. What was in the champagne? Why did the flute feel like plastic? Maybe nothing was in the champagne. Maybe the flute was Lenox. Maybe I caught the flu. Maybe I know better.

Tell us the story of your breakup and/or date from hell and we will publish it and pay you ($100 for 500-2000 words).

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