Anonymous....an artists account of true events

The year was 2011, she was blonde, about five eight, a dental assistant if I remember right. Messages were exchanged and a date set at a quaint Sushi restaurant in the Bay Area town of Fairfield California. The place had a diverse array of both raw and cooked delights, aristocratic artforms atop small bamboo boats adrift on a merry go 'round of water.

I arrived ten minutes early and took my position at the aquatic allure of the bar. I was starving but as any consummate gentleman would do I ordered an iced tea and awaited the Duchess of Bombshells arrival.

After forty-five minutes, she had failed to dazzle me with her magnificence. By then hunger was so prevalent that I could have eaten the face off of a crocodile, so I began to pluck the finely crafted creations of the sea from atop the bamboo skiffs, an attempt to tame the raging beast that was insatiable hunger.

While stuffing another rainbow roll down my eager maw, I felt an impatient tap on my shoulder, she was standing there as if I was expected to pull a chair out for her, like she deserved it, or some gross unfortunate delusion of that nature.

"Have a seat, good of you to finally grace me with your presence."

She laughed, offered no excuse as if her behavior was in no way disrespectful or maladaptive, but more so typical, with an air of:

You should count yourself lucky that I am here affording you my precious time you peasant.

I delivered myself a quiet, soothing, calming mantra, the likes of which would provide her a fair shake after all, this was only Strike One. Maybe she was just oblivious or had put too much Sun-In in her hair that morning. Maybe it had clouded her thinking. Or maybe, I am a consummate enabler and too trusting in the fair and just intentions of Humankind.

Dining conversation was mostly controlled by serenading me in monotonous tones with the past exploits of a previous boyfriend, who by my assessment, sounded a bit like a Columbian coke dealer. Captain fantasy had taken her all over the world, showing her so many exotic wonderful places with consistent regularity. By her testimony, he showered the Material Girl with amazing gifts in a bottomless display of selfless charity.

To me, it was more like a fishing expedition in the pond of my net worth, a craftily designed manipulation to assure that I was the type that would meet all of her deep as a spring creek souls needs. If not for anything, the idea was to put me artfully in competition with Mr. Jones, whom she painted in my mind's eye like the fine white linen beach clad persona of a band member being kissed by the tropical wind in a Jodeci video, and just as staged.

Just when I thought things couldn't get any more interesting, she sees a Dentist she used to work for and offers him a seat to join us for dinner, which he politely refused.


Given the grossly untenable realization of this nautical nightmare, I shamelessly create my own grand experiment with the face down dinner check as the test medium. Politely, I excused myself to the restroom, taking great care to peek around the corner at just the right moment. I found my hypothesis to be spot on in accuracy.
Little Miss gold digger bit like a largemouth bass on a muggy overcast day to an artful dog walked topwater lure. Her peek at the check hooked a Bassmaster Classic Tournament trophy of sorts, on the horrifically transparent, Lake Gullible Stupid.

Promptly I returned, sans bathroom, dry hands and all, then announced my need for hasty departure. Much to my chagrin she would follow, stroking my ego along the way with endearing comments about my vertically challenged stature with a smug smile on her face, one fit only for the self-choking hand of the Drill Sergeant in Full Metal Jacket.

"Okay, its been fun, my truck is over there." I said, signaling to my nearly brand new beloved four by four.

"Oh, my car is over there, the red one." She motioned, opposite the lot.

I glanced at the ninety-nine Ford Escort, quietly self-professing my thanks for the existence of a real God at its location, having been nowhere near me. A whispered prayer of sorts, for the surely divinely bestowed gift of a hasty retreat.

"You're not going to walk me to my car?"

"You look like a big girl to me, Hell, you even said so, I am confident you'll make it without issue." I said, checking my Bulova Precisionist for the time I didn't need.

I shot her a quick, very fake smile of farewell, and briskly made for the safe and relaxing womb that was the cab of my truck.

I slam the key into the ignition, prepared for takeoff when suddenly, I find myself startled by a body and mop of Blonde hair shooting straight up into the passenger seat like the Kiwi Zoe from Tarantinos Deathproof, announcing her safety after an epic stunt throw from the white sixty-nine Dodge Challenger, just not nearly as girl stud adorable.

Instead of:

"I'm OK!"

It was:

"Hi! Hows it goin'?!"

Resembling an over-familiarized psychiatric ward patient, she smiled like Jack Nicholson in the shining while rifling through my glovebox. I was shocked, stunned, I mean I have seen a lot of really bad shit in my life, but this woman had me frozen like a busty Frat girl in a slasher flick.

I sat there, mouth agape, with the most horrifying episode of Disaster Date vomiting more word salad in my lap than even Freud could handle in an hour session.

"Is this truck new? I mean it looks new. My girlfriend has this same truck, but hers has more stuff than yours does. I mean it has vents back here, and a built-in GPS. Did I mention you were short? What do you do again? Didn't you say you lived in...."

"GET-THE-FUCK-OUT-OF-MY-TRUCK!"

"Why, whats wrong, I thought you liked me, I..."

"AT WHAT POINT IN THIS CONVERSATION DID I STUTTER? GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY TRUCK, NOW!"

"But my car is way over there, can you drive me?"

"Lady, the brave Veterans of Vietnam had a saying, and I suggest you learn what that is, while getting the fuck out of my truck most Riki Tik."

"Ok, bye!" She said with a flash of an oblivious grin.

With the speed of a Vapers exhalation of blueberry muffin nicotine on a brisk wind, she was gone.

When I arrived back into the safe confines of my apartment, I took a deep breath, opened my computer, then took another deep breath.

The messages were so numerous in volume that I spent the rest of the day contemplating employing Shug Knights bodyguard services, and blocking this gift that kept on baffling from every method of communication imaginable.

Which, by the way, she artfully circumvented like a Lieutenant in the expert hacker group Anonymous, making me wish I had remained that way.

I recommend a dating site pseudonym, or at the very least, a TOR browser, VPN, and a friend in the Sheriffs Department.