"As our romantic dinners progressed invariably the level of alcohol consumption rose steadily, he’d begin to warm up and soften up and open up, where by things would get considerably worse. The topic would then become drunken sexual flirtations where he would say un-romantic things like, “I can’t wait to get you home rip your clothes off and pound you.” Like I was a piece of meat and he was a butcher. Comments made were about him and what he’d like to do to me to get his rocks off. Never were they about how I made him feel, how sexy I was or what he’d like to do for me and why – certainly it was never about wanting to please me because his love for me was so great that he lived his life to do so. It was all about servicing him. I’d cringe and feel panic rising deep in my stomach knowing that when we got home he intended to become octoman, with little foreplay or regard for whether I was turned on or not. Attempts at twisting his un-romantic and rather crude comments into something more affectionate, flirtatious or about the both of us in his sexual encounter were unsuccessful.
I’d find myself ordering more wine to fill him so that he’d be so drunk he’d pass out when we got home. While I would stop drinking altogether. I needed to sober up and have my whits about me. The good news: by the time he began his sexual flirtations he was pretty far gone already, otherwise he’d never have brought up anything as personal as sex at a restaurant, lest anyone should over hear our conversation. So sadly, even our romantic dinners of spending quality time alone together tended to be a flop. The irony, we got along well enough to want to do them together (though I dare say it the great food we craved more than the great company). And, the intentions and reasons behind the dinner were still an important factor. We wanted to love each other. We just couldn’t do it and didn’t know how." KD
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