The Eel Man

I call him “Eel Man,” one of the slimiest dates I ever had.

I met him online through Craigslist in my early and desperate dating daze; the list was a place I frequented after my husband died and I discovered all his affairs and other betrayals. On ether, Eel Man seemed wonderful — good convo, apparently decent looks shadowed under a baseball cap, mad about health, the outdoors, fitness, spirituality. We spoke by phone a few times, long conversations that melted into the night. Nothing sexual; in his mid-50s he was a gentleman of the old school, with a comforting voice. Single and available. And he checked in often to see how I was. He seemed to communicate well. What a peach!

We set up a first date for dinner and the SF 49ers opening game. Color me stoked — I’m mad about sports. But my car broke down that morning and I couldn’t meet him at a pre-arranged place. He didn’t want to drive the 50 miles round trip to fetch me and thence to the stadium 50 miles away. Oh, and dinner: sharing a can of eel and some cooked millet on the way. Say what?

I should have recognized signs of incompatibility and cheapness, but I wanted to be out with a guy, apparently any guy. I wanted to feel that someone, apparently anyone, was attracted to me. And oh I wanted to get laid so badly!

We rescheduled for the following Friday night, a free-form event at a modern dance studio in Berkeley, Calif. We seemed to have so much in common so I leapt at the chance to dance.

We agreed to meet at a nearby BART station and go in his car from there. He told me to dress informally, but I wanted to look sexy.  I dressed in loose dance pants and a super tight sparkly cami top. He called right before arriving. This guy was so considerate!

The first shoe dropped as he pulled up in a prehistoric, ratty car. When he got out of the car, he also looked prehistoric, ratty. I immediately felt overdressed and underwhelmed; I knew my red flags were waving at me but I ignored them. I wanted a date, dammit. I wanted a chance at unbridled lust.

Eel Man wasn’t anywhere near as nice looking as his picture; he was downright creepy. I shook his hand hello, and it was clammy. He smelled of sweat and I wasn’t sure what else … We talked for a few minutes. He asked if I felt safe going with him.  I lied and said yes. I got into his filthy car and wished I hadn’t. But in those days I didn’t have the power or self-esteem — the sass or the bite —to honor my gut instincts.

We got onto the freeway and he began to drive so fast and recklessly, I was white-knuckled. He asked if his driving bothered me and again I lied and said no. He talked nonstop, bragging about taking 100 supplements a day and listening to self-improvement tapes while hiking in nature. He seemed the antithesis of earlier chats. I put it all aside hoping that I could find him attractive and wind up having steamy, unadulterated sex all night long. I was terrified but desperate. I went along, accommodating, appeasing, negating.

For convenience and stupidity, I left my purse and cell phone in his car, taking only my water and $8 admission fee. We arrived early; the warm-up music was mesmerizing and relaxing. A former ballet dancer, I went into my own space and danced with my eyes closed. I was aware of him all the time though, wanting to be close. I was hypervigilant and uncomfortable.

At this weekly dance jam everyone dances with others. Some couples writhe together, some people hook up for later, and others just come to dance. I wanted me some too. Soon Eel Man came over and reached out his hands for mine, and I instinctively jerked away. I did not want His Sliminess to touch me. He was taken aback, and in that moment I awoke from my trance. I knew I had to get out of there; I would dance a short while and then get my things from his car and leave. There would be no hands upon my breasts nor protruberance aiming for my parts tonight.

But an hour later, he was gone. I panicked — how many stupid things could I be capable of out of desperation for a man’s attention? I went looking and found him hooking up with another woman and leaving the premises. I caught up with him and demanded my things and the woman immediately said she wasn’t going home with him. I said I didn’t care, I just wanted my stuff. She kept apologizing and I almost laughed in her face. I DON’T CARE. She could fuck him till the cows came home, I was just surprisingly glad it wasn’t gonna be me.

Eel Man took me to get my purse, but made no effort to help me get a ride. Public transit was at least a mile away and it was pitch black in that industrial section of town. I was at least an hour’s walk from the closest BART train, two hours from home at best.

Then he actually asked if I’d like to go out again, and for the first and only time that evening I found my real voice and said, “You must be joking!” It was the beginning of a long climb out of social conditioning that tells women they must accommodate the man at all costs, lest they be abandoned and lonely in their dotage.

And so I walked. Unerringly forward and alert. I was so angry at myself but I saw the comedy of errors and knew I had grown some. The signs had all been there, but I was too afraid of my loneliness and wounding to heed them. I had acted like this was the last guy on earth who would ever ask me out. I had acted like I owed him something.

When the bus doors opened, I told the woman driver that I had walked away from a bad date and I didn’t have exact change. (I didn’t.) She let me on for free, sympathetic, and dropped me at BART. While I waited, so relieved, for my train, the platform filled with well-dressed older patrons of a nearby theater event. I was so relieved and happy that I drew the attention of an elderly woman who came over and sat next to me.

She says, “I heard you tell the bus driver that you’d had a bad date. My husband died ten years ago, I’m 73 now, and I’d like to start dating again. Any advice?”