...Continued --The Class Act

The Class Act. "Hey, Pretty, call me back. I can’t wait to hear from you,” his soft, sweet yet masculine voice resounded on my voicemail. He was my middle school crush whom I had run into 14 years later.

My middle school crush was better known as a “lady’s man.” You know this kind of male – the lion in the jungle who loves to hear himself roar, see how many females he can pounce upon, and after, gloat in victory while stroking his mane.

But I thought I’d give him a chance. After all, he knew the kind of girl I was, so maybe he had changed.

 

As he walked up, my mind went back to him playing football in high school. His towering physique loomed over the dinner table, and I instantly remembered why everyone liked him so – his charm was far greater than his looks.

I was intrigued. Why was he interested in reconnecting with me? Had he really changed?

 

To my surprise, he was humble and honest. He recounted the past few years and made it clear he was a more serious person now, exhausted with the bachelor life. I believed him. He opened the door, paid for dinner, and guided me up the stairs with a gentle touch, making sure I didn't stumble in the darkened stairway.

We went on a few dates, and he wanted to see only me. I had reservations in my gut but didn’t know why. Or maybe I did.

 

Maybe it was the time I was recovering from a week-long sickness of strep throat and was invited to a relaxing day at the pool -- or so I thought. “ I could use some some sun. Maybe it will make me feel better, “ I told him as I rummaged through my clothes searching for my swimsuit.

I arrived on the scene. Entering the pool gate, I saw a sea of people, at least a hundred. The loud music made my head hurt as I searched for him among the crowd. There was not a chair to sit in. At first glance, the girls were pretty, until you saw the beer can in hand and belly hanging over the bikini. The guys looked like guidos from Jersey Shore as they bumped the beach ball in the pool. “Was I a part of a taping for MTV?” I thought.

I stayed no longer than 45 minutes, and he agreed to leave with me. Apparently, this was an every-weekend occurrence during the summer months.

As weeks passed on, I met his friends. There was always an excuse to “go out.”

It seemed that every time people saw us out together, I was warned -- and not always by close friends. On several occasions, they were people I had never met, including the anonymous texter, once while Mr. Charming was on a beach trip with all females (granted, he had planned it before me.)

The texts recalled his Excel spreadsheet of hundreds of women he had slept with and the list of his future prey. After being creeped out, I still took it with a grain of salt. Unless the texter came forward, I wouldn’t take it seriously.

After these texts, however, little things began to annoy me, including the reoccurrence of his shirtless body. Whenever we entered his house or went to a friend’s house, the shirt came off. And a time or two in public.  But the best outfit was yet to come.

His birthday weekend was coming up, or rather his “birthweek” as he called it. The Saturday arrived and all his friends gathered at their favorite pub starting at noon. I refused to come at noon. I arrived at 4:00, unfortunately, four hours after the drinking had begun.

And there he was… not shirtless this time, although that would have been better, but with a “peewee” football shirt tight around his body which hung as a belly shirt. I was mortified. I was dating a cave man.

They drank and drank and ended the night with karaoke. The images of him booty dancing on some random girl and falling out of his chair feet up as he leaned over to whisper something are still etched in my mind.

I dropped him off at his house, and I went home. The next morning, I received a call. He was confused and remembered nothing from the night. “Come eat breakfast with us. It’s Sunday Funday,” I gave in. After hours of sitting in the front lawn with his friends still drunk and continuing to drink the day away, I knew I had to leave. I was too old for Sunday Funday.

“I have to be productive, “ I told Mr. Charming. That was the last time I saw him. A few weeks later, he sent me a video of him on his knees drinking a Smirnoff Ice. The message read: “Look what you’re missing out on.”

I replied, “Classy.”