I met Hunter, a well-traveled corporate attorney and former college athlete, on Match.com. Hunter and I quickly bonded over our affinity for salsa dancing and obsession with breakfast tacos. So as far as I was concerned, this was shaping up to be a match made in heaven.
Hunter and I decided it would make perfect sense to meet at his favorite upscale Mexican joint (yes, that is a thing in New York City) and nourish ourselves in the delicious culinary invention that is the taco.
When the evening approached I donned myself in my new dress, courtesy of White House Black Market, and was looking rather sensuous yet sophisticated at the same time (if I do say so myself).
Hunter was patiently waiting for me already seated at a table for two and I was relieved to see that he was equally as attractive in the flesh as in his photos.
After exchanging the ubiquitous pleasantries Hunter clearly thought it appropriate to get a little
more too personal.
“So I really love your physique. Couldn’t stop looking at your pictures. Very beautiful,” he said suggestively.
I sheepishly thanked him for the peculiar compliment which was followed by an awkward silence.
“So are they real? I’m sorry if thats forward but I absolutely have to know,” he asked eagerly.
Appalled, I answered, “Wow, not that it is any of your business, but yes.”
“How big are they? I’m guessing they have to be at least a D cup. Sorry, I am the epitome of a boob guy. I will drop the conversation after this.”
“Ok this is just creepy. How do you actually have the nerve to ask me these things? This is not normal. Let’s grab the check, I am meeting friends for drinks after this.”
I quickly devoured the rest of my delicious tacos on my plate and was out the door by the time he received the bill.
Hunter clearly had no shame even the following morning.