Years before dating apps became popular, when online matchmaking was still a novelty, I found myself cautiously exploring Match.com. The concept was new to me, and I had reservations about the potential dangers involved. I would log in once a week, making feeble attempts to escape my lonely single life without actually diving into the world of dating.
One day, I started talking to a guy who caught my interest, albeit purely on a physical level. His profile pictures reminded me of Jeremy Piven, a celebrity I had been crushing on for years. If it weren't for this resemblance, I would have never engaged in messaging him or getting involved with him.
When we finally met in person, I quickly realized that things wouldn't go well. He looked nothing like my celebrity crush. Instead, he resembled the character from "The Diary of a Wimpy Kid" series—skinny, with poofy and receding hair, and a timid demeanor. He had catfished me, and he showed no interest in acknowledging it.
His first tactic was to drown me in alcohol. We met at a restaurant and began with a round of cocktails. He insisted on multiple shots between our first and second rounds, which arrived almost simultaneously because we drank them so quickly. There was no bread or appetizers to accompany the drinks, leaving my stomach to handle the alcohol on its own.
By the time our entrees arrived, a pair of Manhattans appeared on the table. We had already consumed six or seven drinks, far more than I was accustomed to. I reached a point where I insisted on going home. He eagerly agreed, and little did I know that this decision would turn out to be a huge mistake.
He parked in front of my duplex but kept the doors locked. It became apparent that he assumed we would have sex in the car before I stumbled my drunk self inside. In my plastered and unbelieving state, all I could do was laugh. We were about to engage in a drunken encounter on the street, like a couple of high schoolers. It was then that I realized he was a genuine loser. The entire experience, from beginning to end, had been a ploy to sleep with me. This was the perplexing world of online dating in the days of Match.com.
My initial interest in him had been based on his perceived good looks, but using a dating service purely for a hookup was beyond my comprehension. It seemed like an unnecessarily convoluted way to score a casual encounter. He didn't seem to understand that, and I had to firmly reject his advances in the back seat. It was a resounding no.
Following this, he became increasingly hostile and berated me relentlessly. He picked apart every flaw in my appearance, magnifying each one. He made me feel like the ugliest woman he had ever seen. It didn't stop at physical appearance; he attacked every aspect of myself that I had shared on my profile and during dinner. Suddenly, everything I had disclosed became ammunition against me. He brought me to tears, and his satisfaction was evident.
The next morning, I discovered flowers on my back porch, accompanied by an apology note. The signature confirmed it was from him. I was stunned. What kind of deranged individual would assault me in the driveway and then leave me a present, as if we had a history together? I felt numb, imagining him lurking around my house, peering through the windows, waiting for me to wake up. This continued for two months, with apology gifts appearing outside my back door at least once a week.
I confided in a few close friends and family members, and they all gave me the same advice: involve the police immediately. But the humiliation from being catfished prevented me from taking that step. I couldn't bear explaining to authorities how I ended up in this situation—almost blackout drunk in the passenger seat of his pathetic sports car. So, I got creative.
I retrieved my old Polaroid camera from the closet and placed it on my pillow. Next to it, I positioned my .380 North American Guardian pistol. I adjusted the eyepiece and snapped a picture as evidence for my stalker friend. On the bottom place card, I wrote, "I'll use this next time you come by." I sealed the Polaroid in an envelope and left it on the back porch.
It took a couple of days, but one morning, the envelope was gone. He never returned after that. Years later, I unexpectedly encountered him at a restaurant near the place where he had taken me. He looked alone, balding, and like a shadow of his former self. I was with my new husband, who had heard several stories about this guy. My husband stared him down until he paid his tab and left the bar entirely.
This story was a reminder of the risks and vulnerabilities that existed in the early days of online dating, where various websites were used to connect with complete strangers.