Don Juan and the Feast with Broccoli

After we’d been dating for six months, the first person I met online informed me that he wasn’t looking for a relationship. 

When I pointed out that his profile was, indeed, seeking a long-term relationship, he laughed at my naiveté. 

He had to say he wanted a LTR, he explained.  Otherwise, he would get hit on by women looking for hook-ups. 

Right.

I hadn’t learned the complex rules and subtle—or overt–signs of what someone was looking for when I messaged another guy, Don Juan, a sexy yoga/mindfulness educator with a tall, strong frame and abdominal muscles that could, and did, cause wet dreams.  Still a novice to the game, I did not yet realize that anyone who flashes a body like his online is not concerned with developing a relationship.  Nope; he is looking for someone to enjoy the hot body he’s displaying; he aims to get laid.

As I said, I did not know this.

A few text exchanges seemed to confirm that we were compatible, so, after comparing excited notes with a friend who had likewise noticed Don Juan’s six-pack and was also flirting with him online, I agreed to meet Don Juan for dinner. 

I was to drive over to his house, from whence we would venture to the noodle shop.

As I pulled out of my garage, my cell bleeped, “bring broccoli.”

Off went the none-too-prescient alarm in my head. 

I’d never taken broccoli to dinner.

I sent an SOS to my online dating safety squad. 

“We were supposed to be going to a restaurant.  Now, we’re eating in.  I don’t know this guy.  I’ve never met him.  I’m not interested in being a statistic, and, if I were, even I would skip my funeral, saying, ‘what an idiot—what was she doing going to a stranger’s house?’  What should I do?”

Turn around and go home, said one.

Call us as soon as you get there, said the friend who had also “matched” with sexy Don Juan and may have had reconnaissance-related motives.  Text us his vitals—full name, address, phone number, and a picture of his driver’s license; make it clear that your friends are checking in on you. 

It goes without saying, all agreed:  don’t drink alcohol, and don’t do anything stupid.

Which last instruction apparently didn’t encompass not going to a stranger’s house in the first place, as, despite all misgivings, my hybrid continued toward his home, making a detour to Safeway.

Oh, it is a game, all right.  A sport with no codified rules, each person making it up for him/herself, with opportunities for smooth skating as well as banged up shins, or worse.

He messaged, “text me when you get here.”

I did. 

He came to meet me at my car and walk me in, which was gentlemanly and sweet. 

He was very, very handsome.  About my height, with broad shoulders, long arms, and elegant long and strong-fingered hands.

I like large, strong hands.

Those hands got busy making dinner—wild caught salmon, kale salad, brown rice, and “Apple Jack” made in his juicer with organic Granny Smith apples and Jack Daniels. 

Not to stereotype, but none of this–with the possible exception of the Jack Daniels–seemed the repast of a would-be murderer.  

Nonetheless, I heeded my friends’ advice, calling them within his earshot and telling them that I would check in again.   Don Juan played along by miming a crazed abductor as he leaned into my cell so I could send his photo to my posse. 

Pretending to be a crazy man in a fake mugshot seemed a poor career move for a would-be assailant, I noted.

While Don Juan seasoned the salmon and broccoli with organic herbs he kept in magnetized canisters on his fridge (would a murderer follow Martha Stewart?), I sipped my tasty Apple Jack and leafed through the stack of books on the table, texts about meditation, mindfulness, yoga, the peaceful warrior. 

He told me about his workshops for at-risk college students, which paralleled some of my own work. 

He told me about his studies at an Ivy League university that my daughters want to attend, and about his training with yogis in Japan and India. 

We ate the tasty organic meal he had prepared.

And then, after dinner, but of course, he invited me to lie down on his futon. 

He told me that my shoulders and back were tight, so he did a stretching thing that had me in a “Z” as he used his body to push my thigh crossways to my chest and my head and neck in the opposition direction.

From my position with my head pressed to the right, I read the aphorisms written in chalk paint on the wall.  “Arise at 4:30 am for clarity of mind,” and “Don’t think; just be.”

Then he reversed the Z so my head was to the left, my thigh to the right. 

“You cannot stop the waves, but you can learn to surf,“ I read.

My back and shoulders sufficiently stretched, he straddled me to massage my chakras, located conveniently adjacent to the lymph nodes in the neck, armpit, and . . . groin.

By this point, my head and body were engaged in a very serious discussion. 

My brain was intrigued; it admired his dedication to his mission(s), his research and ideas.

My body was fully on board.  What the heck? It said.  This is going to be good.  He’s hot, you really like him, and he sure as hell knows what he’s doing.

The reflective part of my brain, however, was apoplectic.  What are you doing?  it yelled.  You know yourself; you’re going to get attached if you have sex, and this guy wants nothing to do with attachment.  Plus, he’s probably a petri dish for every STD known to woman or man.

And this is where the rules of the game come into play.  If he had gone slowly, if he had been more circumspect, I might have over-ruled the hose-head in my head and let him lead me onto the ice, thin though it may have been.

Instead, his kiss moved fast, which reminded me that I didn’t really know him, which to me seems kind of important before taking off my clothes anywhere other than in a doctor’s office.

I rolled away, struggling un-yogi-like to my feet from the futon on the floor. 

I like you and would like to get to know you better, I said, but I’m leaving before it gets any hotter in here. 

He lay on his back whimpering like a betrayed puppy dog.

You can’t leave, he whined.  You’ll give me blue balls.

Just like that, his utter boyshit disrupted my trance. 

I’m sure those beautiful hands of yours can take care of that problem, I suggested, skating, unscathed, out the door.

Which is not to say that I stopped being intrigued by Don Juan, immature importuner or not.  He was attractive, physically and intellectually.  Dangerous, for sure, given our incompatible goals, but compelling nonetheless.  Probably part of me was attracted to the challenge of the unattainable.  

In any case, we made tentative plans to get together a few nights later. 

Fate intervened:  I missed his message while I was at the gym. 

It’s too late now, he said when I called.  I get up early to meditate. 

Around midnight the same night I heard from the friend who had also “matched” with Don Juan. 

“You’ll never guess whom I’m sexting with,” she texted.

Don Juan must have been having trouble sleeping.

A week or so later, the same friend called with more news.  Her Swedish dog walker had hooked up with a hot guy online, a certain mindfulness instructor. 

While my friend and I had hesitated at the threshold, the dog walker reported that sex with amorous Don Juan was all that one might imagine, given his dedication to the cause.  She was enjoying herself.

Alas, I am not a liberated Scandinavian, but a cautious, maybe prudish, American.

Also, if Don Juan were more or less successfully seducing three women within my immediate circle of acquaintances, what percentage of the female Bay Area was he feeding salmon?

I called another friend to discuss the case of the horny yogi.

He’s a yoga slut! my friend, also a mindfulness/yoga instructor, exclaimed.

A what? I asked.

A guy who uses his yogi-status to seduce women.

Back to the swipestack I went, unbruised and a little wiser, continuing the search for my centerman.