A fellow more jarring than most

When I was a kid in Key Largo, I used to try to catch an octopus under the pier in a jar. But even if I managed to get it in the jar, the slippery bugger would always manage to ooze out the top before I could slap the lid on, its tentacles stretching to seemingly impossible lengths until it plopped back into the ocean and made its getaway in a cloud of black ink.

On a recent date, I was reminded of my youthful struggles to contain octopuses.

The fellow was a tall, dark, handsome, twentysomething, somewhat successful actor. He was a friend of a friend, which means he was prescreened. And I’d met him at a party, which means he had been socialized to interact with other humans. So far, it all seemed good.

We went to a movie, which was uneventful until the end, when one of the characters made a quip about how journalists are bad in bed, at which point the actor gave me a sly look out of the corner of his eye and smirked. I ignored him.

After the movie we went out for drinks. He ordered a grasshopper. Now, I have said before that I don’t like dating older men. However, I also do not like dating teenagers. I do not think James Bond would order a grasshopper. Mr. Darcy surely would not order a grasshopper. The bar was unable to accommodate his request for a sweet cocktail of pale green hue, so “the Kid” had a couple of beers instead.

He drove me home, and I asked him if he’d like to come in for a quick tour of my house. What I meant by that was, would he like to come in for a quick tour of my house. He accepted. Tour quickly over, I was attempting to shuffle him toward the front door when he asked if I had any beer. Never fast with a self-preserving lie, I blurted out the truth: “Yes.”

He polished off one and asked for another. The next thing I knew, he had squeezed closer to me on the couch than scales on a fish and was kissing my neck. The next thing I knew, he had sprouted tentacles. His hands were everywhere.

“What are you doing?!” I asked, and could not help bursting out laughing at his audacity. I’ve found that a good guffaw usually discourages unwanted advances. It did not work in this case; I had to switch to brute strength. It was like the guy was an octopus and I was trying to cram his eight slimy arms into a jar. As soon as I got one under control, another stretched out and landed somewhere else on my person.

“I’m a passionate guy,” he told me.

“Yes, I realize that,” I said.

A note of hysteria crept into my laugh. “Is this what is done on first dates among your generation these days?” I asked him. Ha, ha, ha, ha. “Are you kidding? People my age have sex on the Internet on the first date!” he said. What could I say to that other than, “Huh!”

I finally managed to wrestle the guy off me, come up with a lie (“Er, I’ve got to get up early!”), open the front door and fling him through it.

“We’ll have to do this again sometime!” he said.

I’ll call him after I find a really big jar. And a harpoon.

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Samantha Bonar can be reached at [email protected].