That time I went out with a sex offender

I knew this guy, we’ll call him Leslie. I worked with Leslie and for some reason he took me on as sort of a little sister, maybe because he was a bit older, maybe because I give off a sort of juvenile vibe.

Leslie said he knew a really nice guy who he wanted to fix me up with. I said yes. Why, I have no idea. There are two constants in dating, the first being never go home with a guy who tempts you with pot and the second is never take unsolicited set ups. Normal people meet in grocery stores and bars and other public places, set ups tend to be the bastions of the afflicted, physically or otherwise.

The guy, let’s call him Phil, showed up at my place of work in a print shirt. He was bald, by choice not genetics, and he had pretty, doe like eyes that he batted at me after removing his sunglasses. He was very sweet tempered and concerned that I felt comfortable with him, which I took as a good sign. We made plans to meet at a vegan coffee shop, also a sign that this guy was no panther, unlike the kinds I usually dated, guys who huffed gasoline for fun and bashed bottles over each other’s heads as a form of greeting.

After Phil left I found Leslie to give him the good news. “He’s cute,” I said, referring to Phil.

“He’s a nice guy, too.”

“Yeah, he seemed really sweet.

“Did he tell you his problem?” he asked. Immediately I was on the offensive. ‘Problem’ could be anything from a club foot to ball rash. A prosthetic leg or scores of unclaimed kids. I narrowed my eyes at him.

“He didn’t mention any problems, Les.”

“Look, it’s just a legal thing, no big deal.”

“Well, what is it?”

“He should tell you. It’s not bad, but I think he should tell you.”

Maybe this should have set off alarms, but it didn’t. Honestly, I figured it was drugs or maybe a DUI. You couldn’t throw a rock in this city without hitting a functional alcoholic or casual drug user.

On the night of the date I went to the coffee shop clad in my best band t-shirt and found Phil at a table. He looked up from the free newspaper and smiled.

“Hey stranger,” he said as I took a seat across from him. He was in the same print shirt he wore previously but had dispatched with the sunglasses. His eyes were really his best feature. They would not have looked out of place on a young girl, yet here they were staring from out of his ruddy, masculine face.

He was a perfect gentleman. After carrying on a wholesome, entertaining conversation for most of the evening I asked him, out of curiosity, about what Leslie alluded to at work. He sighed, blowing out hard, causing the candle on the table to flicker.

“He said I should probably tell you. I guess I should tell you. OK. My girlfriend, well ex, obviously, ex girlfriend, she had a younger sister. She was a good kid, you know, but troubled, she was always in trouble. She lived with us.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I tried to be, like, a role model for her–”

“How old was she?”

“14, I think. Maybe 13.” Oh lord, I thought to myself. “Anyway, we were home one night, just me and her. She comes into my room, acting really weird. I told her to go fuck off because of how strange she was acting. Well, the next day I wake up and the cops were outside my house. She told my girlfriend I raped her.”

I leaned over the table towards him. “Sorry?”

“Oh, it’s total bullshit. It’s just a trumped up charge. They put me in jail a few months…”

“But you said you didn’t do anything.”

“You know how that goes,” he said, rolling his eyes, way too unconcerned that someone somewhere thought he raped a 13 year old.

Not that I don’t think it’s possible for girls of whatever age to lie about this sort of thing. I’ve seen it happen first hand, I’ve witnessed the outcome of such shenanigans. But this guy was way to blasé about it. It was like he was telling me what he had for lunch that day. Suddenly he didn’t seem so harmless. The bald head was probably to prevent girls from grabbing onto his hair, the light eyes used to disarm and dismay, the print shirt made him look nonthreatening.

I cringed through the rest of the date, all the while thinking to myself, ‘this dude fucking raped someone!’ and ‘I could probably take him.’ I wasn’t afraid exactly, just sort of disgusted, with him, with myself, with Leslie for sending me like a lamb to its slaughter. When we parted I was grateful we never exchanged numbers. I think he knew he wouldn’t be seeing me again. He insisted I take his CD. I did just to appease him and tossed it as soon as I could. At work the next day I walked right up to Leslie.

“You fuck stain, you set me up with a rapist.”

“He said he didn’t do it.”

“You ever do any time Les? ‘I didn’t do it’ is almost as overheard as ‘don’t drop the soap’.”

“Well, I believe him.”

“Good, you can fuck him then, I like my sex consensual.”

“Come on, you really think he did it?”

Looking back, I don’t know. I can’t say. However, that bit of baggage is meant for some other girl carry. I’ll like my men morally flexible, not criminally insane.