The Tranquil Vintessa

Dating in your 30s is a different field. Some people are divorced with 15 kids, others are just vibing, and some don’t seem to be looking at all. I somehow found myself in the latter category. I’m looking, but not seriously. My ideal relationship is Oprah and Stedman—I don’t want kids, I just want a beautiful life with someone I genuinely like. So I’m not in a rush or desperate; I’m just browsing.

The past few weeks, though, I’d been in such a mood. Restless in my home, wanting someone to talk to and curl up with. While swiping, I came across a guy who kind of looked like 2010 Travie McCoy—my old celebrity crush. We talked for a bit, and eventually I gave him my number. “Why not?” I thought. Soon I would learn exactly why not.

We set up a meeting at the science museum downtown. I was outside admiring a small flower bed when I saw him. And he was not Travie McCoy. At 6’2”, husky, in jogging shorts and an oversized T-shirt, holding a tea, he walked up. I was slightly disappointed, but figured I was already there. We hugged hello, and as he spoke I caught a strong whiff of cigarette smoke. That was it—I knew this wouldn’t go anywhere. That’s just not something I want on my lips, and this was supposed to be fun, after all.

Inside the museum, I was already uneasy. Not just because of the kids running around everywhere, but because something was off. The phone chemistry wasn’t there. I told myself I could still enjoy the exhibits—until he started talking. Every other word was profanity. When I politely told him that kind of language made me uncomfortable, he doubled down: “Fuck it, I’m going to say that shit was fucking r—.” I debated leaving then and there, but for some reason I stayed.

I tried to ease up and enjoy myself, but every time I wanted to read an exhibit, he cut in with another business idea. At one point, while rambling about his podcast plans, he asked me, “At what point do you deem sentient beings worthy of respect?” I told him I treat all things with respect. I think he meant when do you consider something human, but it just came off unempathic.

Eventually, he suggested going to a food hall before work. There’s an amazing sushi spot there, so I agreed. We sat at the bar, and that’s when the real red flags started to fly:

• Stabbed 32 times while he was “just talking” to a group of guys.
• In jail three times, the first for assaulting his mom because he was using her shower without permission.
• Three kids with three different women.
• Moved six hours away from those kids, and when he does see them, it’s at his mom’s house.

Needless to say, I was not interested.

We’d been drinking, and it was time for him to leave for work. I was slightly tipsy, gliding through the streets, trying to come up with an exit plan since he insisted on walking me to my car. That’s when his true intentions surfaced—he wanted a ride to work.

I told him no. At first, simply no. He went on about how close the job was and tried asking more nicely. I refused again—this was about safety. I told him the last time I drove a guy home, he tried to snatch me out of my car. At that, he became irate. He said what pissed him off wasn’t that I’d been attacked, but that “one guy ruins it for everyone.” He added, “It’s not like I can do anything—you’ve got mace on your key ring.” Then he sternly said, “Don’t make me pay for other people’s sins.” (Right, because it’s not like he’d come off dangerous at all.)

When we reached the corner near my car, luckily other cars were parked around it so he couldn’t tell which was mine. He suggested we meet up again and commented on how “strong” I was. But looking at him, I could see his eyes were cold and black. It wasn’t a compliment—he was sizing me up. With one final hug, he told me to unlock my car so he could see which one was mine. I did no such thing. I lingered between cars until he was out of sight, then quickly hopped in and drove off.

I was relieved it was over—but I wasn’t out of the woods yet.

He called me later that night, gushing. For some reason, I answered. Honestly, it’s a tactic I’ve learned to avoid conflict with people prone to violence—play along until you can safely cut them off. The next day he texted, and when I didn’t reply, he called. I denied the call, then blocked and unmatched.

Looking back, I sometimes get sad about how poorly I’ve been treated by men. But through those experiences, I learned to see the darkness that lies within some of them—and how to avoid escalating dangerous situations. More importantly, they gave me confidence and self-love. I no longer justify, excuse, or assume that everyone grows from their hardships. The truth is, most don’t. And some are dangerous.

I’m just grateful that my $10 pepper spray (like this one) kept me safe that day. Who knows how that would have gone otherwise.