Our first conversation
I don’t remember the exact details of how we connected, only that it was through a dating site. What I do remember clearly is how quickly it moved once we exchanged phone numbers. There was very little texting—just one phone call that lasted four or five hours. I remember feeling an instant pull toward him, a sense of familiarity that felt rare and disarming. He told me he felt it too. We talked about everything and nothing, bouncing between deep, intimate disclosures and light, meaningless chatter, as if we had known each other far longer than we had.
He presented himself as kind, gentle, and emotionally aware. He spoke softly, thoughtfully. He told me he had been married for nearly twenty years and that his wife was a former police officer from Pismo Beach. He described a marriage that had slowly eroded under constant criticism. He said she was often cruel to him, especially in public, and that she humiliated him privately by telling him he was inadequate in the bedroom. He shared how deeply those words had affected him—how ashamed and self-conscious he became, to the point that he went to a urologist to see if something was medically wrong with him.
At the time, I took this as proof of vulnerability. I believed it showed accountability, self-reflection, and a willingness to confront uncomfortable truths. I admired what I thought was emotional courage. He spoke about the work he had done to heal, about becoming a better man, about growth that came from pain. I believed him because I wanted to believe him, and because nothing in that moment felt false.
What I didn’t understand then was how carefully curated that story was. How quickly intimacy was being built on his terms. How his openness centered him as wounded, self-aware, and safe—while quietly positioning me as the one who would see him, validate him, and finally treat him right. At the time, it felt like connection. In hindsight, it was the first warning sign.
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