So, we left off with a ridiculous exchange between myself and ADAT over the phone. The next day I received a text message from him apologizing for the conversation...
ADAT: I hope I didn't make you uncomfortable last night. I was just trying to be playful.
Me: Yeah, didn't really know how to react to some of that. A little insecure about my shape to tell the truth. Plenty of guys just interested in that.
ADAT: I didn't want to rush you. I promise I'm a chill, fun guy but agree we shouldn't get ahead of ourselves in the intimacy dept before we meet.
ADAT: Having said that I did like hearing what you had to say :)...
ADAT: Of course. I can be a bad boy but I have a good heart...
Me: Well keep the bad boy in check and we'll go from there.
I agreed to go out with him.
We had another phone conversation, during which he apologized profusely - making me feel better about our pending date.
ADAT lives on the opposite side and end of Manhattan from me, so we decided to meet in midtown and watch the Yankee/Angels game (boo Yankees).
Before our date, I got a few more inappropriate texts (How about some plunging cleavage to soften the blow of you taunting my beloved Yankees? for example).
I met up with him anyway and the date was going well - comfortable if not a little quiet. No mention of boobs or anything awkward. We moved from one bar to another (ADAT doesn't drink, so please keep that in mind as the story continues) and scored a booth to continue watching the game.
A quick glance and I saw he looked at my boobs - I was wearing a v-neck t-shirt from Gap, not exactly the sexiest top on Earth.
Real short disclaimer here: I completely understand boys look at boobs. It's in their nature. Got it. No biggie. It becomes an "issue" when a girl feels like the guy is a deer in headlights and seems to forget there is a head located slightly above the area of interest and then comments on her chest. I have plenty of guy friends who manage to make fairly consistent eye contact.
"Well, I have to say I like the neckline of your t-shirt," he said with what I think was supposed to be a come-hither grin. "Sexy."
I smiled awkwardly. "Thanks."
The game ended and we decided we'd go to another bar. He suggested cutting over to 10th Ave from 9th and held my hand. We were walking down 53rd and he stopped, turned me around and kissed me. And whimpered.
It was literally 3 seconds before his hands were on my chest. More girly whimpering that made me even more uncomfortable than his hands on me.
I laughed. I honestly thought he was kidding. He misinterpreted my laugh as a giggle and proceeded. I pulled away a little.
He kissed me again - hands on my back. I thought I was safe...until he itsy-bitsy-spidered them UP my back and tried to UNHOOK MY BRA...ON 53rd STREET.
I really pulled away and said, "Um, that is not going to happen."
"No?" he cooed. Yeah, I used the word "coo" - because that is what this weirdo did. He whimpered and cooed.
"Hmm ok." Coo, coo, whimper, whimper.
He kissed me and whinnied again. Then he stuck his hand down the front of my shirt. That's right. Down. The front. Of my shirt.
I pulled away. His hand remained.
It was stuck in my cleavage. Like an animal in a trap.