Neanderthal Man

We live in a day and age, where enlightenment exists around nearly every experience for those interested in seeking it.  Yet, the primal still exists within us. 

“All men are beasts, Buffy.”

“Okay, I was hoping to not get that cynical ‘til I was at least forty.”

“It’s not cynical.  I mean, it’s realistic.  Every guy from Manimal down to Mr. I-Love-the-English-Patient has beast in him.  And I don’t care how sensitive they act.  They’re all still just in it for the chase.”**

I am forty and I don’t think it’s cynical.  People who are secure in themselves can embrace both their advanced consciousness and their sexuality.  However, the existence of primal biological drivers within us does not excuse acting badly.

Let me set this up for you.

Mr. Neanderthal responded to my profile, disguised as a moderately mannered man’s man.  He reminded me of my father, a similarity about which I wasn’t sure how I felt.  

How so?  First, he and my father were both avid outdoorsmen.  His pictures were poses like being dressed in camo outside of a deer blind and on the back of a boat holding the day’s catch.  Second, and more problematically, the only woman about whom he spoke – his brother’s wife – he seemed to regard as the quintessential “little woman” – whether she really was or not.  He would talk about how the men would go off and do “things” while she stayed home with the baby, repeatedly.

Why would I further a conversation with such a man?  Well, despite the too-close-to-home similarities he had positive qualities.  He was well-educated.  He could hold a conversation, just not about anything that required emotional intelligence.  He was a successful professional with a career in marketing.  He was handsome.  He was looking for companionship.  I knew that this was not a man I could ever consider for a long-term relationship, but I wasn’t set on only dating someone if I could see long-term possibilities.  I wanted to enjoy dating. 

Our first date was a lunch meeting at a French bistro on the east side.  When I arrive, he stands to greet me and I can see that his photos have not exaggerated his sculpted physique.  He’s over six feet tall, and well-muscled with chiseled, but not hard, facial features.  His jeans curve nicely around his muscular tush. 

Lunch is delightful.  The conversation is light.  When it’s time for me to head back to the office he holds the door for me and walks me to my car.  Once there, he approaches it like he might open the door for me, but then changes direction and walks around to the passenger side. 

“What are you doing?” I ask in my surprise.

“Drive me to my car.” 

I consider him a moment, but decide that he’s not imposing or seemingly threatening.  He’s been enjoyable-enough company thus far, so I unlock the doors and start the car.  He tells me to drive around the block. 

“Pull over.”

“What?”  Again, I’m surprised.

“Pull over.  There.”  He points to an open space on the curb next to a field, but across the street from several houses where people are working on the lawn.  I turn to look at him and his face presses into mine.  He firmly runs his hand up my leg and I stop him, before he gets any further.  I’m not certain I want to make out with him, and certainly not with an audience. 

He pulls back and I resume driving.  He points and I stop; he says he’ll be in touch and gets out of the car.

We have a few more light dates – a happy hour after work here, a late dinner during the week there.  Each time, he’s well-mannered.  He’s courteous.  He kisses me adamantly, but doesn’t attempt more intimate contact.  He messages me between dates, and initiates meeting.  My initial assessment of him sticks, but aside from the low emotional IQ and difficulty relating to women, he possesses all of the attributes that most women look for in a mate.  He seems a possible candidate for on-going intimate liaisons.

I decide to invite him over for dinner and see where things lead. 

Our dinner date occurs in the midst of some apocalyptic cricket plague – the things are everywhere.   I answer the door and one of them gets in the house.  I try to shoo it, but miss.  “Let me,” he says confidently. 

I’m not up on chair screaming to be saved from the vicious creature or anything, but I recognize his chivalry.  I push the door to the frame and wait.

He squats low and begins hopping from side-to-side, bracketing his cornered quarry.  He stoops over and lets his long arms hang down between his bent legs.  He scuttles sideways and manages to close his hands around the intruder.  He straightens and struts toward the door, chin raised in triumph.

Just as a victor turns to claim his spoils, he transforms into some Neanderthal version of himself and reaches for me as soon as I close the door.  He encases me firmly in his grasp and somehow at the same time puts his hands all over me.  I wonder at how he’s achieving this without having grown more arms.  He crushes my face with his and kisses me hard.  I’m so taken aback that I freeze.  As I’m physically reeling I realize that he’s standing before me with his legs spread, lowered into a wide squat, just the way a basketball player gets low to the ground to cover more of the court.  He’s squatting enough to shorten himself to my height.  He smash-kisses me again and it registers that he’s pulsing up and down.

He’s hard.  He’s ready for sex.  I attempt to step back and slow his victorious claiming by initiating a conversation about sexual expectations.  The word ‘condom’ comes out of my mouth in a sentence and, apparently, he takes it as a cue that I’m ready for more.  He wraps his arms around my waist and straightens from the squat, lifting me off of my feet.

I wonder if this is how Jane felt when Tarzan threw her over his shoulder and went vine-swinging through the jungle. 

He walks toward the couch with me, deposits me there, and in some deft motion manages to magically remove much of his clothing.  He perches next to me and gropes at a breast while he exposes his erection.  I’m honestly in shock.  I’m not attempting to touch him.  I don’t feel threatened, just stunned and completely not ready for sex in response to the total lack of foreplay.        

After a hot minute, he ejaculates.  “OH!” I exclaim in surprise.  He stands, goes and cleans himself, and comes back in the final stage of buttoning his shirt and being re-dressed.  I, of course, am still sitting there disheveled.  I’m trying to rectify my hopeful expectations for the evening with what’s just happened. 

I think, ‘Okay.  Okay, well that happens sometimes.’  Some men ejaculate prematurely.  I think back to something my marriage counselor said about men who have sexual issues needing to masturbate and recover themselves before they can have sex with their partner.  Somewhere in my shock my reeling mind is clinging to the hope that there could still be something here.  “Maybe the evening is just getting started,” I ridiculously think.

He’s all set and ready to go, and he’s not the least bit abashed. We haven’t even had a glass of wine yet, much less any of the food I’ve made.  You might think he’s embarrassed.  Maybe he is.  If he is, though, he’s damn good at hiding it.  He seems happily smug, like he’s thinking, ‘I got mine, so all has gone perfectly according to plan.’ 

I’ve had enough time to compose myself so I stand.  “I’m going to open the wine.  Would you like some?”  I say, being ever the gracious hostess.

He follows me to the kitchen, surprised.  “No, I think I’m going to go.” 

I stare at him.  I get the corkscrew on the bottle, but it sticks. 

“You’re leaving?”  I ask, as, in gentlemanly fashion, he takes the wine bottle out of my hands and pulls the cork out for me.  “Just leaving?”

“Well, yeah.  I’ve got kind of an early morning tomorrow anyway.”  He looks at the expression on my face.  “Are you mad?”

“Uh, yeah.  Kinda.”  I manage to answer.

He’s perplexed.  He’s utterly perplexed. 

“Okay, well, I’ll see you next time.”  He says.  He hugs me, even though I don’t embrace back, and leaves. 

Ummm.  Am I mad?  Yeah.  I’ve invited you over and gone to some trouble to have a nice evening set up.  You’ve come over, immediately turned into a Neanderthal octopus, and gotten yours without any care at all for whether there is anything for me.  Then, you’ve refused the rest of my hospitality and left.  Of course, I’m mad. 

Was it just the thrill of the chase?  Was he just intending to use me?  Did he just need an excuse to do squats?  He seems an unpleasantly puzzling enigma. 

He has the audacity to ask me out again, nonchalantly. As think about him, I have an epiphany, after which I regard him with no harsh judgement.  This man is desirable in numerous ways, but I actually feel bad for him.  He’s in his thirties and he doesn’t know the first thing about women.  From very capable professional to Neanderthal cricket hunter, he has no ability to relate to a woman – emotionally, or physically.

I gently toss him back into the sea and decide to cast my line for a more emotionally cognizant Manimal.  Then I set a timer to do my own squats.  After all, they DO lead to a nicely sculpted tush…

** Quote from Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Season 3, Episode 4