There’s nothing wrong with being a trust fund baby. Let’s face it, I don’t know anyone who wouldn’t want to be born shitting into golden diapers or receive a diamond-studded tricycle at age three. Big bucks in the bank, jet-setting on a whim, anywhere, anytime, fancy restaurants and couture – the prospect of it all rouses complete and utter awe.

So when I found out the dude was Trump-rich, naturally, I was ecstatic. We spoke on the phone after a series of email banters back and forth and penciled in a Saturday night date. This typically goes against my strict strategy of making someone worthy of a “Saturday” only after they’ve proved themselves previously on a lesser important night of the week. But remembering his financial godliness, I figured at the very least, I’d have a nice night out.

We met at a hoity-toity resto where he was about to pay for a pricey meal that included everything one would expect from foie gras to crème brulee, not to a mention a hefty-priced bottle of vino.

The conversation flowed with relative ease right from the start which was a relief. First, we covered the basics, like where we both went to school, places we’ve traveled and whatnot. All the boring but expected stuff.

Over the appetizer cheese plate we got all the essentials out of the way. Yet, we still managed to find things to talk about during the main course albeit, nothing out of the ordinary interesting. General news of the day just to show we’re both in the know of what’s going on in the world.

Everything seemed to be going well except for one little problem…

All throughout the meal, I couldn’t help but wish he was better looking. It’s not that he was repulsive. It’s more like he was stuck in some indiscernible time warp where Engleburt Humperdink and Ed Grimley somehow morphed into one person. The hair was an insult to men who can grow it. Completely un-styled and devoid of any personality, that was just icing on the skull.

Now, I’m sure the conservative suit he was wearing cost more than my entire wardrobe all together but sadly, it spoke volumes of monotony and insinuated the communication between us was dry for a reason.

You could imagine my surprise when dessert arrived and the guy mentioned something along the lines of, “if we end up together, you and I will have to be completely honest and devoted to one another.” As I recovered from choking on my water, I asked him what he meant by that. After all we’ve only just met!

He proceeded to tell me about girls he’s dated in the past, who only wanted him for his money and how his father is the ultimate screener to attest to whether the woman in his life is genuine or a gold digger.

“So he’ll pay for everything. We can go on vacations and I’ll buy you diamonds. You’ll have it all. You just have to be loyal to me.”

Why is he coming on so strong? What is wrong with this guy, I wondered.

“The last girl I went out with started asking me for things. So I called my dad to ask him what he thinks I should do. And he said, ‘get rid of her.’ And so I did. Because I listen to everything my dad says.”

And then the check arrived.

As we walked out of the restaurant, buddy carried on with another story a man should never tell a woman, no matter how long they’ve been dating, never mind just two hours after meeting.

Apparently some girl hadn’t been as attentive as he would have liked while out on a date the other week. Allegedly, he stepped out of the bar to phone his father and tell him about the lack of attention he was receiving from said girl. His father inquired, “Have you ordered anything yet?” To which he replied, “No. But she had a martini when I got here.” His father asked, “Where are you now?” He answered, “Out front of the bar”. Without a pause, his father said, “Run. Go. Get out of there.” And he did. Just like daddy told him to.

Why he was telling me this story, only he knows. But then he added the, “if we end up together, you’re going to have to be an attentive wife. That’s all I ask for from a woman.”

Deep breath. Internal thought process: “Buddy. This is a date. Not a marriage interview. Had I known that we were going to get married by the end of the night, I would have at least worn better underwear, assuming the honeymoon would follow. But really? You’re still on about this whole ‘if we end up together’ idea? I had to remind myself the cards were all in my hands at this point. Whether or not we were to wed depended entirely on my own volition and when, again, that too would be on my terms.

He put me in a taxi and paid the driver in advance, a sum I don’t know. When I got home, he sent me a text message to make sure I arrived safe.

Undressing for bed, I reassessed the situation. Maybe this guy wasn’t that bad after all. Possessive, pushy, borderline ugly, a daddy’s boy – yes. But a bad guy? Not in the least. He was obviously a caring person and perhaps just insecure. At least, he deserved another chance. So that’s why when he asked me for dinner four minutes later for the following Saturday night in a subsequent text message, I told him yes.

All week, we exchanged unnecessary messages and phone calls in order to update each other on our boring days at work.

When Saturday rolled around, I wasn’t exactly “missing” this guy’s presence in my life all that much. I didn’t know what we’d talk about. After all, I already know what he’d eaten for lunch every day this week. This constant interaction between us had done the opposite of make me excited about our impending date. It felt more like a parole meeting, for him to make sure I show up on time and act according to his wishes.

On Saturday afternoon, I went to Long Beach with some friends and anyone knows heading back to the city from Long Island on the weekend can sometimes take longer than a cross-national flight. On my way home, from my friend’s car, I phoned the guy to ask if we could reschedule. Obviously, I lied a little and said I was on the train so didn’t know when I’d be home and didn’t want to keep him waiting. His response?

“That’s very tasteless of you. You just ruined a good thing.” And hung up. Had I just been dumped by a guy I’ve only had one date with and who married me that very same night, metaphorically? Obviously, his dad would not approve of what I did, I thought. Breaking a date with his son? Inconceivable!

No big loss, I reassured myself while staring out the window at the Manhattan skyline. He was terribly ugly anyway and the thought of banging him had me throwing up a little inside.

A week later, in the middle of the night, my phone kept beeping to indicate a text message. I turned it off because who the hell would call me at such an indecent hour? In the morning, there were like nine texts from “Daddy’s Boy”.

The first berated me for cancelled our date the week before. The second reiterated that very same point. The third mentioned something about how I’m not pretty enough for him anyway. The fourth proclaimed he was going on some sort of date the following night and “she’s probably a lot better than you”. After that, I didn’t really bother with the last few texts. I could see where this was going.

The following night, same thing. But instead of multiple texts, just one. The next morning, when I checked it, the text said something along the lines of “I’m glad it didn’t work out between us because I just met someone way hotter and smarter than you.”

Smiling at the incredulity of it all, I blew upon my fingers, dusting them in preparation to text back: “I’m very flattered that you were thinking of me while boning another chick. Have a nice life.” I haven’t heard from him since nor do I expect to. What could he possibly do or say to me now? I didn’t really have a choice either. I had to reply in some way or another. Sure, I may have bruised his ego by rejecting one Saturday night date with him but I would not stand to be told I’m less than hot from someone with a face like his.

Then I wondered, did he really meet someone all that great and if so, would she return his amorous advances? Or, would she be like me, completely freaked out and the subject of hostile texting a week later? Staring up at the ceiling, thinking my last thoughts about this, I couldn’t help but chuckle at the notion that he didn’t even meet anyone. Perhaps, daddy just told him what to say to me to make himself feel better. It was either that or he’d just met the ultimate gold digger meaning that sooner or later, daddy would intervene and tell him “she’s no good, son.”

Either way, if daddy looks anything like buddy, I’m just glad not to be sticking around to see what junior will look like. Because all the money in the world can’t make up for the fact that underneath, I’d be married to a possessive troll with daddy issues.

Do you think I was overreacting?