I'm not a prostitute!

I ended my date last night with those very words.

Did this man proposition me with money? No. Did he suggest something entirely inappropriate? No. Did he pay for my cab ride after treating me to a nice date? Embarrassingly, yes.

In my defense, I had two dirty martinis, some olives, and crackers for dinner. Add to that my biting sense of sarcasm and distrust of dating and you get a slightly tipsy Italian girl insulting a gentleman on a date. Oh my.

In my sober state this morning, I reflected as to why I felt so threatened by a man offering a genuinely kind gesture. At the time, my reaction was based on one of two theories with a common foundation of discomfort around nice men:

a. He thought I was too drunk to take the subway.
b. He thought I was too poor to pay for myself.

It turns out that neither were true. I know this because he e-mailed me today to explain he just wanted me to be safe.

Oh, and he also wants to take me out again.