You Don't Know Me, And That's Okay

“Wanna pick me up at my house?” I ask my first-time date, who I met on The Internets.
“Can we meet at a restaurant instead?” she types back.  “I don’t know you.”
Thing is, I know that no assault is likely to happen at my house.  Even were I the kind of guy who was likely to sexually assault a random stranger on the first date, which I am distinctly not, I am polyamorous – and my wife lives with me.  She will most likely be in the living room, working when you arrive.  She is strong on consent, and would be severely – nay, violently – Not Okay if anything happened here.
Plus, my daughter’s currently living with us while she hunts for a new job, which means that any sort of sexy fun-times at La Casa McJuddMetz are Distinctly Out right now.  (She’s old enough where she has been dating on her own for years – but she’s been courteous not to bring her dates back to go face-suckin’ in her room while Gini and I sit awkwardly on the living room couch, and I feel I should equitably return that favor.)
So there are no dangers in picking me up at my house.  None.  Zero.  Worst that’ll happen is that Shasta will bark at you.  (Okay, that’s a guarantee.  Our dog is a frickin’ barkstorm.)
But.
You don’t know that.
So that’s totally cool that you’re wary of me until you know me better.
That’s not a personal insult; how could it be?  You don’t fucking know me.  And while yeah, #notallmen are rapists and abusers, #notalleBaysellers rip me off.  But I’ve been burned enough times to check the user’s feedback rating before committing my money to that auction.  You’re committing your bodily safety to showing up alone at my house.  And given that there’s no particular feedback on me for you to scour, it’s your right to be a little cautious until you’re convinced that I am what my OKCupid profile says I am.
And what the fuck does that say about me if I get pissy when you don’t want to walk alone into a stranger’s house?  Yes, La Casa McJuddMetz is a nice comfortable suburban 1400 square-foot place – but for all you know it’s the brick-pit from Silence of the Lambs.
If I get mad, what that says about me is that I have so little fucking empathy for anyone else’s situation that you should not fucking date me under any circumstances.  Because if I can’t understand how dangerous this might be for you, getting bent out of joint because hey, I’m better than that, then I’m gonna be crappy about a hundred other things that any boyfriend should just parse immediately.
(That’s also being kind.  I could be the kind of manipulative sociopath who’s trying to lure you to his house with guilt and social pressure.  Guess what?  You don’t know that’s true, either.)
Look, if you date me for six months and still don’t trust me, we have an issue.  But we’ve never met face-to-face.  You have only seen my words, and some pictures I assure you are me.  And many of the women I’ve dated have come over to my house on the first date, because they made some judgment call that I was trustworthy – but some haven’t.
Good for them.
Good that they protected their safety in the way that they saw fit.
(Inspired by this knocks-it-out-of-the-park Robot Hugs cartoon.)