Break Down To Up

Over the past five years a lot has gone on. Reflecting on much of it, I’m not sure how I’ve made certain mistakes in the last year. Many of those mistakes all too recent and ongoing. 

Five short years ago I moved home to go to school and become someone. I had already published my first novel and was nearing the completion of my second. A year and a half after that I had an AA in English, two published novels and was working on my third. Only a year after that, things took a swift shift and everything started to change.

I was working on my BA in English and my third novel, slaving away in a retail store and living by all the rules that had been set for me. I suddenly found myself exhausted and miserable. It’s hard to say if I was aware of the changes I was making in the beginning, much of what happened seems to have come without my control. For the longest time I didn’t realize things were any different than they had ever been. 

Suddenly, I found myself sitting with my best friend at our favorite bar night after night. I was skipping class and going into work with a hangover almost every day. I started calling out sick when I was too tired to get up, I wasn’t paying bills, I was shopping like a Hilton and I was in general just having a “good time”.  Things came to a head at the beginning of this year. I ventured on a short trip to visit a friend in a distant city, on which I realized how much I had changed and how unhappy I had become. I can only explain what happened after I returned home as a break down. I just lost it. Everything I had been suppressing came out, all of the problems were on the table and people were pushing prescription drugs and therapy in my face like candy. 

There was a period of three days where I remember sitting in a chair.  I stared into space. I didn’t eat, sleep or move. I’m not even sure I had a single thought in my head. After that I seemed to reform from my toxic behaviors. I refocused on my writing, got rid of all the things that were making me unhappy and I moved to a new city. The issue I’m facing now is that I’m repeating some of the same behaviors. I’ve been using alcohol as a therapy tool, dating people that I know I should stay away from, hanging around people I know are bad for me and letting “fun” get in the way of my life.

I reflect on this now, much of my life in transition once again and certain people around me that always open my eyes. I have no idea where I’m going right now, which is terrifying in its own way. I’m finding myself in situations and places that I never thought I’d be. In a sense I feel like I’m in the middle of the ocean reaching for a lifesaver and every time I grasp onto one I realize it’s a rock and start sinking once again. There’s no way to see what’s coming, but I can control what direction I move in, so why have I not been?

It Wasn't Logic

    I’m not sure where to begin. I’m somewhere between numb and tears, which I hate. It’s hard to tell if it’s my inexperience, or my poor choices that have put me in the situation that I now find myself.

    After two weeks of not seeing The Devil, having sworn to stay away from him like some sort of deadly virus, I was pulled back in by a scary movie. It was 3:00 a.m. and he was home watching Freddie Krueger, my all time favorite of favorites. I knew that if I went over there would be sex, that’s a given, but I went knowing that this was probably just a play on The Devil’s part to exercise his power over me. The next three nights flowed in a similar fashion, one of which I confessed having gone on two dates the week before. The Devil admitted he was jealous, though I didn’t say it, I was happy to hear that he was feeling something. I told him that I didn’t consider us back together and that I didn’t want to be, a lie on my part.

    We never officially got back together. We did however spend the next two weeks together and things were better than they had ever been, The Devil even gave me keys to his apartment.  With Christmas fast approaching I invited The Devil to fly home with me for a week, which he agreed to do. This is where I want to stop. I want to end it right here because then things could have been perfect. Sadly, I can no longer live within the diluted fantasy that I have allowed to build up around me.

A snowy night of fun turned out to be a frigid night of break ups and letdowns. The Devil was djing and I had plans to go out with my friends, I pre-gamed with pizza and beer at his apartment because it was freezing out and I didn’t want to walk the ten extra blocks to my place when I would be going back to the train. The Devil started texting to tell me his friend was trying to get a hold of me, this surprised me considering I hadn’t received a single phone call. I was talked into hanging out at the bar The Devil was working, blowing my friends off once again. Several hours passed and The Devil’s friend was heading to the next bar. I wanted to go but I chose to wait for The Devil to be off work so we could go together.

I started pestering The Devil and his “date” as we left the bar because he was going in the wrong direction. His other friend was texting me to see why we weren’t there and why The Devil wasn’t answering his phone. I pestered him to answer the phone when he snapped. The Devil turned and yelled at me like he had never done before. He told me he hated how I acted when I drank, etc. I was so embarrassed and shocked that he had screamed at me that I just stopped talking the rest of the night. The three of us went to a diner, where I felt like I was going to be sick. The Devil once again laid into me when I refused food and only wanted water. Drunk or not, I’m smart enough to know I need water when I’m feeling that way. 

We rode the train home in separate cars, both of us angry and unwilling to take a step to resolve things. As I watched The Devil hurry home ahead of me it seemed smart to go home so we could both cool off. I was a block away when he sent a text telling me to come get my stuff. I had left a bag of cloths, my laptop and a few bathroom items at his house, after all I had been there every night for two weeks.

I was so angry that I couldn’t even look at him as I gathered my things. I left the keys he had given me on the nightstand and made the cold walk home. Long story short, The Devil says my immaturity and drinking are the reason we can’t be together. The following day I sent him a text asking if he wanted to talk about it, or if he really wanted to end it. When he replied that he would think about talking to me after I came back from my trip I realized what had happened.

This was all an elaborate plan to get him out of going home with me for Christmas. The Devil pulled the same crap he always does because he can never be inconvenienced to do something that wasn’t what he wanted to do. He had blown me off for a Christmas party a day before, he couldn’t go to diner with me a day before that, etc. If it isn’t all about The Devil, then it isn’t going to happen. Now I feel like a fool. I was so stupid to invest any of myself in him. I knew better. I knew he would do something like this. Somehow I allowed myself to get pulled back in. Though he’s bad mouthing me and saying whatever he needs to justify the break-up, I know this: I may be immature in his eyes, but I’m smart enough to learn from my mistakes. 

Miles Away

    With a phone call I was whisked away to Baltimore to do some work for a friend. It happened that I missed a major holiday, upsetting The Devil. Yeah, we stayed together even after the dramatics and meltdowns from what felt like minutes ago.

The trip was a surprise in the sense that I received a call and was tossed on a train. The Devil assured me that he wasn’t mad I was leaving, though I suspected he was lying. Once in Baltimore my friend picked me up and we grabbed some ghetto diner food. It was good, mostly because there is this incredibly cute waiter that I like to stare at. The boy has worked there for two years at least, it’s the only reason I keep going back. We arrived at my friend’s house where we ripped out the living room carpet and tile. Though I would be sore the next day, it was a great way to release some pent up aggression. The Devil called about two in the morning, muttering something I couldn’t understand and saying he would call me back. He had texted me slightly before this to tell me he actually was mad at me for leaving.

I knew it. Turns out he was planning to invite me home for Thanksgiving; this was a definite lie. The week before he had told me that he would never again introduce a guy to his parents. I don’t know if this was supposed to be some mind game, but it wasn’t a smart way to play it if that’s what was going on. The following day we were talking and The Devil mentioned that I cause him stress. It’s really not my intention to be the crazy boyfriend that makes everything hard. I’m not sure what it is about The Devil, but he just makes me jump into this ring of chaos. After he told me this I told him that he didn’t need to stress because I had downgraded us to some sort of “friend” status.

He wanted answers. I finally just said what I was thinking without holding back. I let him in my head because keeping him out was harder than I had anticipated. We are too different to be together, we’re going in different directions, and though I love him it just isn’t enough. I can’t be the guy in waiting while he’s out doing everyone else. His response was, “So I can date?” I replied simply, “You’re free.” I cut it off there. I left the conversation and went for diner, in disbelief that this was his response.  I felt like I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. I was and disappointed to think we were over. I wish I could say that I felt happy or even relieved, but I didn’t.

Over the next few days there were several comments from The Devil about our situation.

“Why can’t you just be ok with an open relationship? We’ll get back together. I miss you. I love you. I don’t think we’re done.”

Almost all sentiments that I had wanted to hear, now I’m just doing my best to ignore them. When I said goodbye to him the night I ended it, I meant it. That was the end, even if we’re still on good speaking terms. I can’t go back this time knowing that it’s going to end. How many break-ups is this now? I can’t even remember anymore. I always followed the rule: If you break up once, you’ll just keep doing it. This time I’m going to be smart about it and let the miles between us grow.

The Devil sent me a leak to a new song he had mixed. I listened to the track. It was a good song, sad though. That’s when he told me, “That’s yours.” It was similar to having a knife plunged into my chest. I just wanted to say ok let’s get back together, but I couldn’t.

On The Floor Part 2

    Google has implemented a very useful feature if you use Gmail. It’s a tool that forces you to solve math problems that are incredibly difficult when you’re intoxicated. This prevents you from drunk emailing people things that you would most likely regret the next morning. How do we get this tool implemented for text messaging?

I sent the text that I knew I shouldn’t have. I was opening a can of worms that would probably be best left on the back shelf of some barnyard pantry. I wasn’t sure if I would get a response from The Devil, though I obviously wanted one. What I didn’t expect was to start a small war: Battle of the texts!

“You left me.”

That just set me off. I left The Devil for treating me like crap, which is probably the smartest thing I’ve done in this relationship to date. Don’t get me wrong, when we’re behind closed doors, The Devil treats me pretty well. I don’t know if it’s because he’s been screwed over in the past, or if he just doesn’t want anyone to see him acting like the romantic comedy he wants to be. I’m just so tired of this push-pull game that we’ve been playing. I don’t have the energy to keep up with the constant turn-arounds. 

After several hours of messages I ended up with a bruised fist from punching the wall and a bloody arm from my encounter with a kitchen knife. Not something I’m proud of but I literally went off the deep end. In the past I’ve used my best friend Rachael to help talk out my craziness. With her living on the other side of the country I’m left to trudge through the complicated mess inside my head alone. In the end, after all the drama I ended up in The Devil’s bed. Something I still haven’t admitted to my friends, knowing I would never hear the end of it.

Why do I do it? I keep asking myself this question. I’ve yet to reach an answer. I think it has something to do with Jerome. Three years ago I ended a perfect (literally perfect) relationship with Jerome, whom I had been with for a year. My reasoning was that everything was so perfect I wanted to pull my hair out. I was bored out of my mind. Had I known that I would spend the next two years mourning this relationship I may have made a different decision. The Devil is the first guy I’ve had the love feelings for since Jerome. This is the only reason I can think of for not throwing in the towel. It has to be worth it at some point, right?

For now there’s no definite future with The Devil, we’re heading in opposite directions. I’m choosing to not classify us as anything more than “fun” for now. If I put the relationship status back on us I’ll get sucked into the jealousy trap again. Here we go again.

On The Floor Part 1

I don’t think that I’ve learned anything from my time with The Devil. Well, I have learned one thing: I’ve learned that I need to build walls that are bigger. They should be ten feet taller than they are, strung with barbed wire and tapped into an anti-jerk supply.

Things were finally going just how I wanted them to. The Devil was acting like my boyfriend and not the guy that f**ks me. We were going out together, doing couple things, he was even introducing me to his friends as his boyfriend. He almost gave me a stroke when he held my hand walking down the street. I do have to say that hand holding is a bit much even for me. I’m not so much into the public affection thing. I mean maybe if you get me drunk, but that’s mostly just to offend people on the street.

Three long nights of clubs, friends and fun all seemed to be the turning point. It was like The Devil had reverted back into the person he had once professed to be. On a lighter note: We’re very different people when it comes to the club scene. Give me a drink, a dance floor and some top 40’s hits. Give The Devil a drink and a dark corner to stand in. I thought it was important to show that there’s been a little more to us than the parade of endless drama.

Then again, I don’t want to disappoint anyone. I talked to my roomie about the turn around with The Devil, talking about him has become a topic of obsession. As I told her how great things were I knew in the back of my mind that it probably wasn’t going to last. Do I even need to say it? I was right.

Let’s get to it. I’m a jealous person, that’s a fact. The Devil is just as jealous, if not worse. I don’t know how to jealous people are supposed to have an open relationship. I’ve managed to hide my jealousy from The Devil, but it finally caught up with me. I can’t understand how someone that says he loves me wants to sleep with everyone else. Is it me, or is that a contradiction? As a Virgo that drives me nuts. I ask myself: Why am I not enough? Why isn’t he interested in me? Does he really love me? Does he think I’m as hot as the guys he’s looking at? Mostly neurotic insecurities, but my brain chooses to ignore logic in this instance. 

The day came when I woke up knowing this relationship wasn’t going to work out. I knew that for my own sanity I should probably just end it. The Devil is always going to be promiscuous. He likes, and I quote, “variety”. I on the other hand want to know that if I’m not in my boyfriend’s bed, no one else is either. I got out of bed, dressed and left The Devil’s house; I was already irritated with him from the night before. He had hooked up with a guy in a bar bathroom and was mad at me because I played with a guy from the train on the same night. It’s an open relationship by his choice, see the problem? I spent the entire day trying to decide if I wanted to continue with this relationship. 

As evening set in I arrived home from a long day of running around and logged onto Facebook for some innocent conversation with friends and strangers. A week prior The Devil had changed his status on the site to say we were together. I had never mentioned him changing it, or anything of the sort, it was completely his thing. When I logged on I was greeted with no less than five emails asking why we had broken up. I was confused to say the least. That’s when I realized he had changed his status. I didn’t know if that meant he was done with me, or what; all I knew was that I had had more than enough. I sent him a text, being too angry to even hear his voice. I told him that I couldn’t do this and that I wasn’t interested in playing games with him anymore. I went over to his apartment, thank God his roommate was home, to retrieve my things.

It wasn’t until later that night, after several drinks that my feelings caught up with me. Suddenly I felt like I was making a mistake by leaving him, but I knew I couldn’t stand to be with him. I laid on the floor, my phone in hand, and a drink in the other. I typed through my beer goggles: I’ll miss you for a very long time. I just want you to know that.

It's All Your Fault

At last glance it seemed that The Devil and I were finished, but it may have just been half time. After my meltdown a few nights went by before I was again invited over. With this sleepover there was the precursor that we would not be having sex, probably not a bad idea. That didn’t stop me from questioning the intentions of The Devil. I mean, he invited me over with the “I miss you” and then he pushed me back with “it’s just a sleepover”. It feels unnerving to lie in the arms of the person that says they don’t want to be with you.

We spent three nights in the same bed with not so much as a kiss. For me this was just adding to the confusion. I was able to get a small break when he had to leave town for work, which happens often. Two nights before he was supposed to return I received a midnight message. He started back in on the: I miss you. It was what I wanted to hear, at the same time I wanted to put my hands around his throat. I was surprised when he asked if I had slept with anyone since the last time we had been together. In all honesty I hadn’t, my frustration and psycho spells with him had kept me so busy I hadn’t had the time to find anyone to play with. He assured me that he hadn’t been with anyone either, not that I had asked. (Note: I later found this out to be a lie.) Then he asked the question that will forever make me question if this is all just a game for him.

“Do you really care about me?”

Really? I mean, really? After everything that’s already happened and what I’ve let him put me through he needs to actually ask me if I care about him? I told him that I loved him and he told me he loved me too and that I should know that. My first reaction was surprise. How would I know that? Should I know The Devil loves me because he spends more time trying to hook up with barflies than he does with me? Maybe I should know by the way that I always have to seek him out. When I told him that I didn’t know, he was shocked to say the least. That was when I decided it was time to just lay the cards on the table and let him inside my head for a minute.

I told him that I felt like I was just a placeholder for the ex he was obviously not over. The Devil sent back a little frown face; did I mention this was all through text messaging? Talk about being disconnected. He assured me that he would get over the ex and that he had the love feelings even though he doesn’t say it often. Again, this is all exactly what I wanted to hear. 

When he finally arrived home we rented a movie and spent the night in. Typical. Until he mentioned that he wanted me to go do laundry with him the next day (he’s never done his own) I hadn’t realized that we had never actually spent any time together outside his bedroom, unless you count that one time at a bar. The next day I took the bait to do laundry together; I thought it was an excellent opportunity to get some answers. Then there was the answer I needed to hear but didn’t really want to know. 

“I’ll never get over the ex.”

There’s always the possibility of an ex haunting a relationship, but no one wants to acknowledge it. For now, I’m back in limbo. I have a feeling that the ex will come back into the picture or some cute guy will come along and The Devil will easily sway, there’s too much evidence supporting this idea. 

Scar

Having spent the past several days in a depression that felt like ice in the bottom of my stomach, I decided I needed to get out. One benefit of living in the city is that there will always be an endless supply of friends ready and willing to go play. I sent text messages to everyone that might be interested, receiving an overwhelming response.

My married friend was in the mood to go out. He is a very interesting character, in the sense that he is straight. Straight and has sex with guys, but his wife is aware of it. Weird, but who am I to judge? We headed to a jock bar in Chelsea, I’m a sucker for buff guys. Before we went out I had started drinking at home, a great way to pinch a few pennies. I managed to only buy one drink once we were at the bar. Upon leaving it was incredibly early for a New York night and we had to find somewhere else to go. I became distracted by the neon lights of a diner, and the dance club we were walking towards couldn’t have gone further from my mind.

The evening ended unexpectedly with us back at my place. I’ve known Married Man for about five years now, back when we both lived on the West Coast. My phone kept buzzing the entire time we had the lights out. I assumed the friend I had forgot to define plans with, had become irritated or drunk. I continued to ignore the buzzing for the entire two-hour period. As we redressed I looked down at my phone: The Devil.

I felt my heart plummet into my icy stomach; I wanted to scream. Reading the message was unavoidable; I had to know what he had to say after three days of silence.

“Um, so you’re on a date?!?!?!”
“Wow, ok cool. I hope you enjoy it.”
“I’m really shocked.”
“:( I miss you”
“I give up. I f**ked up. Grr.”

Reading this all I wanted to do was call him. I put the phone down, not sure it was worth investing anymore of myself into it. In five short messages it had become apparent that The Devil did feel something. I sent a short message back: “Yeah, you f**ked up.” My phone rang. I held my breath before picking up. He wanted me to meet him at his apartment. I wanted to go over. He says he’s sorry, but will he still be sorry in the morning when the only part of tonight left is the vodka on his breath? I’m left asking myself, have I had enough?

Against my better judgment I trudged down the street. I didn’t know what was about to happen. The Devil did his best to joke around with me as if nothing had happened. I’m not a fan of forgive and forget. I am on the other hand a fan of; forgive but never forget. We lay there, The Devil, telling me I had to forgive him. I couldn’t even fake the words for him. Even though he was telling me what I wanted to hear, acting the way I wanted him to act, I knew that he would eventually re-open the scars that were already forming.

Yeah, Yeah, Yeah

I decided to stick with my original excuse for leaving The Devil’s house in a rush a few evenings before. Sticking with the “sick” excuse was good enough for me, plus there was little room for questioning. Sometimes a little white lie is the smartest way to go.

Though we had only been seeing each other a very short time, a routine was already coming together. The Devil would chat online a little; I would read his magazines and point out funny things he had probably already seen. Later we would watch something on his laptop and then we would have a little sex. I thought the sex was good, though I could be wrong. It was suggested that we might need to spice things up. This coming from the man who told me after the first time we were together he had told his friends, “It was beautiful. It just flowed.” Once again with the confusing!

Our evening ended with The Devil telling me that he was telling people I was his boyfriend, then he said he loved me. I never thought I would hear these words again. The first time had been at the end of sex when we were both drunk. I took them for what I felt they meant then and discarded them; knowing for him they were probably nothing more than the drunken words of someone that had just cum. To hear him say it again pulled my heart back into the ring, the one place I didn’t want to see it.

The next two days were perfect. I felt like my personal life was coming into order after having spent three years in all but total chaos. Both nights with The Devil were right on target with our routine, he even suggested I bring cloths to get ready for work so I didn’t have to run home in the morning. I thought of that as a big step for someone who told me he was afraid to commit.

Things happen to me in groups of three. The third night was not as perfect as the two preceding it.

“I’m not ready for commitment. I just want to keep things the way they were, no expectations.”

This I received via instant message. To say I was pissed is about the understatement of my life. I vented my frustrations on The Devil. It was time to pick a side, no more of this one-day you want me and the next day you don’t. Love me, hate me, or go away. I don’t have the energy to bounce back and forth with a part-time boyfriend, full-time playboy.

So, with this fresh batch of jolt in me, I can’t say the walls aren’t growing thicker than ever. I think Fefe Dobson said it best:

Yeah, yeah, yeah, that’s all I can say to you.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m so over you.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, now I’m hurting you.

Spiraling

I stood in the middle of the street, rain beating down on me. This would go down as the most dramatic moment of my life. Except for the fact that the rain was only in my head and I was running down the middle of the street to get home as fast as I possibly could. I fumbled with my keys, which refused to enter the lock of my door.

“You look cracked out,” said my roomie, as she pulled the door open for me.

I don’t know if it was all of the vodka and rum, or that I had just had a nervous break down, that had my pupils so large the color was gone from my eyes. I threw myself on the couch, demanding an audience.

I had completely lost my shit. The Devil and I had gone out to his friend’s where I got myself good and drunk. We returned to his place late, late, late, and got down to some very personal business. Afterwards he fell asleep and I began to sweat. As the room began to spin, my mind began to spiral. Thoughts were racing as my stomach was churning. I pushed the covers off of me, sitting up enough to still the spinning that was quiet literally consuming my head. My heart was beating as if I had run a marathon and breathing felt impossible, I had to get dressed. In the darkness I managed to get my cloths on, exiting just as The Devil woke. I ran.

Why did I do it? As I lay there it became very apparent that I loved a man that was never really going to love me back. The thought was terrifying to the point of an anxiety attack. It wasn’t the alcohol making me sick, but the love I was feeling. I’ve stayed away from love as best I could since the day I broke my own heart. My roomie listened as I catapulted these toxic thoughts from my mind, before leaving me to catch the train.

I made up my mind as she left that I was going to stay away from The Devil, it just wasn’t worth the potential pain. It was 7:00a.m. and I still hadn’t gotten any sleep. As I tried to close my eyes I remembered the thing I had forgotten. On The Devil’s nightstand I had left my cross. The necklace I wear everyday, not for religion, but because it’s a part of who I am. It was obvious that I couldn’t avoid seeing him again. The only thing I could do was lie. I sent a text, knowing The Devil was asleep, saying I had gotten sick and went home. He believed me.

The only thing to do now: Return to the scene of the breakdown and get the cross out with my heart in tact.

Hello, My Name is Bitch

The minutes of my morning ticked away more slowly than I want to remember. Not to mention the fact that I have a cold, which I would trade for a hangover any day. The Devil returned home today, who knows what time. I checked my phone every five minutes to see if a message was left. I went through my entire workday without hearing from him. I had made it home before I finally received a message. Nine days of waiting and, “I’m home” is all I got.

Frustrated is nowhere near how I felt, but it’s the only thing that comes to mind. I wanted to reach through the phone line and strangle him. Calling him The Devil is quickly becoming more fitting than I had intended. I should note that we sat emailing each other, which feels like the slowest form of communication when you’re desperate for some contact. I had to ask. I couldn’t, not ask him if he had slept with anyone while he was away. There was no way I could have prepared myself for the response. He made out with one boy and they jerked off together. I was relived, though I felt like an ass.

I had spent the entire week wondering who The Devil was laying down on, when the truth was, he wasn’t. I on the other hand, went out and acted like a slut. I failed to mention that to him, though he didn’t ask. We chatted for a bit, when I found myself blocked in a corner. I was forced to explain how crazy I’d let my mind run the past week. I was surprised by The Devil’s calm and understanding responses. Though he reminded me of his rule on not getting serious before three months.

Am I confused? Yes. Am I completely unsure of what I am doing? Yes. Should I break it off before I end up getting hurt? Probably, but I won’t, I’m gluten for pain. My frustration was made only more painful by the fact that The Devil didn’t want me to come over while I was sick, understandable. Yet, he kept texting to say he wished I were there.

The following day dragged even more slowly, if that was possible. I sent a text around noon to see if The Devil would be home later in the evening. He told me he wasn’t sure, he might go to his parents. This is what I’m talking about when I say I’m confused. He’s telling me he wants me there and then he tells me he’s too busy with everything else. After not hearing from him, around midnight, I asked if I should go to bed. He told me he was out. Thank you for that vague and considerate response.

I don’t think I’m asking for that much. We might watch a movie, he gets sex if he wants it and sometimes we just go to sleep. What is it that he’s not getting here? I can’t get my mind around whatever it is that I’m missing. On one hand I feel like I’m being erratic and on the other I feel like he’s being a douche. Have I made myself too available to him, or is it that I’m coming off as desperate? I do a fantastic job of making sure I keep all of my overreacting to myself and out of The Devil’s view, but how much shit can one person put up with? Which leaves me with this: When is it moving towards a relationship and not just bullshit?

Shakin' Off The Dust

I’ve spent the last several days obsessing over The Devil. I finally have come to the realization that if I want to continue seeing this guy, whether I feel the love stuff or not, I’m going to have to accept the fact that it’s just sex. At least to him it’s just sex. I’ll do what I do best and suppress my feelings into that dark little box somewhere in the back of my mind.

To prove to myself that I can still have fun while hiding what I feel, I chose to go out. I made plans with three different people. It’s always good to have backup plans. I ended up meeting with my friend who works as an agent for a New York modeling agency. I thought hanging out with the Model Man and his batch of brainless bimbos would be entertaining at the least.

I arrived at the Model Man’s apartment, forty minutes late, to find a group of four guys drinking and having a good time. I grabbed a glass and joined the fun. It didn’t take long before I realized that this was a set up. The Model Man was trying to hook me up with one of his models. Don’t get me wrong, the boy was cute, but I could never play with a model. I downed my second drink, sprawling on the floor, talking with this model boy. I was impressed that he actually had some brains in his pretty little head. Then it happened. The Model told me something that made my jaw hit the floor. He was 18 years old and a virgin. That was the end of any chance this boy had of getting into my pants. I don’t enter virgin territory, you’re just asking for trouble. Plus if I’m going to have bad bumpy sex, I want it to be because we’re both really drunk, not because he’s never seen a penis before.

Later into the evening I was feeling good. All I wanted to do was sit on the couch and talk. I become very insightful when properly intoxicated. Suddenly I was being whisked out the door and into a car. I’m not one for letting other people drive me; I won’t even get in a taxi. The motion of the car nearly forced the vodka that was sloshing around inside me to erupt, but I held it in. Upon entering the club I informed the bouncer that I was too cute to pay the entrance fee. I was surprised when he let me in without paying, sober I would never be so brazen.

Once in the club everyone just wanted to talk. That’s what I wanted to do at the apartment, now I wanted to dance. That I did. Half naked and out of control, I danced with myself in the center of the crowd. A boy latched onto me, not that it mattered, I was in my own little world. We danced for about an hour, my legs beginning to throb from the gym earlier. When I was ready to go I grabbed the Roman by hand and dragged him out the door. I forced him back to Brooklyn. His apartment was closer but there’s a roommate situation and I wasn’t in the mood for drama. I’m not usually interested in guys younger than myself, but he did the trick. I took the Roman to bed in an effort to prove to myself that I didn’t need The Devil. 

Using sex to suppress my feelings is probably not the smartest way of going about it, but it’s the best thing I could think of in my vodka haze. It like no time before the Roman was waking me up. I told him how to get home unaware that he had run into my naked roomie in the bathroom. We laughed for a minute, then I passed out. Not to wake for several hours.

Tangled Up In Me

It is amazing that after everything I think I’ve learned, I’m still so f**king stupid. Who didn’t see this coming? I knew it would happen but chose to go against my better judgment. I gave into the “feelings” because someone said what I wanted to hear.

The Devil, at least to the best of my knowledge, was playing a tricky little game. He had his fiddle going and I couldn’t keep up. I said all the things I felt and know better than to let out of my mouth. Now, The Devil is away doing God knows who. This is the point in my dilemma where I should head straight for a cocktail. Let me explain:

The Devil is a DJ and for work he travels around for a few weeks at a time. Last Friday he informed me that he would be leaving the next day. I was surprised, considering the fact that he wasn’t planning on hanging out that night. I asked if I would be seeing him before he left. I wasn’t pleased when he replied via text that he would see if he could get home early enough for me to see him. His flight was early and bed was the only thing he planned on doing, so it was implied. Out of irritation (spite), I invited the Fireman I had met earlier in the week to come over and watch a movie. It was about 2:00a.m. when we were getting down to business and my phone began to buzz.

“r u up”

Two minutes later…

“hope so”

Two minutes later…

“i guess not”

Before even reading the messages I knew who it was. I told the Fireman that he had to go, not giving much of an explanation. I hustled him out the door pulled on a hoodie and all but ran the eleven blocks to The Devil’s house. When I got there we went straight to sleep. Suddenly it dawned on me that he had probably already had somebody in his bed before sending the texts. I was somewhere between confused and pissed. The messages he sent seemed so eager for me to come over, yet upon arrival it seemed as if there was little, if any, interest in my presence. The next morning, with a peck on the lips and a shove out the door, The Devil said he would see me in two weeks.

The first day he was gone I refused to contact him first. I thought this would be an effective way to see if there was more between us than just a condom. Nothing. The second day I received an email referring to some pictures on my webpage.

“Um, where did you get those pictures my boy?”

I wouldn’t have paid it much attention had he not tacked on, “my boy”. That threw me into a whirlwind of questions. Two more days followed with no sign of life from The Devil. I finally sent a text to see what was going on. He told me he lost his job and was on vacation until Monday. I haven’t heard from him since.

I know we’re not a couple but after what he said I thought there was something more to it. Clearly, I’m an idiot. What have I learned? I’ve learned that my love life is best left to my bitter and cynical side. When I think with my heart, or anything lower, I can’t see clearly.

A Rose Isn't Always Just A Rose

Did anyone have a bet placed on how long The Devil would last? Well, mark your calendars, we’ve lasted an entire week. That’s not to say I haven’t been surprised by what I’m faced with.

For the most part we have a routine, wasn’t that fast? He calls me late in the evening and I walk the eleven blocks to his apartment. We talk for about twenty seconds, lights go off, pants come down. I have to add as a side-note that never before have I had sex with one person for seven consecutive days. I’ve had serious relationships and not had sex more than two days in a row. I usually get bored or hit with a sudden headache that prevents us from doing anything. I do think I’m getting the “feelings” for this one, but there’s a catch. Like a great deal on a new car, I’ve come to find out there’s some water damage.

The Devil was burned by his boyfriend of two years when he cheated on him. In order to prevent such a thing from happening again, The Devil, has set up dating rules. They are simple, straightforward and confusing. He won’t get serious with someone without dating for three months. This rule I think of as good common sense, plus it helps to eradicate the feeling of being rushed. The second rule is not so simple. Having had his ex cheat on him, The Devil, believes that having an open relationship will prevent this from happening with future boyfriends. If you haven’t heard of an open relationship, it means you can have sex with other people, but you still come home to each other.

He mentioned this to me as we were going to sleep, not allowing me to react before he rolled over. I lay there feeling blindsided. When I had arrived at his place earlier I had been told to close my eyes. When I opened them The Devil stood in front of me holding a rose. The last time a guy gave me flowers I dumped his ass. I was astonished when chunks didn’t begin to rise in my throat. I actually smiled and accepted the yellow flower unaware of the twist the evening was going to take.

I’m confused more than usual because I like this boy. I don’t know if I would be able to live with rule #2. I like the idea of having that freedom, but am I comfortable knowing my boyfriend is out having sex with other guys? What if he forgets to use a condom and brings home a disease? What if he finds some guy he likes better? To complicate the matter more, we went out with The Devil’s roomie and he said something. He said he loves me. It terrified me. It terrified me because I believe it and I said it back. I haven’t been able to get those words out of my mouth in three years.

Now I’m caught in the middle of my own confusion. On one hand I have this seemingly perfect guy and on the other I have all these questions. I’m not sure if I should call it quits before I get in too deep, or for once in my life just go with the flow.

Date With The Devil

To begin I should sum up how things officially ended with douche-bag Dollar. After dumping me and telling me that he can’t talk to people after a break-up, he invited me to coffee. Long story short, he spent the entire thirty-five minutes telling me what a negative person he thought I was. I was floored to find this ultra-negative person telling me that I was too bitter and negative for his high class-wine from a box drinking-self. I’m a Bitter Ben, even a Negative Nancy, but give me a break.

Faced with the prospect of dating my hand, I decided to look around online and see what was available. Once upon a time, in a past life, I actually managed what was a semi-successful relationship with someone I met online. Obviously that ended, but a year is a personal best. I ran across a guy and we chatted a bit before deciding to hang out. When you meet someone from the internet you have to wonder what you’re getting yourself into. Will they look like their picture? Have they gained 50 pounds since they took the picture? Are they going to chop you up and stick you in a trash can? I live in New York, it could happen.

You must be wondering why I named him The Devil? Across his back there is a tattoo: Lucifer. I find it humorous that I have a black cross on my back. A little mix of good and evil? I would have thought myself to be the evil one, but role-playing is fun. Again, you are probably curious as to how I’ve already seen this tattoo. I won’t lie. I put out on the first date, no alcohol needed. Hopefully that doesn’t come across as sad and desperate sounding as it was playing back in my head.

The Devil looks like an all around bad boy. The tattoos, the nipple piercing and the kinky side, to my surprise when it comes to relationship stuff he seems to be for it. Most gay men are more interested in pinning you down, getting their jollies and heading home (or sending you home). I don’t want to make any snap judgments about where this is going because the minute I do it will begin to crumble. I come to this conclusion based on recent dating adventures such as the Dollar ride I was on and my crash on Wall Street.

For the time being I’m going to do it the hetro way and just go with the flow. As in the hetro-male way, I know the ladies are just like me when it comes to being all up in your head. I won’t hold my breath but I’ve got my fingers crossed as I head back out for another date with The Devil.

Rent(minus)Control

How many times as a child is a person sent to their room? I can recall a few times off hand, but the times I’ve locked myself in seem to be more memorable.

I came home from Baltimore feeling better than when I had left. I brought a locking knob for my bedroom door. I figure that if people are going to break in I don’t want to make it any easier for them to get my belongings. I installed the knob, shutting the door to make sure it locked. PERFECTION! Or so I thought. I unlocked the door but it wouldn’t open. The piece that connects the door to the wall was stuck. A slight panic came over me. I only had a Philips screw driver, making it impossible to pop the lock.

I needed tools. I searched my room. I had a large green bottle that had a thick base. I used it as a hammer to get the hinges out. Paint was covering the hinges making this a difficult task, not to mention the feat of not shattering the bottle. I got the three pins out but the door wasn’t budging. Working the screwdriver in between the door and the frame I was able to get my fingers in enough to pull back. I should probably mention that I unscrewed the knob and it fell out onto the kitchen floor. Here is where I would grin innocently and turn a little red as I tell people this.

Our bedrooms doors are very strange. They aren’t solid wood; instead, they have frosted plastic-glass in the middle to dress them up. The flimsy door was creasing near the lock, giving me the impression that if I bent it back farther the door would end up in two pieces. New plan: I found an emergency roadside kit in my closet (from when I still drove a car). I used some zip-ties to get a grip on the hinges. I pulled back as hard as I could. The only thing that broke free were the ties, leaving me on the floor and the door in its frame.

After three hours I gave in and called my roomie. She was still at work and wasn’t planning to leave for several hours, not to mention it takes her two hours to get home. I told her to hurry if she could, but not to worry about me. I continued to work on the door, leaving an impressive number of gouges in the molding around it. I took a break, happy to have a television in my room. Sadly, I had the Republican Convention or 90210. I gave in and watched the Republicans for about twenty minutes before going back to mindless entertainment.

Nearing eight hours after locking myself in, my roomie arrived home. A swift kick to the door brought it down. I was finally free! I find the entire situation to be funny in the regard of how I’ve been feeling in my own life. I’ve felt so trapped and unable to control what’s been going on around me. It’s funny that I actually managed to end up in a physical situation of no control. I’ve been feeling much better as of late. Far better than I had when I got back from Baltimore, I almost wish I had locked myself in there sooner.

Third Time's a Charm

There are moments in life when u want to pull your hair out and then there are the times when you want to pull other people’s hair out. Today however I felt like beating a man to death, or at least until he cried like a bitch.

My roomie woke me up early this morning to see if I wanted to ride the train into the city with her. Having not slept for two days I wasn’t interested in doing anything. I slept for another three hours, when I heard this odd banging. I pulled myself out of bed and walked into her bedroom. I literally shouted, “What the f#ck!”

I cannot even begin to describe the amount of surprise I felt when I saw a man climbing through the window over the fire escape. He had pushed it out of the frame and was halfway in when I stumbled onto him. I sprinted back to my room to call the cops, he ran up the fire escape. I returned to the window, the guy was long gone. Ten minutes later the cops were at my apartment for the third time in the last thirty-three days for a burglary.

I won’t lie, I’m totally proud of myself for chasing the douche nozzle off. Either he thought we were gone, or he’s not watching us very closely. Had I left with my roomie I doubt she would have come home to her flat screen television. If you recall we were robbed twice in August. We both lost our laptops and she lost an iPod and digital camera. I got on the phone and called our apartment manager. I have had enough, I told him I want bars on the windows or we’re moving out. 

You may be wondering why we didn’t move after the second robbery? Well, we installed the super expensive locks, which our friend the burglar must have noticed, considering this time he decided to come in the window. Also, we live in New York City and moving is one of the hardest and most expensive things you can do. It’s almost as hard as finding a job, considering I’ve been looking for three months and still can’t get hired. 

I can’t say this hasn’t fueled my paranoia. I don’t want to leave our apartment for fear that we’ll come home to nothing. I also don’t understand why out of six units in this one building we are the only one that ever gets burglarized and it’s happening every two weeks. I used to think it was one of our neighbors, but most didn’t live in the building when this all started happening. There is also the fact that he went up the fire escape, rather than down it. The cops suggest that it’s someone coming across the roof tops from another building, comforting. 

I’m more upset over the fact that I broke the head phones for my iPod today. I know, how messed up are my priorities? Honestly, having lost my laptop I could care less what they take, but I don’t want my roomie’s shit getting stolen. It almost makes me want to leave this city, but I won’t. Even though I keep getting my ass kicked, bruised and bandaged I just can’t move away.

I Heart NY

After reading this, you, like the rest of the people I know, will probably think I’m verging on crazy. I originally had an entirely different topic in mind when writing this week’s column on Wednesday; however, due to circumstances you’ll see why I’ve changed my mind.

I had an interview last Thursday, giving myself what I thought was amble time to get there I hopped on the train. Sadly, in New York City the transit can be unpredictable. The train only went to Chinatown, leaving me no alternative but to walk the rest of the way. A 45-minute jog got me to the train I needed by the WTC, leaving me sweaty and irritated. Dollar had printed my resume off, forcing me to go to his friend’s house before the interview I was already late for. I snatched up my resume, promising to come back after the interview, dashing once again for the train. The interview was short to say the least, we rescheduled for the next day. 

As promised, I returned to Dollar’s friend’s house. He was drunk, his friends were drunk and I was sober. A few bitchy comments and I was beginning to feel attacked. The friends disappeared into the house, giving the idea that this was a premeditated bitch attack. First I was interrogated about cheating, which I had not. Then I was dumped with the following line, “I’m too old to not know where this is going after a month.” I was pissed to say the least. I had actually tried my best to form some sort of functioning relationship with Dollar. “I’m too young to know where this is going after only a month,” was the only thing I could say. I picked up my jacket and left the apartment. I made a few angry calls to my friends (venting always helps). I would like to point out that Dollar is only 28 and if he is convinced that he is old I can only imagine what his life is going to be like when he turns 48.

The next morning I awoke feeling slightly pissed and a little nervous for my upcoming interview. My roomie and I left the apartment together at noon. We talked on the train until she had to transfer for work. As I exited the train in New Jersey my phone beeped. I checked the voicemail and my interview had been pushed to Monday because of a corporate visit. Irritated, I decided to hit the gym and burn some steam and calories! I worked out longer than I usually do, figuring there was no real reason to rush home. On my way home I passed my neighbor about a block away from the apartment. I tried to say hi but he looked away and crossed the street. I didn’t invest any worry in the matter. I entered my bedroom to get my laptop. I had finished the first draft of my third novel two days earlier. It took three years to write, but I had finally finished it. I typically don’t leave my laptop home; I’m obsessive when it comes to knowing where it is at all times. No laptop. I ripped our entire apartment apart looking for it. Turns out someone had opened the front door with a screwdriver and exited through the fire escape in my roomie’s bedroom. Considering I was only gone for four hours the cop pointed out whomever stole the laptop was watching us very closely.

I can not begin to describe the hysterical depression I fell into. I think I’ve made a decent recovery, considering it’s been less than a week. We had a $500 lock system installed on our door, to make sure this never happens again. I can’t help but feel my neighbor stole the computer. He disappeared for three days after our encounter on the street. Typically he doesn’t leave the stoop of our building; not having a job gives some people a lot of free time. Come to find out he’s been busted for breaking into the apartment below us and cars out front of the building. I can’t prove it but I know he did it. The cops thought I was crazy, not that they cared, but I lost a huge piece of myself. I know that I can get a new laptop but I don’t think the Apple store offers a re-write your life discount. Grrrr! 

In a sense, I feel directionless. I’m a writer with no way to write. Pen and paper are so not my thing, I’m no tree killer! I escaped the city last night hopping a train to Baltimore. I decided that visiting some old friends may do me a world of good, let’s hope it does.

Dirty Rotten Racist

Sometimes I remember why I tell people that I’m not accepting applications for any new friends. My roomie forced me to meet her former friend from Utah. We met up for dinner after a long day of Ikea shopping. I can’t say that we hit it off but I nearly knocked the girls teeth out.

By reading my column I’m sure by now you’ve noticed that I have a bit of a smart mouth. I say what I want, when I want, how I want and if you don’t like it then that’s just too damn bad. I don’t care if I offend and I’m not looking to be politically correct. I feel that everyone has spent so much time trying to not offend anyone that they have sucked all the fun out of life. I would like to preface this story by saying that I am not a racist. I don’t care what color your skin is or what you believe in. I figure live and let live, but make it funny.

We sat down to dinner and my roomie began to talk about her assistant manager. She bitched for a moment referring to him as, “the flamer at my work.” Now, this didn’t phase me in the least. I’m gay, but I know the difference between someone being funny and someone being offensive. Then she began to tell her friend about our horrible apartment experience. I added to the story, “we have evil Jew bastard landlords.” It’s true they really are slightly evil, considering we still don’t have a finished apartment or keys to our building. I borrow the phrase “Jew bastard” from my favorite comedian, Lisa Lampanelli. If you’ve never heard of her then I insist you google her now, I’ll wait.

Allison the super Mormon, who is my roomie’s friend, responded, 

“I don’t appreciate that.”
“What?” I replied.
“You being a racist.”
“I’m not a racist. I’m honest,” I snapped, getting a little pissed.
“Well, I don’t want to hear that.”
“Well I won’t censor myself for you, so you’ll get over it.”
My roomie added, “He won’t censor himself.”

I was proud of her for standing by my side. Now let me explain why I felt so compelled to argue this fact. I usually would let it go and not say it again if it really bothered someone that much. However, this girl is very religious and being a total hypocrite. I find it very interesting that she had no problem with a gay person being called a flamer but it was unacceptable to refer to a religious person in a derogatory way. I call this point out because I was also raised Mormon and I know how some of them like to act as though they are better than everyone else, but deny that they are doing so. They, like many religions, believe that gay people go to hell. I love religion for its brainwashing abilities.

The evening ended shortly after our spat. Pretending she wasn’t a total fake bitch Allison left me with, “it was nice to meet you.”
I’m happy to say that I am a bitch. I turned and walked down the stairs to the subway.

Too Old to Know Better

I recently found myself with a few days to myself. Dollar had to leave town to visit an ill family member and I was left to entertain myself. What better way to entertain myself than to say hello to Wall Street?

I accepted Wall Street’s invitation to his friend’s birthday party. We met at his apartment and had a few drinks before making our way over to the party. I didn’t even have my drink made before getting riled up. Earlier in the evening when I was on the train a girl had commented on my pants. She didn’t think I could hear her over my iPod, when she started ranting about the destructed state of my jeans. I ever so politely mentioned to her that it was extremely inappropriate for someone who looks like they crawled out of a shower drain to be giving fashion advice. I mentioned this to Wall Street while several of his friends were gathered around. Little Bitch, as I refer to him, is one of Wall Street’s buddies. He is the type of person that likes to come off as an ass. He added to my story, “She was right.” If you know anything about me then you know I had to say something. I snapped, “That was overly bitchy, don’t ya think?” I then finished my drink and made my way towards the makeshift bar. Little Bitch avoided me the rest of the evening, which was fine with me. Though I did enjoy the expression of shock on his face after our conversation. 

The evening picked up from there. I made friends with some girl, had a guy try and take me home, had a hand shoved down my pants, kissed Wall Street (or so he claims) and finally started drunk texting on my phone. I’m usually very good about not touching my phone when I’ve been drinking, but something got into me. 

One thing I rarely mention to people is that I did the love thing once. Three years ago I was in a long-term relationship with the only guy I’ve never been able to give a nickname. Jerome and I ended when I flipped out and pushed him away and now I get trashed and think about it. I picked up my phone and the texts began. For some reason I was very focused on the fact that he was completely over me but I was stuck on him. He feeds the fire by saying that he isn’t over me but we shouldn’t be together. I don’t know if he intentionally does it or not, but it gets me all worked up. In my blurry state all I want to hear is that he wanted me back. I don’t care if it’s a lie. I know he lives 2000 miles away and I may never even see him again, but come on, lie to me! I’ve realized the only way for me to prevent this sadistic form of self-torture is to delete his number from my phone. I can still always email him,  how many times have I drunk im-ed someone? Well, a few times, but still it is far less likely to happen.

The next day I went about things pretending that I hadn’t done what I remembered. When my roomie asked for details about the evening I was very vague giving a distorted diet version of the evenings events. I figure I don’t need the reminder that I should know better by now.

It's Brooklyn Bitch!

We’ve all heard the saying, ‘moving is hell’. I firmly believe that the person that came up with this must have been moving to Brooklyn. Moving can be a nightmare no matter where you move, but I can promise you that this is worse. Let us rewind to last Thursday when we paid our first month’s rent. The very Jewish man that we signed our lease with told us that they would have the keys to us that night because there were a few things they needed to finish around the apartment. My roomie, Lacee, and I said that was fine. We made our way over to the apartment and began moving her things in. 

The building we’re moving into is newly renovated and incredibly nice. We were surprised, to say the least, to find that there was no power or water in the apartment. I got on the phone and called the person I was told was the property manager, he promptly told me he had no idea what I was talking about and I needed to call someone else. I played phone tag for about twenty minutes before I was able to find someone that knew something about our apartment.  This is when the tomorrows began. 

Friday came and now it was time to move my stuff in. We packed it in the truck and hauled it over. After moving everything in I called the tomorrow man and he said we would have to wait until Monday for power and water, not to mention we still had no keys to the apartment. I called the Jew that had taken our rent money and he said a locksmith would come out to change the locks, but not until Saturday. Dollar was kind enough to take Lacee and myself in for two nights, so that we were able to rinse the sweat off ourselves.

Saturday arrived and we had to return the moving truck to a location in Queens. I haven’t driven in months and Lacee isn’t much of a driver either. I forced her to drive, using my suspended license as an excuse. I have a $750 warrant in Wyoming that we can talk about another day. She drove, while I guided us with my laptop. Oh, the misadventures that we have! We sideswiped a bus, nearly tearing our mirror off. We laughed hysterically, terrified that the bus driver was going to come after us. That little adventure was followed by; hitting one of the cement barriers that support the elevated rail. I can say that if it weren’t for our innate ability to laugh at ourselves, and our situations, we would both probably have been in tears from stress. Somehow we managed to get the truck back to the lot without causing much more harm to the truck or ourselves.

Sunday was a bright and happy day. We awoke at Dollar’s house, hopping on a bus and then on the Long Island Railroad at Penn Station. We needed to find the way for my roomie to get to work. She just moved her for a job in Bay Shore, which is way out in Long Island. It took about two hours on the LIRR to get us to Bay Shore, where we searched for a bus. We stopped in a gas station, where a drink exploded on me, to ask for directions to the mall. I couldn’t understand our Muslim friend behind the counter, but we tried our best to follow his pointing. We ended up walking a half-mile out of the way and two hours later got to the mall. Looking like hell, Lacee snagged the keys to her store and we tried to find out about the bus. We were sad to be informed that the bus only runs Monday-Saturday. Walking through the 90 million degree heat we finally got ourselves back to the train. It took three trains to get us back to Brooklyn, where we were starving and dying of thirst. We stopped in the local store where we bought dinner. Arriving back at our building we were greeted by silence. The security guard who has to let us in and out of our apartment, due to our lack of keys, was gone. We sat on the stairs for about an hour before he arrived to let us into the black hole that we live in. We plopped on the couch, lighting enough candles for us to see our white trash dinner. We ate our cold spaghetti-o’s, warm bottled water and pint of melted ice cream. It’s like we live in a white trash paradise and there just happen to be some brown people there too!

Monday. Oh, Monday. I awoke with such high hopes for the day. I waited until about noon to call the property manager about the water and power.  All the tomorrows had been changed to Monday when Saturday had arrived. I was very unhappy to hear that they weren’t going to be able to fix anything until Friday. That’s when it happened, I snapped. This is a direct quote from my conversation with the tomorrow man, “Everyday has been tomorrow, it’s f**king tomorrow! We can’t take a shit in the f**king toilet or make anything to eat. We have no water in the bathroom, but for some reason we have it in the kitchen. We have no power and it’s been four days. You let us move in and it’s a f**king slum. I’m going to report you if it’s not fixed today!” Mind you, that all of this came out in my loud-scary sounding-straight voice. I feel I’ve been jerked around enough and obviously being nice isn’t working with these people. I had to leave so I could find a place to charge my phone and laptop, but unfortunately for me the three Starbucks I visited were full of people in my same sinking boat. Not one of them had a free outlet for me to use. Luckily, I was able to borrow an outlet at Dollar’s office for an hour.

I got myself on the ever-lovely L train and made my way home. I was straddled with a shoulder bag and three heavy shopping bags that were beginning to rip. My phone kept ringing: Mom. Roommate. Roommate. Dollar. Mom. Roommate! There are those moments when you want to pull your hair out, but I have mine cut so short there’s not much to work with. I walked into our darkened apartment, knocking over a tower of DVD’s. It just added to my already over the top frustration. My roomie sat in the dark, ready to give me good news. Our Jew landlords were working to get the power and water working! They claimed to not know anyone was living in our apartment, which I had to do my best not to snap over. 

It’s now Tuesday and things are coming together. We have a toilet that can flush, hot water to shower and electricity to see. It just goes to show that you have to yell in a scary straight voice sometimes for people to listen.

7 Days

525,600 minutes. How do you measure, measure a year? Well, I sure as hell don’t measure it in any musical manner. I am getting the impression that my lover, Dollar, is looking for this magical musical measurement. 

We had the first fight! It wasn’t so much a fight as it was an argument over it being a fight. Let me explain. We were having a few drinks at Dollar’s friend’s house and just talking about random things. Out of the blue he mentioned that we had met a week before. I was just drunk enough to not keep my mouth shut, “Seven days doesn’t mean anything!” I blurted. The reaction was almost instantaneous. Dollar put on his angry face, which I only needed seven seconds to learn, he turned slightly away and took a sip of his beer. I quickly apologized; realizing seven days was a big deal to him, even if to me it was microscopically short. In all honesty, is it that big of a deal? You never hear someone say, “Yeah we’ve been together for three years and a week.”

We then argued back and forth over the fact that he was angry, and the fact that I thought him being angry was a waste of energy. The problem we now ran into was this: When I’m angry I just get over it and I expect others to do the same. Unless I have a good reason to be angry and then I use my philosophy of forgive and never forget, but that’s another topic. When Dollar is angry he remains angry, but withdraws from the situation.

We spent most of the night arguing over him being mad, which followed with an explanation of why he was mad, and an apology from me for speaking without consideration. I still believe that the entire situation was ridiculous. If we had been together a year and I responded in such a way, then yes, please be angry with me. I know I apologized but I can’t say that I meant it, especially when I don’t feel like I did anything to be sorry for.

It only took a day for us to get back on track to happy dating town. Things are going well, I let Dollar come over to my apartment for the first time. That was a feat; I never let guys come home with me, even if we are dating. For the moment things are good, unfortunately I am left to wonder if there is an argument waiting to begin from whatever little thing is building on the tip of my tongue.

Dollar Rides

In the world of dating, the gay world that is, relationships move at the speed of light. Wall Street and I ended on a sour note after only two months. Long story short, he’s looking for a friend with benefits, but I’m not interested in being a sex ATM.

I found myself with no options, and I thought that internet dating may be worth a try. I put together my little profile, added some pictures and with a click of the mouse I was on my way. It seemed I was very popular. Responses were coming in top and bottom, digging through them I found one that struck me.  Dollar, yes that’s his nickname, was handsome for a blurry picture. He had the major things I look for: dark hair, dark eyes.

Initially, I agreed to go have a drink with him out by the river. The night was slightly derailed in the first 10 minutes. He gave me directions from the train, meeting me on the street. We stopped to grab some beer, taking part in a makeshift wine tasting, continuing on to his friend’s house. When I realized we were going into his friend’s house I started to panic. I hate meeting the friends, especially when I’ve only been dating someone a short time. Meeting them when I had only met Dollar five minutes prior, seemed a bit rushed.

We entered the apartment, normal looking for a twenty-something: dirty dishes in the sink, an empty vodka bottle, cloths strewn about. We sat on the couch talking while I slammed my first two beers; I drink faster when I’m nervous. I would like to advise: If there is someone to stop you from picking up that third, fourth and fifth drink, utilize them! Over the next three hours Dollar, his friend and I got tipsy, watching practice fireworks over the Hudson River, playing great-bad music, and at one point I was inclined to ride the slide for toddlers on the apartment’s playground.

The next morning I awoke, exhausted and sick from only having slept three hours and choosing to mix beer and vodka. I got myself dressed, coming to realize that my shirt was gone and my chest and stomach were covered in black marker. This posed a dilemma. I had been wanting to hit Starbucks from the minute I passed out, I was just craving that latte! So, I walked in, covered in marker, wearing a borrowed dingy stretched out wife beater, and ordered. I felt relived at my own appearance when I realized a pre-op tranny was making my coffee. I was almost glad I looked like an ‘80’s glam rocker, otherwise I may not have fit in with the local eccentricities of this particular Starbucks.

The amazing thing is that later the same day Dollar sent me a text about hanging out again. I was shocked to say the least. He had seen me sloppy drunk, witnessed me stripping in public, used me as a wall for graffiti and still wasn’t scared off. Either he is the bravest man in the world, or I’m really good in bed, yes I put out on the first date. I blame that partially on the alcohol and partially on me being easy. Now, it’s very early on, three days to be exact, but things are going surprisingly well. I’ve been up two nights until the crack of dawn talking on the phone with Dollar, and we spent three hours sitting on the pier last night. I can’t say for certain but there’s hope that this may actually turn into a real functioning relationship.

Petty Ex-Hater

When you ask people what is an important characteristic of someone they date, you always hear, “that my friends like him/her”. How many times have you gone through a break-up and afterwards your friends tell you how they, “never really liked the person,” and “they’re so glad you broke up”? We’ve all been there, but what about when you have to meet their friends? That’s even worse! 

Let me explain. I’ve been dating Wall Street for about a month now, nothing too serious, just coffee, movies and a little bit of sex. (I give everyone I date nicknames, which is very important to know. This particular guy’s nickname is Wall Street, obviously because of where he works.) 

In New York City, during Pride weekend, all of the gays throw house parties like it’s 2999, but that’s not the point. Wall Street invited me to be his date to one of these parties. (For the record I would like to state that I am not a typical gay. No rainbows, no pink, no parades, period!) I agreed to go, after it was made abundantly clear that there would be a well stocked bar. We arrived, and everything was off to a running start. Gay men have a tendency to kiss you on the cheek rather than just shaking your hand, as a New Yorker I find this to be an incredible violation of space. DON’T STEP INTO MY BUBBLE! The host immediately commented, “you’re all wet!”, which I was. It was a million degrees outside and humid like the seventh circle of hell, unfortunately I had worn jeans and a heavier shirt to appear somewhat put together in front of Wall Street’s friends. When what I should have done was stick to my usual shorts and a tank top, but live and learn.

The evening progressed rapidly due to the incredible amount of vodka that was going into each drink. I can hold my own, but after three vodkas with a drop of pink whatever, I was hammered. This is where things took a downward turn. Who doesn’t have the ability to speak their mind when they’re drunk? I look up and there is this person coming in the front door. “Is that a boy or a girl?” I ask, loudly. “That’s my ex,” snaps Wall Street. Now, not only was I the sloppy drunk date, but I was also the petty ex-hater. In my defense, I had no idea it was his ex, but I stand by what I said. After all, I am a petty ex-hater. 

As the party ended I thought I would be free from any more humiliation, but that’s just not my luck. We went to the after party, where a very blonde boy decided he was interested in talking to me. I wasn’t interested in anything more than the cosmo they were passing me over his head. Yes, we were drinking cosmos at this point, but it was a gay party, which makes it totally appropriate. Over the next thirty minutes blondie found me three more times and reintroduced himself to me. Well, being irritated, I ripped his pretty little head off. Now I was the: bitchy-sloppy drunk-petty ex-hater.  

The moral of this entire roundabout story is: Even after all of this, Wall Street’s best friend still likes me. So when it comes to meeting the friends of the person you are dating you just have to hope they have extremely good taste, otherwise you’re screwed.