I knew he had a girlfriend, but that didn’t stop me from liking him, nor did it discourage me from making out with him at any opportunity. He told me all the old standard lies — she was a bitch, she was crazy, they never had sex anymore and they were pretty much dunzo anyway — and I chose to believe him.
Yet due to some sort of highly flexible boundary system he had worked out in his head, though we would fool around, we never actually had sex. Because somehow being handsy and mouthy was fine, but actual p-to-v would be cheating.
Sigh times a thousand.
Maybe it was because I had been single for so long, or dating jerks, or catching a case of the incredibly stupids, this went on for some time. I lost sleep, moaned to my extremely patient friends, and basically acted like a complete asshole. “He’s so nice,” I’d bleat, savoring the little crumbs of affection I’d collect whenever we’d manage a few minutes together.
Like every other textbook “other” woman, I turned his girlfriend into my mortal enemy. After all, she was keeping me from him. She was standing in the way of our great love. It wasn’t his lily-livered fault. It was all her. That bitch.
A brief aside: Why do we all do this? As I can plainly see when I’m not the one starring in the Lifetime movie of my life, it’s not the girlfriend or wife’s fault that they’re together. If she were really so awful, why is he still with her? Isn’t he the horrible one for lying and cheating? Yet we side pieces are always blaming his costar, when it’s his fault.
But I digress. They eventually did break up. Much to my surprise, she dumped him and not because of me. As far as I know, she never discovered his infidelities. Even more to my surprise, he didn’t immediately call me to ignite our Bigtime Totally Legal Love Affair. Instead we drifted into each other one night at a bar. My head was still firmly entrenched up my ass, so his non-communication didn’t bother me.
All I heard was: He’s single, we can finally have sex!
I dragged him home from the bar, not really realizing just how drunk he was.
Wanting everything to be perfect, I left him in my bedroom while I took a shower, brushed my teeth, and changed into something slutty.
But, dear reader, things weren’t perfect. In fact, far from it. As I walked into the bedroom, the first thing that hit me was the smell. Denial was my friend until my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting.
He had apparently been preparing for our big night by dropping trou, but halfway through disrobing, he’d passed out, face down on my bed, pants gathered around his knees. His feet were still on the floor and creeping out of his boxer shorts and onto my sheets was a massive puddle of brown lumpy dung. There I was, ready for action, but instead, I was staring at his last three digested meals, marinated with god knows how many Brooklyn Lagers, soaking into my futon (since discarded) and burning into my retinas and nasal passages.
My impromptu sexy night of sex had morphed into some sort of scat porn, but without any of the porn. I was dressed to seduce and stuck with a fecal leaker who would not wake up no matter how much I yelled, poked and even kicked (lightly).
I eventually gave up and slept on the sofa. He crept out the next morning without even saying goodbye, or even attempting a cleanup. I pretended to be asleep as he left, because really, what could be said? Except maybe, “I’m sorry, here’s a check for $5 million for a new apartment and a tanker full of brain bleach?”
Would I say that I deserved a futon full of feces? Probably not . . . but maybe just a little.