i just feel like
Boy, interrupted.

My therapist’s office is kind of drab and it sort of reminds me of the Partridge Family because it’s a little dusty, a little disheveled, and the stiff furniture is either diarrhea brown or pale orange. There’s a variety of magazines in the waiting room, ranging from Time to People Magazine, so when I’m bored with reading about endangered species in the Congo, I can always flip over to Kirstie Alley’s amazing weight loss. On the right hand wall, there’s this smoky picture of what I had assumed to be John Lennon doing some sort of sign language pose, but it turns out that it’s actually Barishnykov. In one corner, there’s this monitor to an ancient computer, on a stand alone desk, and I’m pretty sure if you turned it on, it would be the kind of screen that has the green letters on it. You know, the kind of computer that Patrick Swayze wrote “Murderermurderermurderermurderer” when he was terrorizing his best friend, who had him murdered so that he could steal a pixie-haired Demi Moore and embezzle millions of dollars for a mafia king pin. My therapist’s office is a little eccentric and a little off but it’s got character. Kind of like your grandma’s house.

It is my firm belief that everyone should go to therapy. Why? Because I am not your therapist, I am your friend, and when you ask for my opinion, I will give it to you. But, if you choose not to apply my suggestion of how to deal with your quasi-but-not-quite- boyfriend, who not only refuses to label your relationship (which means he wants to have his cake and eat it too) but also refuses to pick up your phone calls, then it’s your problem. Do not call me to tell me how you completely ignored my advice and did whatever the fuck you wanted and now you’re crying on the phone because you feel stupid that you acted like a complete idiot. No, I do not want to have drinks with you so you can talk to me for three hours about why he won’t commit to a relationship, why he’s the only guy that you’ve ever felt this way before, and I especially don’t want to hear that you’re going to break up with him because I know that the next time I talk to you, you’re going to tell me, “Oh, we’re working it out.” Get a freakin’ therapist and stop dragging me through the mud, because I’ve got enough problems of my own that don’t involve you and your relationship with Mr. On Again, Off Again. As you can tell, I am a very caring and compassionate friend, who values patience as my top virtue and most endearing quality.

I have been seeing Billy for eight months and I can honestly understand why patients fall in love with their therapists. I am not in love with Billy in any way, shape, or form, but I can definitely understand it. Billy is Jewish, with an emphasis on the ish, since he is not practicing, but he talks like Barbra Streisand only two octaves lower and with a perpetual cold. He always wears these gray polo shirts, even in the dead of winter. He kind of reminds me of Snuffaleupagus. Billy is cultured and loves movies, television, and plays. What I appreciate the most about Billy is that he isn’t one of those, “Well, how does that make you feel?” sort of therapists. He listens for the most part, says things like, “That’s shitty. I’m sorry that happened,” or sometimes, based on my one word answers, he’ll steer the conversation clear of painful things and we’ll talk about our favorite movies for forty five minutes. In one of our sessions, I imitated my father going off on one of his rants and Billy laughed so hard he started to cry. As my therapist wiped the tears from his eyes, he said, “Ricky, I always look forward to our time. I think you’re one of the funniest people I’ve ever met.” Now, I don’t know if this is appropriate for a therapist to tell his patient, but it made me feel good. And I think Billy knows me well enough to know that I’m not going to tell his next patient that they’re not as funny as I am. Not my style.

Billy has a wide area of concentration and all these certifications: Personality disorders (I don’t have that — Oh my god, Ricky, you totes do — Will you shut up?!), alcohol and drug abuse (If I’m drunk once a month, it’s a good month), but he also has extensive training in dealing with LGBTQ issues. Before I attended my first therapy session, I had finally decided that I was tired of not dealing with my issues and I needed to get the fuck out of bed. Up until that point, I had never understood depression, and being that I’m Puerto Rican, I always thought that depression was a white man’s disease. I know that this sounds racist, but I mean it in the most “What are you talking about? I have black friends!” sort of non-racist ways possible. I’m sure that there are many Puerto Ricans out there who experience depression, but it’s always chocked up as something else. They’re unhappy, they’re going through a phase, they’re just being dramatic. It wasn’t until I didn’t even want to wake up in the morning and it hurt to get out of bed, that I realized there was something wrong. I had gotten a referral from my insurance company and I had my first session with Billy, and I realized I needed some help. I was never suicidal, I don’t like pain or needles or knives and I figure if I want attention, I can just put on my mom’s heels and do my best Nicki Minaj impersonation. Yet, there was just this immense sadness that I could not shake off. Eight months later, I see Billy once every two to three weeks, just for a little tune up.

Between the holidays and my busy schedule, I hadn’t seen in Billy in a month. We exchanged pleasantries, he always starts with, “What’s been going on?” I started to talk about my holidays, trying to avoid the subject of Andrew at all costs. I know that the point of therapy is to get things off of your chests, but I’ve only cried once in therapy, and it was tears of happiness. I had forgotten that I had mentioned that Andrew was coming back to town, and I’ve talked to Billy extensively about Andrew, as you can probably tell, since most of my entries are dedicated to that piece of shit who has taken my heart, spit on it, took a sledge hammer, bashed it to pieces, and then stuck it back in this little cavity, so he mentioned Andrew’s visit. And I started to cry. Ugly, sloppy tears. Even though I’ve written about Andrew, I haven’t said the words aloud, and as the story continued to progress, the tears just got uglier and my heart grew heavier and heavier. Billy and I talked about it for a while and finally Billy looked me in the eye and said, “Your next step is to put yourself out there,” and when he saw my eyes roll, “because you’re so worthy of finding someone who is going to love you and cherish you and Andrew isn’t ready and he might never be. What are you going to do if he’s never ready?”

I don’t know that I’m ready to put myself out there, open myself up enough for a person to come barging in, and tear down these walls that I’ve built around my heart. I don’t know if I’m willing to share my deep, dark secrets and dreams, just so that someone will turn that around and use it against me later. I don’t know that I will ever be able to laugh at someone’s joke and not think to myself, “If Andrew had said that joke, I’d be peeing in my pants,” And I don’t know what I will do if Andrew is never ready for me, never ready to be with someone who has loved him for so long but would never tell him. The reality is, I don’t know that I want to move on, because then I would know that I need a clean break from him. At this point in my life, I don’t know that I can simply be his friend and remained detached from the things that make him happy or the things that make him hurt. Every single time, I get sucked into his world and his problems, and even when I try to escape his grip, I find myself going back on my word.

For all the things I don’t know, I do know something. I am worthy. I am so worthy of someone who will love me endlessly and forever. I am worthy of someone who will not be obsessive, who will not try to control me, who will love me for who I am. I am worthy of someone who will love my flaws, the chinks in my armor, as much as they love what makes me strong. I am worthy of someone who will lift me up and not tear me down. I is kind, I is smart, I is important.

And Andrew’s calling me again since his boyfriend is out of town.

hello love, have a nice day
Anonymous

Thanks doll face, hope all is well in your world.

Hungover.

I had woken up with the worst hangover but it wasn’t the kind of hang over that could be cured with a little bit of bread, Advil, and a romantic comedy on Netflix. So, essentially, my hangover cure includes carbs, blue pills, and crying my heart out when Julia Roberts realizes that she lost her best friend to Cameron Diaz. Fucking bummer. My head was pounding so hard from the minute I had opened my eyes that it felt like my brain was knocking on my skull’s door, saying, “Hey, moron, forgot about me? Just in case you forgot, I’m still around, and I want to remind you that you are an idiot.” My stomach didn’t hurt, I wasn’t feeling nauseous, and I hadn’t woken up in my clothes from the night before. As I got up, my eyes squinted like someone punched me in the face, I went to the cabinet and there was no Advil to speak of. The bread that I had wanted to make toast had the slightest of mold on the crust. And my Netflix wasn’t working. No cure in sight. Just this pounding head ache and this empty feeling as I tried to figure out the second source of pain in my body. My heart. Okay, that was even way too dramatic for me, but I liked the imagery.

The calls kept pouring in and every time Andrew’s name, along with his stupid Facebook picture, blinked on my phone, I turned it over, and ignored the call. I honestly didn’t know what to say and I thought that if I had spoken to him the day after he decided to be Captain Douche of the USS Asshole, I probably would have said some really spiteful, heinous things, and I would have regretted them immensely. I don’t know why I chose to spare him from my biting tongue, he definitely did not deserve my sympathy or mercy, but I tried to remember that message in Bambi about “don’t say anything at all” if you can’t be nice. Who takes advice from an animated Disney movie about talking creatures in a forest? This guy right here. Other lessons learned: never take an appletini from an old man, you’re going to wind up asleep, and surrounded by seven midgets. I’ve never had an appletini in my life. I don’t know why I felt the need to confess this, but it’s the truth. Every time he would call, Thumper’s voice echoed in my head, and I went on with my day.

Finally, I got the text, “Are you ignoring me?” Yes, I was. I make avoiding an art form. I am the Van Gogh of avoiding, pre- and post hacking of the ear. I don’t want to blame my parents, but I blame my parents. When my parents were getting divorced, I watched them hurt each other every day with words and I vowed that I would never do the same. So instead, when things really hurt me to the core, I just avoid the subject entirely because I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feeling. As I grew older and found that being walked on was worse than speaking my mind, my avoidance began to grow into something else. It grew into this long fuse that just continues to spark and spark and spark until I explode. I wait and wait and wait until someone says something really petty and I just demolish everything. I feel that this is worse than people who just explode at a moment’s notice and then apologize because they were in the heat of the moment. Waiting is worse because I’ve had time to think of all the harsh things I can say and then I just lay it out on the table and don’t care whether or not I’ve left you crushed and mangled. So I replied, “I’ve been busy. Will call you later.”

After I came from my two hour visit to the car dealership and signed the lease to my 2010 Black Kia Soul, I decided to call him. We exchanged pleasantries and finally he said, “I really messed up last night.” I said nothing. Nothing. Fucking nothing. I wanted to tell him off, rip him a new asshole, but being that he’s a pitcher and not a catcher, it probably wouldn’t have even mattered. And what really irked me the most was,he never said he was sorry to me. That might have been his pathetic apology but I wanted more. Did I tell him I wanted more? No, I didn’t. Why? Because if he’s the captain of USS Asshole, then I’m the first mate and the cleaning crew and head chef. So we made plans to have lunch the next day with our old acting teacher and so I swallowed his apology, and decided that even if it wasn’t meant for me, I was going to take it and pick him up the next day, which was New Year’s Eve.

Lunch was nice, I guess. We didn’t speak about the night before on the drive there and all he kept mentioning was that he was hungry. So, lunch was nice. And then as I drove him back, he told me that he had come out to his little sister. I’m an excellent reader of people and behavior and had I had some sense, I would’ve been an excellent FBI agent. But then, I saw Silence of the Lambs, and even a movie couldn’t make it glamorous. It was so obvious to me that he wanted to talk about our escapade in the city, but I kept on changing the subject. He continued to squirm in his seat and asked me about my new car, “Is this a 2010?” I replied that it was. “Kia Soul, right?” I nodded my head as I switched lanes and sang along with Nicki Minaj. Multitasking is my bitch. “Todd has the same kind.” Todd. His boyfriend. The bane of my existence. Well, not quite the bane, considering Andrew had kissed that Nuyorican two nights before. In fact, after the night in New York, I had realized that the problem wasn’t with Todd. The problem was with Andrew.

Pause. Todd had the same exact model, the exact same color, his birthday is the same as mine, AND he likes the same music I do. So, essentially, I took it as Andrew saying that he was just dating a hotter version of me, so instead, I just snickered and said that was very nice. For the past six months, I’ve been studying up on the Law of Attraction, which is basically the foundation of the Secret. Now, I don’t know if I believe in all that stuff entirely, but I thought it was funny. The first principle of the Law of Attraction is you set the intention for what you want in your life, which means you attract things that you want and that you don’t want. So, essentially, this was one cosmic joke. Then, Andrew proceeded to say, “I wish you would talk to him.” WHAT? As I fumed, I started to ponder how I had attracted Andrew’s boyfriend exact car by focusing on what I didn’t want and Andrew was focusing on getting me to like his boyfriend, so essentially, without knowing, I wound up with a reminder that Andrew was not mine. “You’d like him.”

As I continued to steam, and drive a little faster in silence, Andrew couldn’t take it anymore. “Drew called me yesterday.” I had no idea who Drew was. Apparently he was the Nuyorican from the club and apparently he wasn’t a Nuyorican. “Mark called me too.” Who the fuck was Mark? “The bartender gave me his number.” I complained about the bartender’s shitty drink and Andrew told me it had been Mark’s first day. No excuses. I paid nine dollars for your shitty first day rum and cokes, Mark. But I decided that I was going to let it go once again until Andrew asked, “I know you well enough to know that you’re thinking something and it’s messed up that you’re thinking something about me and I don’t know what you’re thinking.”

I evened my breath, “You’re not going to like it. I don’t want you to be mad at me.” He insisted that he wasn’t and it was worse knowing that I had this inner monologue going on. So I said, “I love you immensely, so don’t take this the right day. A person who is happy as you say you are doesn’t do what you did. A person who is as much in love as you say you are doesn’t go into a bar and cheats on his boyfriend the first moment he can get. I’m not just any person, Andrew, it’s me. I know you. And you can sit there and be delusional all you want, but you’re not going to pull the wool over my fucking eyes and tell me any different. Something is missing and you tried to replace that little hole in your heart by giving a blowjob in the dirty bathroom of a club.” He gasped audibly. I mentioned the blowjob thing to diffuse the tension and create some levity, but I didn’t realize that I was right. The Long Island medium doesn’t have shit on me. “I don’t know what’s going on with you Andrew, but you can’t keep on with this happy happy joy joy shit. It’s old and I’m not fucking buying it.”

His reply sounded something like, “Blah blah blah, I love him more than I’ve loved anything in my life blah blah, it was a purely sexual thing blah blah, Todd was being annoying and wasn’t responding to my texts blah blah blah. I would never tell him because he’s jealous blah blah. I’m a delusional idiot blah blah.” Well, he didn’t say the last thing, but that was the summary. So, I dropped him off at his house, with nothing resolved. And my hang over headache started to return once more for vengeance and I didn’t have a drink. I returned home, got dressed, went to church and went over to Andrew’s house for New Years.

Now, I know what you guys are thinking. I’m psychic, remember? I’m a pathetic mess, who loves to be hurt and abused. I’m the creepy albino from The Da Vinci Code and I’m no closer to God than he is. And then I think why does Carrie always get back with Big? Or why does Elizabeth Bennett hook up with Mr. Darcy when he’s a super douche? The reality is, the heart wants what the heart wants, and the head will pound and pound while it tries to remind you that you’re a freaking moron. I drank with him on New Year’s, laughed with him, and almost cried once more. I want to spend every holiday with Andrew, not just when he comes into town every six months. I wound up spending the night on the couch, and he laid on the floor next to me and we talked about Britney Spears, our resolutions, and our favorite Youtube videos. I left that next morning before he woke up and didn’t say goodbye.

I texted him later that day, since he was leaving back to California. My text read, “Have a safe flight. Forget me not.” He replied, “I won’t, boo.” Do you think he’s called or texted me to tell me he got home safe? Take a wild fucking guess.

Andrew Wars Episode VI: Return of the Feelings

As Andrew laid his head in my lap on the train ride to the car, I leaned my hand over and started to rub his back as he fell asleep. I don’t know where this impulse came from but before I realized what was going on, my fingers were drawing lazy circles in the middle of his back. He snuggled a little closer and I could feel my heart jump up into my throat. Those ten minutes seemed to extend into infinity as I felt the rise and fall of his chest, heard his breathing transform into the snore of a baby dinosaur, smelled the rum and coke and Marc Jacobs cologne. With every passing moment, I died, saw Heaven, was reborn, died, saw Heaven, was reborn all over again. I didn’t want this to be over, and with every passing moment, I could feel that lump swell up in the back of my throat, my lips drying with anxiety. When the conductor’s voice came on the loudspeaker to announce that we’d arrived at the station, I rubbed his back and whispered, “Andrew. Wake up. We’re here.” He inhaled deeply and sat upright.

The magic was over. Spell broken. And as we walked to the sliding doors, that lump transformed into something else when I remembered our night. As I stepped out into the cold air, and pulled out my keys from my pocket, I could feel the heat rise into my cheeks. I was fucking pissed.

“You are so pissed with me. Admit it.” Andrew had said a few days prior to our adventure into New York City. This hadn’t been the first time Andrew had said this to me since he came into town. I smirked smugly, the same way I had done every other time when he told me I was upset with him, and assured him that wasn’t true. Up until last night, I hadn’t been angry with Andrew. I hated that being around him made me vulnerable, and there’s nothing I hate more than vulnerability. Now, don’t get it mixed it up, sincerity and vulnerability are two different things. I don’t mind being sincere with another person, telling them how I feel, listening to their woes, and responding as honestly I can without getting too heavily wrapped up in your world. Vulnerability implies that you are completely open and honest, that you are open to the possibility of being loved or being completely broken. In a few of my relationships, I’ve been sincere when the other person was being vulnerable, and they aren’t the same thing.

When Andrew arrived to town, I promised myself that I wouldn’t get so wrapped up in his world, and so I’ve kept my distance. Yet, every time we begin to talk, I find myself laughing so hard till I want to throw up. Or pee my pants. Or both. Gross visual, but with him, it’s that visceral. When I talk to Andrew it isn’t just two talking bobble heads, nodding at each other and smiling. I feel things, I get so wrapped up in his stories, in his laughter, and in his sadness. However, since the moment he stepped off the plane, he kept insisting that everything was going great in his life. His dog was great. His boyfriend, Todd, was great. Work was great. California was great. Just a steaming pile of great. I had figured all of this out for the most part. When things are going great in Andrew’s life, he’s Casper the Fucking Absentee Ghost, and I’m the one who has to constantly be reaching out to him. Sometimes he will get back to me days later, sometimes not at all. Before coming back home, I hadn’t spoken to Andrew for a month. And while he’s been here, he regales his stories of California, never telling them of the double life he leads, while reminding all of us how shitty New Jersey is.

“I wanna go to the city,” Andrew was scared that we’d run into someone we knew at the local gay bar, so before I knew it, we were driving to the train station and heading into the city. In all honesty, I really didn’t want to go, I just kind of wanted to stay in and watch a movie, and not spend all of my money on shitty drinks, but because it was Andrew, I obliged. And I looked good. On a scale of hot, I’m going to be honest here, and say I’m a 7, slightly above average, but could use some improvements. Honestly, Andrew is a 7, too, but he’s got this incredible smile thanks to a great plastic surgeon in Colombia, and anytime he smiles, it gets those stupid fucking butterflies flapping around in my stomach. Wait. Do butterflies flap their wings or do you only use that for birds. The endless questions that wrack through my busy mind. Moving on. Despite being slightly above average, I looked good. I love fashion more than I can say. I love a great cardigan, or blazer, great shoes, dark washed jeans. And Andrew honestly looked like he just came off the bus from Oregon, and as I told him this, he laughed and said, “No I don’t! Wait. Do I?”

After drinking two $9 dollar for shitty rum and cokes, spending ten dollars on a cover and three dollars to check my coat, I was ready to dance. Here’s the deal, although I’m open to the possibility of perhaps meeting Mr. Right in a club, I know that’s probably not gonna happen. When I go out with a friend, I’m there to have fun. I’m not there to cruise or have a staring content with someone to decide who’s fiercer - I honestly don’t give a fuck if the shoulder of your blazer has spikes on it. It’s fucking ugly. People are so fucking delusional and if you think that I’m going to make out with you after you played tonsil hockey with two other people, even if you look like Michael Fassbender had a baby with Jason Segel (I have no idea why I have a crush on Jason Segel. Don’t judge me.), it’s not gonna happen. And so we made our way to the dance floor, I love the way Andrew dances, it’s like ghetto meets high society, it’s so funny. We stared at the GoGo dancer who had a huge bulge in his banana hammock that I’m hoping belongs to an elephant. We went back to the bar, and that’s when it happened.

“My friend thinks your cute,” This cute little chola nugget came up to us and spoke to Andrew. And so we made our way across the bar so that Andrew could talk to the guy who called him cute. The chola pulled me to the dance floor and we danced with each other while Andrew whispered into the guy’s ear, who I shall now deem henceforth Rico Suave, a Nuyorican with a Yankees hat. Time continued to pass, more drinks were had, and Andrew had completely ignored me most of the night while he chatted the night away with Rico Suave and I danced with the chola and a group of her friends. At one point, I turned to look at Andrew, to make sure if he was alright, and he was staring at Rico, who was conversing with some hot specimens. Staring is a gross understatement. Andrew looked like a wounded animal, desperate and hungry, waiting for Rico to lick his wounds. More time passed, and by this time, I was drunk.

Drunk Ricky is fun and doesn’t come out to play very often. Honestly, if I’m drunk once a month it’s been a good month. But I’m NEVER, and I repeat NEVER, a sloppy hot mess that needs someone to hold my hair back. I hate when people get belligerent when they drink and if you are going to be belligerent and do something stupid, don’t expect to me clean up your mess. Reading every single book of the Babysitter’s Club when I was 9 does not qualify me as your fucking babysitter. And how no one had a clue that I was gay as I would make my mother buy me every issue, movie, and coloring book, I have no fucking idea. Although, I’m a huge Power Rangers fan, so it probably threw her off my scent. When I drink I just like to talk, dance, and laugh at people’s stupidity. At one point, I looked over and Andrew was by Rico until he finally got his attention and pulled him towards the bathroom.

I followed them with my gaze, since every fucking gay bar has mirrors for all you narcissistic pricks out there, and I watched Andrew kiss Rico Suave in the bathroom hallway. I was confused by my feelings and as the haze of alcohol and house music filled my mind, I tried to figure out why. And then I pinpointed my conflicted feelings. I felt sorry for Andrew’s boyfriend, Todd, who was in Chicago visiting his parents for Christmas. Whenever Andrew mentions Todd, there’s always this small pang of insecurity, and whenever he sees it rise up in my eyes, Andrew always changes the subject. The next thought that came to my head was, “You. Are. A. Fucking. Joke.” All this talk about how happy he was, how great his life was, how he hated the east coast was all bullshit and this time, he smeared it all over the walls. So, how did I clear my head? I spent twenty dollars on a lap dance from a hot GoGo dancer. It’s kind of like that scene in The Break-Up, where Jennifer Aniston walks in to her apartment to find Vince Vaughn drunk out of his mind with a bunch of strippers, and you’re just like where the fuck did that come from?

As the night was winding down, Andrew was nowhere to be found. He told me he had gone to the bathroom, but I knew he was chasing down Rico. Maybe blowing him in a stall. And as some foreigner tried to speak to me, I completely ignored him as I waited patiently. And waited. And waited. And mother fucking waited until Andrew walked out of the bathroom, holding Rico Suave’s hand. My eyebrow quirked up to the high heavens, and he could see my face. As we headed out, Rico WENT BACK to talk to that group of guys and Andrew followed him. I was already outside when this happened, so the bouncer wouldn’t let me back. I waited in the cold for ten minutes, bummed a cigarette from a drag queen, and peed in a nearby alley where one guy was getting a blowjob next to a dumpster. Finally, Andrew arrived with Rico and announced he needed McDonald’s.

I remained deathly silent, internally fuming, as I ordered some breakfast. I smiled politely to Rico when he asked me if my eggs were good. It’s fucking McDonald’s not Cafe LeRitz; my eggs were fucking just dandy. I never uttered more than two words at a time, and then we headed back to the subway so we could get to the train station. Andrew and Rico proceeded to talk for ten minutes outside while I waited in the frigid cold, then when they were done, Andrew joined me to the subway. When we reached the steps, he stopped me and said he had to run back. And Rico and Andrew proceeded to talk for another fifteen minutes and they disappeared. I finally was sick of waiting and called him, and he immediately showed up. He whined, “Let’s take a cab back.” I nodded and we headed to the train station. He paid.

As we sat in the cab, I could feel my chest tighten. To Andrew, I was expendable. The same person who listened to his ambitions, his fears, his secrets was expendable to him. I don’t love Andrew for his designer clothes, or for his looks, or his nice car. I love Andrew because he makes me laugh till I cry, because he’s a tremendous father, and because he’s my best friend. For him, I will always be the funny best friend, the one who picks up the pieces when everything goes to shit, the reliable one. And I’m fucking expendable. A few days ago, I looked at him dead in the eyes and said “Andrew, you’re existing. You’re not living. You’re gonna be miserable for the rest of your life if you don’t stop seeking happiness when you deserve joy.” He sort of laughed it off, and pushed my shoulder a little too rough, but I know it struck a chord. This night taught me something about Andrew. He’s miserable. He’s so deeply unhappy that he seeks affection from the arms of Rico Suave, who he will probably never speak to again, and who Todd will never know about.

As I was driving him back home, I could feel tears well up in the corners of my eyes. I was angry, I was hurt, I was confused, and I was tired. I had been up for over twenty four hours at this point and my bed was calling me in the worst way. I teared up because I knew that I was closing the door to this chapter of my life. This pining for Andrew, this hoping that one day and love me endlessly, and feeling that I’m undeserving of love from any human being. It’s over. As we were driving, Andrew kept reaching for my hand, he played with my beanie, and watched me try to slyly wipe away my tears. I don’t know if I’m going to see Andrew for the remainder of his stay, I don’t know if I can face him without shattering into a thousand pieces. I’m going to bury this six feet deep.

And pray that there won’t be a zombie invasion.

"Yes, I used a thesaurus -- suck it." Is undoubtedly one of my favorite things I've read in weeks. Thank you for the recent follow. I've been poking around your blog today and so look forward to reading more of your work. That all sounds very generic, I know, but I'm entirely too busy sucking on this thesaurus to think of anything much more clever. ;) -M.

Ain’t no shame in my game. Thanks for the follow, chickadee. Suck on that thesaurus all night long. ;)

Trapped in the closet part infinity.

I spent so much money this Christmas, I want to shoot myself in the face, slap the bloody pieces back on, and shoot myself again. I used to love Christmas in the worst way, I waited for it anxiously, and made sure that I had been a good boy all year long. Every Christmas morning, I would wake up to find the cookies and milk half eaten with a piece of Santa’s beard left behind that my mother insisted wasn’t a cotton ball. I wish I had known then what I knew now and that had I been an asshole as a kid, I would have still gotten everything I asked for. Although, I was the weird kid who wanted books instead of toys, or the next Disney movie that I would wear the VHS tapes out from watching them over and over again to learn every single line and every single song. I was so weird as a child that when my mother asked me to write a letter to Santa Clause to tell him what I wanted, I wrote, “Dear Santa is the Sandman your brother? If so, all I want for Christmas is his picture.”

Christmas isn’t only stressful because I’ve spent stupid amounts of money on gifts for people who are never going to wear the sweater you bought them. Although, I did buy a great foot spa machine for my Dad that I secretly bought for myself because I know he’ll never use it. Christmas is stressful because everyone has off work and wants to celebrate their brief freedom from their lackluster lives. Heather, my ex-girlfriend from California, was in New York and wanted to see me, but I completely ignored her. When I find myself in stressful situations, I simply choose to pretend as if it never happened. I’m not saying that this is the most healthiest quality and leads to well-balanced living, but it’s what I do, and I’m only human. Plus, the Secret (which I’m starting to totally get into, bee tee dubs. Ask, believe, receive, bitches) teaches that if you ignore what you don’t want instead of harping on and on about it, you will attract the things you do want. Obviously I’m attracting that I want to be alone for the rest of my life. The truth was, I honestly did not want to hang out with her and so instead of making up a lie like a normal person would, I just chose to pretend like it never happened. I don’t like to lie, but in dire circumstances, I can weave the most extravagant but truthful lie you’ve ever heard.

For example, when my parents were divorcing, my dad made me see my elementary school’s therapist so that it wouldn’t effect my school work. She would pull me out of class for an hour every week and I would sit in her office and say all of these lies just so I could be pulled out of class once a week. The reality was, I took my parent’s divorce extremely well. It was better than hearing them fight every day, but I somehow convinced myself that I needed this hour. Sociopath, much? My third grade teacher, Ms. Sweatitits — I kid you not, her last name was pronounced sweaty tits. Although, the name didn’t live up to the truth, which was, she never had that funky sweat line underneath her boobies or muscles like this one guy had at the gay club that I went to last night — totally saw right through my bullshit. She said, “Ricky, I know that you’re a tremendous actor and that you’re just going to therapy to get out of class. I’m going to let you to continue to go, but just know that I know.” Mortifying.

So needless to say, I’ve been stressed and I don’t handle stress well. Between spending my hard on earned money on gifts, trying to finish up work before the holidays, dealing with Andrew, and trying to make time for my family and friends, I am wiped out. When I find myself in super stressful situations, I just sort of shut down because otherwise, I feel like I’ll just snap. The reality is, as I’m navigating the adult world as most twenty three year old’s are, the more and more I realize I am not an adult in any sense of the word. My credit is shit, I hate filling out applications and doing paperwork, I’m way behind on my student loan payments, and I’m not organized. My pluses are I’ve got great fashion sense, I can shake my booty like it’s nobody’s business, I think fast on my feet, and I’m kick ass at Minesweeper. All of these qualities an adult does not make. I wish there was a grammar check on here, because I feel like I just Spanglish-ed the shit out of that last sentence.

When I’m stressed, I know that I can always turn to my two favorite cousins: Trina and Maggie. Trina and Maggie live together in this great apartment, they have great jobs, and amazing fashion sense. Trina and Maggie moved in together when they realized, both within several weeks of each other, that their boyfriends at the time were not the men they were going to marry. Trina has a beautiful three year old daughter and we are the godparent’s of Maggie’s one year old son. My mother was a single mother and so I respect single mothers who provide and take care of their children to the best of their ability. Trina and Maggie recently revealed to me that they were in relationships and had been for some time. Both of their boyfriends are leagues better than those two assholes that they had been together with prior to meeting their true prince charming. And so, once the kiddies are off to bed, every Sunday, Maggie, Trina, and I watch Real Housewives and have philosophical discussions. Doesn’t everyone have epic talks about the universe after watching NeNe Leakes veneers sparkle in the camera’s light? I think so.

For the past hour or so, I had been grilling Trina and Maggie pretty hard about their new boyfriends. I’m the only person in the family who knows about my cousin’s new boyfriends and I’ve been bursting at the seams, waiting to spill my guts. I’m an excellent secret keeper. You can tell this by my writing about my cousin’s love lives on a blog. Duh. I had asked why their boyfriends were not coming over for our annual Christmas Eve party where play Pictionary, get really drunk, and always wind up stuffing our faces to the point that by ten o’clock, I can’t even move. Trina said that she was ready to introduce her new boyfriend to the family, who’s also her boss. The rumors are true, bosses do bend their secretaries over the desk. At one point, Maggie said she never wanted to get married after being so close to getting married with her alcoholic, PTSD ridden, former Marine of a fiancee. I, being enlightened by the Secret, told Maggie that if she kept on telling herself that, she would never get married and she was so deserving of the love that she throws out into the universe. At that point, the conversation got a little heavy, and as Maggie tried to discreetly wipe a tear from her eye, I switched the subject to talk about how much I loved the Atlanta Housewives for keeping it real.

As soon as commercial break hit, all eyes were on me. My cousins asked me if I was seeing anyone and how was my love life going. I tried to brush it off, not wanting to admit that I was in love with my best friend, who just told me yesterday that he’s living with his boyfriend. I know this doesn’t mean much, but living with is pretty finite. It means his and her’s towels. In this case, his and his. It means I’ll always be the funny friend, the one he calls when shit falls apart, but never bothers to text when everything is dandy. He has his little nuclear family and I just have this little ache every time he smiles at me, or puts his feet on my lap, or makes me laugh.And I know I’m being a little melodramatic but a little melodrama ain’t never hurt anyone. But this isn’t about Andrew, although a small part of it is. So, instead, I just brushed off their questions with: “I’m still finding out who I am as a person and trying to figure out my life before I can fuck up somebody else’s.”

Trina replied, “Well, I hope you find happiness with a person. You deserve it.” A person. Not a girl. A person meaning a man. I haven’t come out to my cousin’s and I don’t really know why. Every time they say something like ‘person’, I know it’s their funny little way of saying, ‘We know, so anytime your ready.’ I know that they’d be fine with it, Trina’s best friend is a lesbian. But, when it comes to my family, I just don’t know how to form the words. And then I thought, these girls have the opportunity but they aren’t bringing their boyfriends to Christmas Eve and I’m not sure I can ever spend Christmas Eve with my family and my boyfriend if I had one. The main reason being my mother and this crazy need I have to protect her.

My mother isn’t just a born again Christian, she’s on the church board as an Elder (which ranks higher than a deacon, just so you know), she’s the treasurer, she’s the head of the women’s ministry, and she also preaches for the Spanish service. I started attending church before my mother and when she got saved, she quickly climbed up the ladder in the Christian food chain, and now here we are, ten years later. I go to church sporadically, for nostalgia’s sake, but I don’t know if I can say I’m a Christian. I hesitate to even say I’m spiritual because when people say that to me, I always think, “Mm„, are you really? Or are you just scared of commitment?” Despite my mother being a devout follower, she isn’t the best Christian, she’s immensely judgmental and a little hypocritical. Yet, I know that church is important to her, and even if I don’t necessarily believe in what she believes in, her conviction to her beliefs makes me respect her. And I know should I come out publicly, I don’t know if my church would allow her to serve on the board being that she’s two for two with her sons. One’s a drug dealer and one’s a queer. We are a reflection of her.

I know that the word soul mate is used solely for the purpose of describing a bond you feel with your significant other, but I don’t care. Despite her being immensely overbearing and a pain in the ass, as most mothers are, my mother is my soul mate in every sense of the word. Whether it was God that sent my soul into her womb, or we keep on being reincarnated together to learn our lessons, or shit just happened and we wound up together, I’m so glad we found each other. My mother is my best friend, she’s my hero, and she’s my salvation. Every day that I keep this deep, dark secret buried inside when she says, “Ugh, you need to leave me alone and get a girlfriend,” my heart breaks a little more. One time, in California, I had finally worked up the nerve to tell her and when she picked up the phone all I could talk about was the amazing weather and the beach.

There are days when I fantasize about bringing my Channing Tatum/Ryan Gosling hybrid of a boyfriend over for Christmas Eve and hold his hand while we play Pictionary with the family. My mother will walk over to him and say, “You better treat my son like a prince or I’m going to kick your ass,” as she messes with his hair. I feel like I’m going to be trapped in this closet forever, screaming to get out, but locked in from the outside. At least I’ll get to stare at all my cute shoes.

Thank you for the follow. My life truly represents my messy words as of late, but thank you for making the silly decision to read them. I really do love the way you write. -Ashley x

Messy words are the best. Messy rooms are not. And the shit I got going on in my room is not cute. Thanks for the follow, love bug. I love your picture.

The guy with the Andrew tattoo.

"Have you ever been in love, Ricky?" Andrew asked me on the phone, his voice high pitched and sad. I gripped the phone tensely as my lips curled into a cringe. I hate that half two year old toddler with a mouth full of spaghetti, half Keebler elf voice that he employs in great times of distress. He knows this irks me to no end so he insists on using it just to get a rise out of me. Andrew’s been my best friend for ten years, we both grew up in New Jersey and went to school in California. Different schools, though, or else we’d never get any work done. Whenever he uses that childish voice it can either mean three things: he’s been caught in a lie, he knows that he did something wrong but doesn’t want to admit it, or he’s about to tell you some really shitty news. I had spoken to Andrew on and off since I moved back to New Jersey, we just sort of got busy and we lost touch. However, every time I get on the phone with him, it’s as if no time passed at all, as if it was yesterday. We still laugh about the time he choked on orange chicken from the Chinese food place around the block from our school and tried to drink Sprite to make it go down but he wound up vomiting everything on the floor. With Andrew around, I can always be myself. Neurotic with a tinge of sarcasm and an extra helping of jadedness. He can always be a little naive with a tinge of hilarity and an extra helping of poor decision making.

I thought this was one of those poor decision making moments. For some things, Andrew is a fucking genius and for other things, I swear that he’s missing a chromosome. Andrew’s parents are from Colombia and they couldn’t speak a word of English, so it was Andrew’s job to make sure all of their bills got paid, the house was clean, that his sister was taken to school because his family was too busy trying to work and make ends meet. This is common when you’re a first generation American from a Spanish country, and it’s happened to more friends than I can count, but Andrew is the best multi-tasker I know.Andrew does the best impressions; if he’s met you twice he can mimic how you speak and your mannerisms to a fault. With Andrew, you will laugh so hard you cry. Andrew was the man of the house. Andrew is the same friend who got caught having sex with a girl while we were on a teen peer mediator’s retreat from school and got kicked out of the program. Andrew is the same person, in that little baby voice of his, who told me he got our best friend, Squeaky, pregnant his senior year of high school after they finished watching Juno. He has a beautiful five year old daughter named December.

“If your taking that long to think about it, then you’ve never been in love,” he replied to my silence and then proceeded to sing the queen of power ballads herself, Celine Dion’s The Power of Love. Andrew does this funny thing where he sings like a woman in a high operatic voice. I knew that he was trying to diffuse the tension, but my brows kept on furrowing in half panic, half annoyance. Andrew is the type of person who never can do anything half assed. Everything has to be meticulous, everything has to planned out, and if he isn’t the center of attention, he’s not happy. Andrew has this insane complex that he has to be better than his parents and everyone else. He makes Willy Loman look like a couch potato minus trying to kill yourself with a dirty gas tube in the basement. When Andrew likes someone, or loves as was the case here, it’s disastrous. He wants to be with that person all the time, talk about them all the time, cook for them all the time. It’s disgusting. He’s June Cleaver in jeans with flip flops. Jeans with flip flops are so gross.

“Wait, hold the fucking phone. Asking if I’ve ever been in love isn’t like asking if I ate Frosted Flakes or Cinnamon Toast Crunch for breakfast! That’s a serious fucking question, dude. I don’t know honestly, I think I have, but love isn’t something you can touch. Relationships are messy, there’s a lot of shit involved, and it’s hard to figure it out when you’re in the middle of things.” I tried to not sound like an asshole, but I knew Andrew was used to it, so I didn’t hold back. Prior to being single for a year and a half, I had been in a serious relationship with a girl named Heather who I had met in college. Heather and I had been friends for about a year and a half prior to dating and I had told her I loved her. I did love her and I probably would’ve married her by the time I was twenty nine but things got way too serious way too fast and I realized that I wanted to explore the universe, travel a bit, and maybe have sex with a dude. That wasn’t going to happen if I had married Heather, “What the fuck is going on? Your scaring me.”

Andrew went on to explain that he had met a girl through a mutual friend and that they’d been seeing each other for a few months. They instantly clicked, they hung out all the time, they had mutual interests, and the sex was great. Although sex shouldn’t be a deal breaker, it’s still a big deal, and if you’re pounding away and they’re just laying there like a blow-up doll, there’s a problem. Apparently, it was the best sex that he had ever had, his toes would curl, and all that sort of nonsense. Well, I added the toes curling part for the visual, but you get my drift. He had told said girl about his daughter, and that she was excited because she wanted children right away. Does anyone besides me see the problem here? What twenty two year old, just graduated from college with her whole life ahead of her wants to start having a child. Plus, I know Andrew enough to know that he doesn’t want another kid. December, who makes me believe in Santa Clause and magic and calls herself the poopie lady whenever she has to use the bathroom, was his first and probably only kid. He then said the girl was suddenly getting cold feet and no longer wanted to talk to him. If everything was going so swell, what made it take such a shitty turn? I reassured him that girls are moody creatures, so he shouldn’t have to worry. He said that wasn’t the problem.

There was something a little fishy here and as I pried a little more, he kept on avoiding the subject. When I asked her name, he didn’t want to tell me and I asked if it was one of our mutual friends, to which he replied it wasn’t but still refused to tell me her name. So, I dubbed her Shoniqua. Why Shoniqua you ask? First of all, it’s just a funny name. Secondly, any time I put my name down on a list at a restaurant, I always tell them Shoniqua, so that when they call me, all eyes are on me because I’m definitely not a Shoniqua. He laughed at her new name and then in a hurried voice said, “Shit, that’s Shoniqua calling me. I have to text you!” And he clicked instantly.

A half hour later, the texts started to pour in: I’m so sad. I’m miserable. This sucks. (At this point, I wanted to say get a fucking grip, but I stuck to being the consoling friend) What am I gonna do? She wants to be with me one minute and then the next minute, she’s gone. I’m so confused. This is the first time I’ve felt this way about anyone. I never felt this way with Squeaky (Squeaky is his baby momma, for those who are having a hard time keeping up with all these pseudonyms, like I am) or with anyone else. It was so passionate. What if this never happens again? (Insert eye roll here. How fucking dramatic, you’re not even twenty three! I’m a pretty good friend but even I have limits.)

At one point, when I was about to reach my breaking point, I texted back, “Andrew. I know this sucks for you, I know your hurt, and I’m gonna be here for you. But sometimes no matter how you try, some things just aren’t meant to be. I’m always gonna be here to pick up the pieces for you (I kid you not, I said this verbatim, I looked up the text just to make sure. My best Grey’s Anatomy moment. Now where’s my McSteamy?! Wait, he’s dead on the show. Spoiler alert! Wait, spoiler alerts only work if you put it before the spoiler. Oh well.) but you have got to let her go. It’s not healthy to hold onto this.” He didn’t reply for a few minutes. In my brain, either he was speaking to her on the phone or about to end his life. I prayed for the former.

Then I got the text: “The reason that this is so hard is because her name is Todd. About two weeks ago we went to the movies and we were so happy but we realized we couldn’t hold hands in public because people won’t accept us. Please, Ricky. You can’t tell anyone about this.” I read the text again. And again. And again. And then my heart sunk so deep into my chest, it felt like I got punched in the stomach. My first thought was: Andrew was gay? The guy who had sex with a majority of the girls in the plays at our high school? The guy who had a baby with Squeaky? The same guy who I could talk to for hours about anything, who I had come out to a few months before with the preface of, “I’m telling you this because I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable around me”, the same guy who did the best impersonation of our English AP teacher. He was gay. And I was… what? Angry? Confused? Hurt? Relieved? What?

It was that moment that I realized I loved Andrew. I never knew it till then. And if he hadn’t come out to me, I probably never would’ve realized it. I had never thought about him that way. Maybe once but I mean, it was a passing thought, something tucked in the corner of my mind, something I forgot about over time. I loved Andrew in the cheesiest, romantic comedy way. We’d meet in a trendy bar, break up in the rain, and at the end he’d chase me in his Vespa as I sat in the backseat of a yellow taxi on the George Washington Bridge because I was leaving New York City for a job offer in Washington, DC. He’d make me stay and I’d cry ugly tears and then he’d hug me as the credits rolled. The theme song would be called “Loving You Forever” sung by Jennifer Hudson because why not?

And I hated Shoniqua, who’s name I found out later, but it’s not as funny so we still call him Shoniqua when we speak about him in public. I hate Shoniqua not only because he hurt Andrew, who had just discovered he was gay, and needed someone to be there for him. I hated Shoniqua because he has a part of Andrew I’ll never have. He has the dinners, and watching him go to sleep and night, and having to smell his morning breath. He gets the part of Andrew that I want. Andrew called me every day for a month as his trials with Shoniqua continued and they’re still together to this day. Every time I see that Andrew’s calling me, my heart skips a beat and I wonder if Shoniqua feels the same. I hate that I feel this way, that I hate a person that I’ve never even met, and that I love a person who will never love me. I hate that the thought of Andrew makes a knot in my chest and whenever I’m around him, I act like a fucking idiot.

Andrew’s coming this week for Christmas break and because December’s birthday is on Christmas Day. Andrew will forever be a part of my life, he will forever be apart of my writing and I’m sure he’ll pop up. I might never get over Andrew. He’s my person and he’ll never know for so many reason that are too complicated to write right now. Andrew will return to my writings the same way he walks right back into my life every few months. I am the guy with the Andrew tattoo and I can’t afford to have it removed with a laser. It’s too expensive and I kind of like having it there.

Hello there! You write beautifully, in all honesty! I look forward to seeing more of your work. :)
Aww, thanks, boo. ;) I liked your stuff, too!
My week as Marilyn or the time when I was his mistress.

I was the other woman for less than a week. I was his best kept secret for the brief time that we were together. I became the lie that he told his wife, “Honey, I have a business meeting and a late dinner in New York. I’m gonna stay at Bill’s house in mid-town, don’t wait up for me.” His mid life crisis did not involve buying a Porsche and sacking his wife for the leggy, Swedish ex-super model named Helga, but instead, he found solace in the arms of a twenty two year old Puerto Rican from northern new Jersey. The emails that he would send me found themselves in the trash can, in case his children should ever find them. There was something dangerous about meeting a married man in the bar of a crowded hotel, knowing that we could be discovered at any moment. Underneath my long Burberry trench coat, I wore clothes that I knew he could rip off in a moment’s notice, paired with the best come-fuck-me shoes money could buy. We never had sex, instead we would lay side by side in the king sized bed of a penthouse suite in a luxurious hotel where a hot-tub was tucked in the corner of a room. He would say sweet things to me, assure me that he hadn’t laughed that hard in such a long time as he would gaze into me with those sad eyes. I was the other woman. And I loved it.

That introduction sounded like the opening paragraph to some trashy Harlequin romance that a woman would read as she waited for her hair to finish curling underneath the dryers. Fabio, circa ‘95, would grace the front cover, caressing a humongous tub of “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter”. Fabio would be the married man, in a chic, thousand dollar business suit and I would definitely be the tub of not-quite-butter-not-quite-margarine-so-what-the-fuck-is-it? Or to capitalize on this recent trends, maybe it would be Fabio dressed as Count Dracula and I would be a rebellious, pale teenager with the best pout money could buy. Seriously, Kristen Stewart, you got paid ten million dollars a film to bite your lip. Smile, bitch. This reminds me of a time when I went to Barnes and Noble and a woman was purchasing “Fifty Shades of Did a First Grader Write This Shit?” and showed her teacher’s discount card.

Now, at the time I had no idea that teacher’s got a card so that they could get discounts on things like supplies and books from Barnes and Noble. Well, the cash register chick in an all too serious argyle sweater said aloud, “Um, you can only use this for educational materials and things of that nature,” and she waved the book around for everyone in line to see. I would not be caught dead with a hard copy of that drivel not because of the content, but because it tells me you are a lonely, lonely, person in desperate need to get in touch with your right hand. I’m making an unfair generalization, I know. I’m sure there are plenty of sexually satisfied housewives and gay men out there who’ve read the novel. I wish you could see the sarcasm dripping from my fingers as I write this. The teacher covered her head and muttered something to which argyle chick with hipster glasses chick screamed, “I’m sorry, I COULDN’T HEAR YOU,” as she waved the black book whose cover sported a metallic tie that screamed to me: I know I’m supposed to be a billionaire, but I got this tie in a bin at Wal-mart. Low budget, for sure.

The teacher screamed, “IT’S FOR SEX ED. PUT IT IN THE BAG!” and argyle chick with hipster glasses and pink tips at the ends of her hair, scanned the book, and placed it in a bag. She didn’t even ask the teacher if she had a Barnes and Noble discount card. The teacher flipped the hood to her bubble jacket and stormed off. It was one of the best moments of my life.

Maybe I can just do what that E.L. lady did and do a crossover of Twilight and Fifty Shades, call it fan fiction until a publisher gets interested, completely change my character’s names, and then get filthy fucking rich. Better yet, what if I take two unrelated books from two different genres and create the next sensation. What if I wrote a sexy novel that was a cross between Harry Potter and The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo? Forty Five and a Quarter Conical Hats of Sadness. It’s about a young computer hacker who works in a magic shop and falls in love with a five hundred year old wizard who looks like a cross between Nicholas Cage/Mario Lopez. Their wild sex includes him slicing her in half in one of those magic trick boxes and just having sex with her bottom half while her upper half screams in pleasure/pain. Does anyone else smell a hit?

That opening was a bit misleading. I was not Anastasia Steele and he was not Christian Grey in the slightest. I shouldn’t have to do this, but I just wanted to clarify that I had to Google the names of the lead characters, because I’ve never read any of the Fifty Shades books. My gay friends think it’s the best book since Chelsea Handler, who I love, but I don’t trust their judgement. These are the same friends who tried to convince me into getting a colonic and a full body wax in the same day. Ouch. Not gonna happen. Instead, I came to him wearing a plaid button down shirt, jeans, and a beanie. He came to me wearing a polo, jeans, and dirty tennis sneakers. It wasn’t romantic, it wasn’t Fifty Shades, it wasn’t even Brokeback. It was a fucking mess.

He had found me on a dating site and we began to chat. About what? I have no clue. He told me that he was forty six and that should have been the first red flag. Most of the guys that I have had the pleasure, or displeasure, of being with either intimately or taken on a date by have been older than forty. I’m attracted to maturity, a person with a sense of vision, a person who could teach me a thing or two about life. Alright, you caught me, I’ve got daddy issues. Never the less, he kept on asking me if it was alright if he was chatting me up. I assured him that it was fine, and our wild internet romance began.

Upon telling him that I loved going to see Broadway musicals, he confessed that he always wanted to perform musical theater and that he sometimes did community theater. He told me that he was born and raised in northern California and would visit his friends who lived in the same neighborhood that I had lived in a year prior. We continued to make small talk for that brief week, complaining about work, about traffic, about life. He told me he was going on his twentieth year of marriage and asked if I had a problem with this. I didn’t know how I felt about it to be honest, so I replied that it didn’t bother me because I wasn’t out to my family so it wasn’t my place to judge when I was being dishonest in my own life. I wasn’t trying to be profound, I was simply trying to be honest and sort out of my own thoughts. Well, he took this answer to heart, and told me that I was the maturest twenty two year old he had ever met. He practically jizzed all over the computer screen. He insisted that we meet after showing me a picture of his face, clouded in shadow, but for an old guy, he had a decent body, so I obliged.

I insisted that we meet in a public place and so I looked up a restaurant that was towns away, and give him the info. He agreed to meet me there and told me that he told his wife he would be in a business meeting in New York. I didn’t know how to process this information, so I called one of my best friends and told him, “I am the other fucking woman. This guy wants to meet me, he’s in his mid forties, he’s married, and I’m going through with it!” My friend calmed me down, insisted that it was a casual lunch/dinner/linner date and there was nothing wrong with having a sugar daddy. Of course, it seems when you are about to engage in some sort of quasi-slutty behavior, you call your slutty-serial-dater best friend who makes Taylor Swift look like she browses OkCupid for a date. Being reassured by the same friend who met a guy in a bar and gave him a hand job in the bar alleyway, I was off to meet this mysterious man.

I showed up fifteen minutes early and I have no clue why. Well, I know why. I hate being late to anything, especially meeting a potential suggar daddy. We met in the parking lot, shook hands like “straight men” and walked into the bar. We ordered some appetizers and a sprite. He insisted that he wasn’t very hungry but I could see a tinge of disappointment in his eyes. It’s not that I don’t look like my pictures, and trust me, I’ve met those mother fuckers before, but I was unsure of what the problem was. For an older gentleman, he had a great toned body, but his face was a little problematic and so were the three strands of hair that he had combed over his head. He was having a mid life crisis and I was just having a crisis. He proceeded to judge my appetizer for not being comprised of healthy fats and criticize all of the calories I was about to ingest.

I wanted to scream, “What would your wife say if she knew you were having a DATE WITH A MAN?!” but instead I just smiled and insisted that I never eat like this. I have no idea why I felt the need to quell his rudeness by acknowledging that the food wasn’t all that great for me. I suppose I have manners. As we were eating and I was tuning him out, he told me he was in advertising. He had two children. He often has meetings in the city so it was a perfect cover. And as he continued to ramble on about his love of musical theater, or the stock market, or his retirement plan, I couldn’t help but think how sad he was. I was probably not the first boy that he had hidden from his wife, nor would I be the last. This man had kids who were probably around my age and they would never know their father was bisexual or gay. And he was so unhappy that he resorted to working out, eating right, and tanning in the middle of winter, just so that he could keep up with the young gays.

Linner was over. He smiled, said that he would email me when he got home. I smiled too. We shook hands, he reminded me how funny I was, I reminded him that I needed to get home. I never spoke to him again, he sent me a message and I still haven’t opened it. What for? The fantasy of being his mistress was nice. The reality left me a little empty on the inside. Doesn’t his wife pick up on the fact that he’s gay? He had two earrings on!