Chinese New Year of the Slut (or Year of the Cock) – Part IV

“He was a ginger and a Leo…I should have known better”

Part III ended with me catching “the feels” for the (almost) final person I had a questionable tryst with in 2016.  It started out as all of my relationships do…at the bar.  We had been casual acquaintances for months with the occasional flirtatious comment here and there.  Nothing out of the ordinary.  And then one afternoon, out of the fucking blue, he whispered in my ear that we would have a bubbling beaker of physical chemistry between us, although he didn’t say it so eloquently.  His version was “We’d have really awesome sex!”

A week later he invited me to a show at a coffee shop where his beardy tattooed buddies were performing.   He seemed excited to have me tag along and introduced me to his friends, and also refused to let me pay for anything!  I know this may not seem like a big deal but it was huge considering all of the previous semen donors were either jobless and living with mom (I’m not kidding), or had a job but were still broke as fuck.  Of course his generosity and (what seemed like) genuine interest led to me extending an invitation to an adult slumber party at my house.    A part of me wanted to know if his theory was true so we did an experiment.  It was.  We were indeed a simmering cauldron of sweat and spit and sex knots (those massive entanglements of hair that form on the back of your head during intense missionary work.  This is why I’m not a missionary).

It didn’t stop after one night.  He invited me to brunch, he asked me to dinner, he bought me drinks in the middle of a lazy Saturday afternoon, he showed me where he worked and proceeded to give me stuff he made.  He was even planning a trip with me to the mountains and to NY to see family!  I actually thought he liked me.  For once I didn’t feel like one of those single-use tubes of toothpaste United gives you when they cancel your flight and you have to spend the night in the Philadelphia airport, sleeping on your belongings so nothing gets jacked.

But then I made a mistake.  I told him I was “smitten”  as we were curled up naked in bed.  Apparently this was the incorrect word choice since “smitten” traveled into his ear canal and through his brain, where it was translated into “I love you more than life itself and I am now your girlfriend forever” or something along those lines.  That wasn’t what I meant at all.  I just meant that I was happy.  I feel the same way after I devour a bag of Cheetos and a delicious Diet Coke, or take a really satisfying shit after too much coffee.    He immediately became distant and uninterested as soon as the words tumbled out of my mouth.  He picked his jeans up from the floor and went into the bathroom.  And that was that.

I don’t handle rejection well, although you’d think I’d be better at it with all the years of practice as the “chubby comic relief friend” in high school and college.  We walked to the bar in silence.  Horrible awkward silence.  I wanted to cry at that moment but I was still sober enough to hold it in.  I’d soon fix that!

My typical bandaid for hurt feelings is a combination of alcohol, Xanax and throwing stuff across the room until I pass out.  So, I positioned myself at the bar and started medicating.  It only took an hour or so before the barrier broke and the tears started pushing their way past security.  I lost it in front of everyone.  And more importantly, in front of HIM.  I hate hate hate showing my hand.

I’m going to fast forward and skip the part where I dragged him into a booth and accused him of using me for the past week.  I was sobbing and dry heaving while snot bubbles formed at the tip of my puffy red nose.  I had just made a gigantic ass out of myself and I left the bar without telling anyone goodbye..I think. Well I know I left the bar but I’m not really sure how I left the bar.

The evening got real fuzzy after that.  Apparently I sent out some half-assed ‘cry for help’ messages to people I don’t normally text. I also failed to respond to phone calls or messages from one of my best friends who witnessed my very public and humiliating meltdown.  He became concerned, and rightfully so.  He too knows I can be a little dramatic and over-reactive in hurtful situations.

After calling and texting several times without a response, he and his roommate walked to my house and started beating on the door.  I didn’t answer.  Or maybe I did but then closed the door on them.  Honestly, I can’t remember any of it beyond what I was told a few days later, after being released from the fucking hospital, where I had to explain to not one, but three different psychiatrists that I wasn’t trying to kill myself, I just wanted to relax after a tough day.  Apparently swallowing 60 milligrams of alprazolam is technically a suicide attempt.  Who knew?

To Be Continued…

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