Yes. You guessed it. It was an especially bad break-up.
Not unlike waking up the morning after you thought it would be a really good idea to partake in an “Irish Car Bomb” race: your head is pounding, you feel sick, and fetal is the only position that is saving you from ending it all. “I’m never drinking AGAIN!” you whimper, as you pull your head out of the toilet and wipe the vomit from the corner of your mouth. Most of us don’t mean that. We down a Gatorade, consume an entire pizza, and stay in bed with the curtains drawn until the bad feeling passes. We live to over drink another day.
“Stan” was more like an eight month-long bender. And if he was a drug, it was heroine, not alcohol. Now Stan was not an especially good-looking man. As a rule, I find the overly handsome guys to be far less attractive than the men who have had to develop a personality to compensate for their moderate short comings. It’s the same logic that draws some people to the runts of the litter. They like a fighter. Stan was definitely a runt. And I thought it was adorable.
He was also a product of New York City, which is as close to Never Never land as you are going to get. It’s a city where you can ultimately carry on as if you were in your twenties forever. Now, I am in my twenties, and that lifestyle is more than appropriate for me. Stan, however, was not in his twenties, not even close. His face and physique gave him away. Despite the fact that he had all his hair, he wasn’t fooling anyone. He was pushing forty and fucking a girl in her twenties to hold on to his youth.
On a side note, I strongly believe that loosing your hair is the best thing that can happen to a man. Its God’s way of saying “Hey, you are getting older, so you should probably start acting like it, punk!”
This is the part where I played the role of the naive twenty something in love. I thought he might actually be interested in me. Curious about the workings of my mind as well as the workings of my vagina. We traveled to Europe together. He met my friends. And coworkers. And then he just started blowing me off like some dumb slag he was screwing when he needed a fix. It took a month before I said “You can’t treat me like this. I’m not just a pussy, I’m a person!” Okay, I didn’t say that, but I did tell him I wanted more and he told me he didn’t with an implied stupid girl at the end of it.
After you’ve been used for sex, having it again is pretty much the last thing in the world you want to do. That, and file my taxes. Fortunately, there is no government agency making me do the former.
Categories: See Jane Give Up Dick