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Posts Tagged ‘cheating’

• No Puppy Love

Posted in Relationships & Dating, tagged , , , , , , on March 24, 2011 | 7 Comments »

[This is Part Seven of The Safa Boy Series: click for Introduction,  Part One,  Part Two, Part Three,  Part Four,  Part Five, and  Part Six]

It is well documented that, when living on the tiny island Manhattan, the chances of running into a former lover are high on the scale of 1 to inevitable. These odds increase exponentially when you look like shit (Source: Sex and the City, Season 2: Episode 1. See video below). It’s true in my EX-perience (too much?). Even if I never actually run into the ex, I hallucinate his form on the crowded city streets, in a crowded bar, on the subway.

(Skip to 0:30 to get right to what I’m talking about & ignore the Russian? subtitles.)

Not this time. I am on my way to Times Square to see my former lover for the last time. If you’ve ever wished the person who fucked you over would just leave the country, be jealous: I’m living out that fantasy. Safa is leaving the country in 4 days. I will never suffer the horror of running into him with a new girlfriend. There is no chance a moment of weakness will bring him back into my bed again. It’s an impossibility. He will never see me looking like shit because this is the last time we will see each other and I just spent 20 extra minutes making sure I look good.

It is a well documented fact: when someone makes you feel like shit and you must see him again, it is imperative to instead look like the shit. I contemplated wearing high-heeled boots that make my already killer legs look serial and bring me to a height of 6′: if I stand up straight and he slouches (as he does), we’ll see eye to eye. But I plan on biking over and biking in heels is idiotic. Changing shoes after I lock my bike? Trying way too hard. Instead I opted for flat boots and a blue dress with a t-shirt neckline that hugs my curves in a subtle “Remember what I look like naked? (You’re never going to see that again!)” way. Did I put too much thought into this? Almost certainly. Did he even notice my clothes? Almost certainly no. Did I feel less like shit because I took the time to put on eyeliner? Yes. And that’s all that matters.

I see him from across the street, long (we’re talking maybe 2 minutes) before he sees me. I immediately notice two things: First, he does not have a bouquet of (preferably tulips but I’d settle for anything beyond carnations) flowers in his hand. The boy has a father and an older brother but he missed the “You fuck up with a girl, you bring her flowers” lesson? He’s clearly just ignoring it. Idiot. Second, he looks like shit. His eyes look scared, even from across the street. He’s pacing with nervous energy. The scruff on his chin that I playfully stroked before our first kiss now gives him a “I’m a homeless bum who can’t keep my dick in my pants” aura. Gross. This is the same guy who I thought was so adorable mere hours ago? Funny how fast things change.

On second thought, maybe it’s a Brad Pitt aura…now I know how Jen feels!

I cross the street. Our eyes meet. I glare at him and give him a vague acknowledgement with my hand. “Hi,” he says meekly. He looks like the proverbial puppy who shit on the rug. Tail between his legs, looking at me with sad puppy-dog eyes, searching for the smiling, bubbly girl he knows. But she’s gone. In her place is a woman scorned, the furies of hell burning behind her charcoal lined eyes. She has no patience for puppies. She’s as happy as anyone to cuddle one, admiring its huge blue eyes and soft fur. But the minute it starts yapping or whining she becomes annoyed. A piss on the rug and Puppy is a pest, not a pet.

Like the whimpering puppy reeling from his master shouting “Bad dog!” he looks pathetic. He can’t clean up his shit. He doesn’t know what to say to me. I break the awkward silence, We’re going somewhere you can take your pants off, I say. Remember (click for a refresher), I let him borrow my 100% merino wool long johns that morning. At $70 a pair, they are the most expensive pants I own and my immediate priority is to get them back. “Ok.” he mumbles. “I’m sorry.” I roll my eyes. That’s all you have to say? “I’m sorry”? I start walking toward the nearest Starbucks. He trails behind me. Fuck this puppy shit! I was angry when I arrived and I’m only getting more so. Where’s the promised groveling? Where’s anything but sad puppy-dog whimpering “I’m sorry”?

In the silence between us hovers hate and hurt, I can’t stand it any more so I bust out banal small talk. So how’s your friend? I ask, but it sounds more like, “Fuck you, you stupid shit.” He pauses before he says, “Fine.” Did you tell him why you had to leave? flies out of my mouth dripping with “Do you realize how much you fucked this up? Will you tell your friends what an idiot you are?” He doesn’t answer. We reach Starbucks and I shove him in the bathroom line. We wait in line, one seething, one sad, both in silence.

We leave Starbucks. My pants have been returned, he no longer has anything belonging to me except some flakes of vomit on his jeans lying in his suitcase with my concierge. “I’m sorry.” he repeats. I have nothing more to say to him. “Can we talk?” He begs. Finally! I’ve been waiting for you to say more than 2 fucking words to me! Yes, we can talk. I’ve been waiting for you to talk. I can’t sit still or I’ll explode with anger. The last thing I want is to be marked “Crazy Bitch”, a moniker men love to place on women. I prefer calm and cold as hell, the flames staying behind my eyes. A walk and talk. We’ll go down along the river.

And so we begin The Closure Talk, the Grand Finale; me with a pathetic hope that he will say something, anything that will make me feel less like shit, him with further secrets and lies to reveal.

[To continue The Safa Boy Series, click for Part Eight]

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• “Dear Diary, I’m a Dirty Cheating Pathetic Liar”

Posted in Relationships & Dating, tagged , , , , , , , on March 11, 2011 | 18 Comments »

[This is Part Six of The Safa Boy Series: click for  Introduction,  Part One,  Part Two,  Part Three,  Part Four, and  Part Five]

Are you a con man? I had asked, my eyebrow cocked. Because you must realize, I am a terrible target, I have nothing worth stealing.

When I agreed to let him stay with me, I had been fearful of what he might take from me. As the most expensive thing I own is my bed, which would barely garner $100 on craigslist, I feared he’d steal my roommate’s computer. I also considered the possibility of him stealing my heart. Yet I naively failed to consider that he might snatch away my ability to trust. Rob me of the optimistic and hopeful outlook that is intrinsic to my sense of self.

After reading the diary that revealed he had lied and cheated on me, there was a brief moment where I considered ignoring the whole thing. Bargaining: #3 in the Five Stages of Grief. I’ll pretend I never read it. It never happened. I can still visit him in Barbados. I won’t have to hear a chorus of “I told you so” from my friends. My fairytale fling can have a happy ending. No one will ever know. Except me. I would know. And just like that, I realized I could never do it. As much as I hate confrontation, lying to my face and putting my health at risk are two things you just don’t get away with.

I wanted to plan exactly what to say to him. Ten years ago, I would have been forced to write out a script and follow it during a phone call, hoping his South African accent didn’t distract me from my purpose. But it’s 2011, no one calls anymore any way. I confronted him over text message, telling him I read the diary and calling him a coward. I couldn’t sit still while I waited for a reply, adrenaline was pumping through my body.

I ran to my roommate’s room. I just read Safa’s diary! I confessed, adrenaline making me sound excited. “What!” exclaimed my roommate, “Whoa! What did it say!?” I told her the long, sad story. “I can’t believe it!” she said (I wanted to hug her for not saying “I told you so!”), “He seemed so great! What an asshole!” No, we’re not using that word, I said, telling her of my theory that men actually like being called assholes. “What a shithead!” She revised. Bastard! I said. I liked this game. “Jerk!” Fuckwit! “Douche!” Loser! “What are you going to do?” she asked. Kick him out! I said, I’m going to get all his shit together and leave it with the concierge. “Good for you. Wow, he really fucked up,” my roommate said contemplatively, “He had such a good deal going on with you. And all to ‘shag’ a fat girl? I mean, no question here, it’s his loss. I wonder what he’ll do for his last four days here.” I don’t care! I said, trying to mean it. I did still care, but that didn’t mean I was going to let him stay with me. Hell no.

My phone buzzed. His response to my text message! I read it aloud, “Oh shit. I’ll be back later to grovel.” What kind of response is that? Does he think he can talk his way out of this? What an idiot! I didn’t respond right away. Instead I went in my room and began throwing stuff in his bag, starting with the pants still soiled with my vomit. Haha! Gross! Serves him right! I thought maliciously. I wanted to make sure nothing was left behind, no shirt left in my bed clothes that would bring tears to my eyes when #4 Stage of Grief: Depression commenced. I scanned the room. On my dresser, next to the box I keep all my make-up in, my eyes fell upon his money clip. Seriously? I looked inside. Two Ben Franklins: $200. You can’t, said the half of my brain that had initially told me to not read the diary. Oh yes you can! said the other half.

I slipped out one of the bills. I’m taking a hundred dollars from him! I yelled gleefully to the next room. “No way!” my roommate yelled back. He left his money clip here! I had no reason to trust him, why does he think he has any reason to trust me? “That’s awesome!” she came bounding into my room. Ok he was here 15 nights, I said looking at my calendar, So 100 divided by 15… I left a post-it note: Took $100 for rent. That’s $6.67 a night! Still a great deal! This helped ease the feeling that he used me for my apartment. I considered taking the full $200 but I was pretty sure this was his entire savings. Even in my revenge I’m not heartless.

My room was clean. All his shit thrown haphazardly in his bags, the only thing left was the diary. “Is that it?” my roommate asked, pointing to the little blue book blended into the blue of the comforter on my bed. That’s it. I said, and showed her some of the offending passages. Then inspiration struck. I’m going to write an entry. You can help me. “Taking $100, writing in his diary? I’m glad I’ve never fucked with you! This is awesome!”

I wrote it entirely from his point of view, as though he were writing it. Oh shit, I began with his words, [Insert My Name Here] read my diary. While it was an invasion of privacy, I had no reason to trust her as she clearly had no reason to trust me. I continued on, making it clear that it was the lying that was the real issue, more so than the cheating. I even threw in some friendly advice: I really hope I don’t get an STD. I’m really setting myself up for one. I realize now there is no such thing as truly safe sex because condoms break and PEOPLE LIE ABOUT THEIR SEXUAL HISTORIES. I closed with a confidence boost I was greatly in need of: I really fucked it up with an amazing girl who was sweet, smart, sexy, and HONEST, who let me stay with her rent-free and gave me loads of great sex. And I ruined it, all for some fat girl. I’m an idiot. And now I’m homeless. I ended it PEACE OUT, COWARD! and signed my name.

It felt great to have everything in writing, a note he could read over again and again. I finally texted him back I’m not waiting until later. I will meet you now. Where are you? Immediately he responded “Meet me in Times Square in half an hour?” Ok. I replied. I grabbed his bags to leave with the concierge. “Good luck!” called my roommate.

“Going somewhere?” the concierge said, eyeing the bags. No, these belong to a guest of mine. “A guest? It looks like someone’s moving out to me.” Fine, you’re right. I’m kicking him out. You want to hear the long, sad, age-old story? The man was silent. I didn’t think so. He’ll pick them up before 10pm, if he’s not here by then, you can trash them. Thanks.  Have a good one. I left the building and made my way to Times Square.

[To continue The Safa Boy Series, click for Part Seven]

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• “Dear Diary, I’m a Dirty Cheating Liar”

Posted in Relationships & Dating, tagged , , , , on March 8, 2011 | 14 Comments »

[This is Part Five of The Safa Boy Series: click for Introduction,  Part One,  Part Two,  Part Three, and Part Four]

I sat at the foot of my bed, bathed in sunshine that now felt ironically cheerful, struggling to make sense of the words “I cheated on her and I’ll do it again.” At the moment, I was still protected by shock. My brain was barely processing, my heart was thumping away, my eyes blinking with confusion. Nothing was working properly. My hands shook as I turned the page of the diary, searching for an explanation. Please, please, let it be a mistake. Let it mean something else. But the diary was unforgiving, it forged on in utter disregard of my pitiful pleas.

The entry was dated two days after I said he could live with me. “I shagged a fat girl. I feel like I cheated on [Insert My Name] even though I’m not her boyfriend. I feel like I owe her because she’s letting me stay with her and I don’t like it. Don’t really know why I cheated…” The entry rambled on; the word vomit of a 19-year old boy that made my last hand-written diary (composed at age 14 with the working title: “I’m Obsessed with Gabe P. and I Wish My Boobs Were Bigger”) look like a literary masterpiece. In capital letters at the bottom of the page, a summation of sorts, he had scrawled “FEEL GUILTY I SHAGGED FAT GIRL. REALLY LIKE [INSERT MY NAME HERE].”

My initial reaction was instinctual. I stripped, turned the shower as hot as I could stand, and tried to wash away the disgusting feeling those words gave me. Tried to scrub the smell of their author out of my hair. Hoped to scald the memory of his touch from my skin. Lathering my body with “calming lavender clear body wash” I felt anything but calm. Denial was washing away and second stage of grief: anger, was taking over. How could he do this to me? I let him live in my apartment, refused to take money for rent, and this is the thanks I get? And with someone he cared so little for he dubbed her “Fat Girl”? (Fortunately for him, he used no such moniker for me, for that reason South Africa has not acquired another eunich…yet..if I find out he gave me an STI I’m flying around the world and ripping his balls off with my bare hands. Just saying.)

I’m too pretty to be cheated on! Too smart! Too funny! Too awesome! I wanted to wail then throw myself on the floor and pound my fists into the ground (and by ground I mean his head). But I’m not four, nor am I nineteen; I’m twenty-four, and with those extra years of maturity, I emerged from the shower and attempted rational thought.

It wasn’t exactly the indiscretion itself that gave me thoughts of mutilating his scrotum. Not that I was thrilled that he’d slept with someone else, but it wasn’t as though we had exchanged vows of fidelity. When I invited him back to my apartment that first night, the thought of exclusivity was far from my mind. The idea didn’t even enter my head until he asked to stay with me. He was the one who asked, I never would have offered. I’m single in Manhattan, if there is one thing this city has taught me it’s that nothing can scare men away like the mention of premature exclusivity. I’ve also learned you can never assume exclusivity. Apparently not even when you’re living together.

I didn’t assume we were exclusive, it was what I was told. “I’m not sleeping with other women.” Bald faced lies to my face. That wasn’t even the worst of it. I studied that diary and came out with a timeline. The major betrayal as I saw it, took place a week after his “Fat Girl shag”. I remembered the day crystal clearly. It was the day we had a “slip up”, the first I’d ever experienced. An “Oh Yes!” moment turned to an “Oh Shit!” one. A situation where your latex security blanket is…cruely ripped away. A failing of plan A and a trip to Duane Reade need for “Plan B”. (Am I hitting you over the head with my subtlety? Did I lose anyone? I’m really hoping to lose my mom…Mom, stop reading.)

This circumstance lead me to ask questions I would not have other wise asked. Specifically regarding “exual-say istory-hay ” (did I lose anyone? Still really hoping to lose my mom! Mom! Stop!) “When was the last time you were tested?” He supplied a less than satisfactory answer, so I continued, “When was the last time you had sex?” (Mom, if you’re still reading, gosh darn it, I give up! I’ve had sex. There, I admit it! Is that what you wanted to hear? I also would normally say ‘god damn it’. Now you know all my secrets! Happy!?) His answer to this question surprised me and made me feel special, “Not since Rome, about 6 weeks.” In hindsight, I only feel stupid. He flat-out lied to my face, putting my sexual health- and he knew how serious this was to me- at risk. Cheating I could forgive. This? This I could not. “I didn’t want to hurt you.” he would later say. Oh really? That’s ironic. And I’m sure the fact I might’ve refused to let you stay with me was not a factor in the least! I would say sarcastically, resorting to the lowest form of wit.

I carefully crafted the text message: I read your diary. You knew I would. I’m not mad you slept with someone else, you could argue we weren’t exclusive. I am mad because you lied to me and put my health at risk. Which shows you don’t give a shit me. You’re not an asshole, you’re a coward.

I have a theory men like being called ‘assholes’. It makes them feel like men. “Women love a bad guy, an asshole,” they think. Thus ‘asshole’ has acquired some positive connotations. ’Coward’ has none. No one loves a coward.

I hit the SEND button. SENT. There was no going back. Confrontation. I wondered how he would reply. Not that it mattered. I knew exactly what I was going to do next.

to be continued…

Author’s note: So much for wrapping it up!

[To continue The Safa Boy Series, click for Part Six]

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• “Dear Diary, I’m A Dirty Liar”

Posted in Relationships & Dating, tagged , , , , on March 4, 2011 | 16 Comments »

[This is Part Four of The Safa Boy Series: click for Introduction,  Part One,  Part Two, and  Part Three]

So comfy [rei.com]

So comfy [rei.com]

He only owned two pairs of pants and he needed both to last the entirety of his around-the-world trip.  As it was the dead of winter, he had been wearing both pairs every day to fight off the cold. This morning, one pair was unwearable, the right leg soiled with vomit. My vomit. I felt awful. “Please just borrow my long underwear”, I begged, “They’re amazing, 100% wool. So warm. They’re black, they don’t look girly, see? And since you don’t have child-bearing hips, I bet they’ll fit perfectly.” Reluctantly he pulled them on. “Perfect fit!” I said triumphantly.
He grinned, “These are comfy. I bet they make my legs look really sexy, yeh?”
“Mmmm really sexy,” I agreed, “On second thought, maybe I don’t want you in pants just yet...” I grabbed the elastic of my long johns, a bit trickier than grabbing a belt buckle.
“I can’t,” He laughed, “I have to go meet my friend.”
“The one visiting from Botswana or where ever? The one who flaked on you yesterday? Pshh, I’ve got to be much more fun than him.”
“We’re going to go all around the city today doing tourist stuff and then get druuuuunk tonight. I’ll probably be out late so I’ll try to crash with him. I know you don’t like it when I wake you up.” he said, smell-testing his favorite shirt, then pulling it on.
“Nah, come home, even if it’s late. You’re only here 4 more days! And I’d like you in my bed for each of them.”
“Even if I’m back at 3?” he asked lacing up his “trainers”.
“Yes.”
“4?” he asked pulling on his coat.
“Yes!”
“5?” he asked putting his wallet in his pocket.
“So late!”
“4:59?” he asked and kissed me good bye.
“Text me. Have fun! Bye!”
“Will do. Bye girleen,” he said and walked out the door.

That was the last time I ever saw him as the cute, charming, clever boy who made me smile. The boy I was happy to call my lover. The next time I would see him he would be wearing the exact same clothes I had just watched him put on but he would look unrecognizable in my eyes.

I was alone in my apartment, for the first time since I’d been back from my trip. I had no plans for the day, for the first time in what felt like forever. Sun was pouring in my window, I stretched and propped up pillows. It was going to be a perfect lazy Sunday morning. I reached to grab a magazine from the foot of my bed; his bag and a pile of things made this more difficult than anticipated. I was just about to dig under the pile when I saw a small navy book right at the top that made me stop dead. I bet that’s it, I thought, His diary, the one he’s mentioned several times. My fingers itched. If you read that it’s a violation of trust! said one half of my brain. But…it’s just sitting there in front of you, said the other half, How can you not read it

________________________________________________________

Since “The Diary of Anne Frank” became one of the most iconic books of all time, it’s rare to find someone who starts a diary purely for themselves, with out even the smallest fleeting thought of “Maybe someone else will read this, someday…maybe even a publisher.” That’s certainly how I felt when I cracked the cover of my first diary at the age of eleven.

I vividly remember the look and feel of my first diary. This, “The Rainbow Fish”, was the cover shot. Do you remember your first diary/journal?

It had “The Rainbow Fish” on the cover, but aside from that it is likely indistinguishable from millions of diaries started by eleven year old girls. I longed for more excitement in my preteen life- there was only so much I could write about how annoying my parents were, boys, and how jealous I was of Kristina Lau. I even hoped the diary itself might generate some excitement. I would bring it to school, imagining some Harriet the Spy drama where it fell into the wrong hands and everyone learned all my deep, dark secrets and I’d be the talk of the school!

That never happened. Soon online blogging exploded and now it’s super easy for everyone to know my deep, dark secrets! Still, I don’t tell everyone about my blog, especially boys (though sometimes they find out on their own). So when he first mentioned he wrote a diary my response was a teasing: Oh? Are you going to get it published after your trip? rather than Really? I blog! We have SO much in common! I’ll show you mine if you show me yours! Teehee!

___________________________________________________________

I stared at the blue book in his bag. It’s not like he expressly told me not to read it… I picked it up. Maybe it wasn’t even his diary anyway, maybe I was getting all worked up over a list of expenses or something silly like that. I opened the book and let it fall to the last page of writing. It was definitely his diary. The entry began with a date and went on to be a feel-sorry-for-yourself complaint about loneliness written while I was away on my trip. It didn’t mention me at all and was poorly written, so it held little interest.

I was looking for my name, he must have written something about me. I flipped the page and there it was: “[Insert my name] says I’m mean.” That wasn’t true, I had said that merely in jest, teasing You’re mean! He couldn’t have possibly thought I was being serious! I read on: “She’s nice so she’s probably right. I cheated on her and I’ll do it again.” I stared at the ink on the page. My heart jumped into my lungs and I became intensely aware of its beating. My mouth turned dry, my hands started to sweat, I felt like I might throw up on his pants again. Almost immediately the 5 Stages of Grief commenced. #1 Denial: I’d read it wrong.  Shock flooded my system as I turned the page, looking for an explanation of what I had just read, refusing to believe my eyes. There was no way it could actually mean what it said.

to be continued…

Authors note: I didn’t intend to write so much, but this seems to be the way the story wants to be told. It’s actually a bit harder for me to write than I thought it would be. The wounds aren’t so fresh, but the scars haven’t faded. It’s cathartic to share though, so thanks for reading and thanks for your support! I’ll finish this beast of a story soon, you have my word!

[To continue The Safa Boy Series, click for Part Five]

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