Sunday, November 23, 2008

In this post, I would like to avoid writing a new list of things I'm barely tolerating this week (who wants to follow a formula used in bad teen movies *cough, Ten Things I Hate About You*), but I feel like the following paragraph is going to assume the same form. This is not to say that there are ten more things to hate about the same person earlier described. If I had spent any more time with him, I'm sure I'd be able to extend the list. But I'm talking about some other dude, because I'm avoiding Oscar Wilde's texts and calls. This is the third Richmond ride whom I've referenced in two posts. I did warn that I'm a six dollar whore.
To offer some context about the Friday night we spent together, I will say that in the past, almost nothing good has come of hanging out with him. We have almost no impulse control when we're in the same room: We drink to extreme excess, we make out in front of friends, we break into public buildings to have sex on furniture that does not belong to us, we run around naked in front of security cameras. He has odd possession fantasies (more on that later), so he likes me to hit on other men so he can watch and later assert ownership (and this makes me seem like a total floozy to all the people not in on the game). We tend to get down in a BDSM sort of way, so the violence from time to time spills out of the bedroom and terrifies my more protective friends, who are inherently mistrustful of men who appear to be strangling me. Together, we are completely out of control, and in my more dramatic moments I sometimes wonder if the excess of good times is going to end in death and/or prison time. (I, of course, will not be going to prison. I will be the one in the cardboard box at the crematorium.) Several times during sex we've crossed the line into the realm of dangerous and painful, leaving me with embarrasing bruises and him with a lot of guilt. Moreover, while he's made it abundantly clear that he likes me (he is given to easy praise), he has also made it abundantly clear that he LOVES his ex-girlfriend. I do not have the patience for this. Not even remotely. I'm not nineteen anymore. I don't want to listen to anyone who is naked in my bed prattle on about some other woman's beautiful eyes and lovely face. I don't care. I don't need to hear it. He also offered me a brief summary of my shortcomings in comparison to this woman, which compelled me to try seriously to CUT AND FUCKING RUN, as anyone with half a mind in her head would do. But I have about 1/4th of a mind, so instead, I dropped him for a month or so and picked up the world's boringest, faggiest straight dude, which brings me to Friday...
I did not plan to meet the person I've been describing (who I will refer to as the Basquiat reincarnation, thank you, dear friend with whom I share this blog). I in fact avoided his phone calls the week before, which left me feeling that I must be summoning some self-respect and dignity finally at the old age of twenty-three. Not so. I see him and make some vague and vain attempts to resist the urge to get involved in a three hour conversation. As though we were old friends who enjoyed each other's company... fucking lame. So there's some pathetic date-like stuff in there that involves him plying me with alcohol while I try to pretend that I don't fucking despise duck-pin bowling. There are long, vomitous conversations that make us seem to onlookers like a married couple. Crappy party, I lose my wallet, he thinks about thinking about getting in a fight, we walk eighty-five blocks home in the freezing cold, stopping several times to lick each others faces in public parks. When we finally do get home, we again have disturbing sex, though we're trying to avoid the real kink because it's gotten us in so much trouble recently. He doesn't beat me shitless this time, but he does say a few things that deeply disturb me. The almost complete list:
1. He says my name repeatedly, which doesn't do it for me. I know some people get off on that. It's not my scene.
2. As he's yanking down my panties, he says, "I like all of the women I sleep with to belong to me." (Again with the weird issues about possession.)
3. He tells me that in the three weeks we haven't seen each other, he has only had unprotected sex with two women.
4. He says, "I just broke the condom".
And finally, by far the creepiest comment, made after we have sex that involves a lot of choking/gagging noises:
5. "I like to hear you gag. Maybe it's the sadist in me, but I feel like I'm killing you. And I love it."
So, straight from the mouth of my regular ride, he wants to feel the life leave my body while he's fucking me. In addition, he has a thing for necrophilia, which he openly discusses. So, were I even the slightest bit motivated by concern for my safety, I would probably turn tail and try to escape... but honestly, half of this shit turns me on anyway.

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