Chapter Six - Mike S.

Mike was younger than me by a few years and he was incredibly hot. He was in a band. Mike was probably 6' 3" and built like a Greek god, which wasn't too far off; he WAS Greek. With a shaved head full-sleeve tattoos, he looked like a bad boy and played the part well.

Our group of friends used to go to this nasty pool hall once a week. I wasn't good, but I was learning. Mike was the best player of all of us, and he wasn't one to let us forget it.

It all started the one night I finally got good enough to start kicking his ass at the game. It fired him up like crazy. I kept winning - not every game, but more than he was - and maybe he felt the need to assert his manhood or something, but I got the benefit from it. The sexual tension had been building for awhile. We all knew it but, let's be honest...there was always a lot of sexual tension between me and someone or another. :-/

At some point, he grabbed my hand, and began pulling me off my barstool, saying we needed to go outside and talk for a minute. We left the others to the game and I quickly found out that "talking" was not an accurate statement.

He literally threw me into our friend's car, jumped on top of me, and started kissing me. He was forceful, stripping off my clothes and tossing them all over the car. We were in a small parking lot, full of cars and people, and it just didn't matter. It was hot, sweaty, and passionate. I can remember the feel of the tapestry upholstery on my body; the slight dusty smell of the classic car's backseat. And his body against mine. Oh, GOD, his body...

Sidenote: If you've never had sex in the back of a 1960s-era car, you simply must. The seats are big and the springs give a certain sensation that you just can't get anywhere else...

Anyway, I could have probably gone all night from the sheer momentum of what had been building. With each movement, his chest sliding up and down against mine, I thought I was going to die - in the good way. Everyone knows how this kind of short narrative ends: with Stillie getting louder and louder, followed by sharp gasps of breath that just don't seem to fill her lungs fast enough.

There was no tender moment afterwards, only the realization (and huge sense of pride following the discovery) that our friends were (respectfully?) standing on the sidewalk one row away from the car. We got dressed and Mike stepped out of the car. I sat in the backseat, trying to adjust my boot laces, and he stood there looking at me. "You know we're not done...right?" All I could do was brush a little hair out of my face and nod.

Lionel (it was his car) walked up and carefully inspected the backseat. "Do I really want my friends sitting back here?" he asked, laughing. I guess nobody cared, because they all started piling in.

"We got kicked out because Richard knocked the cue ball off the table and didn't want to put any money in the jukebox," he said. "Besides, they're closing down in twenty minutes, so it's not like it matters. Everybody ready to get back to the house and drink a few?" Lionel was a lucky guy. His mother worked nights as a nurse, so his apartment was always our drinking spot. So, away we went.

Mike was attentive the rest of the evening, so it wasn't like he was embarrassed or anything - which was my first thought because, hell...he was one of those guys that every girl wanted to fuck, so what the hell was he doing with me? - and we hung out until about 4, when Lionel was nice enough to drive both Mike and me home. With no words, Mike wrote his number on a gas station receipt as he got out. He got to his door, turned around, and hollered, "Call me. We should get together."

Guys play the game, and so do I. I waited almost a week before I called him. It made my heart soar when I heard him say, "Well...I was wondering if you were ever going to call me." I laughed, because it's not like he needed me to get any. The tone of his voice hinted at a bit of insecurity, which made me giggle.

The rest of the sexual relationship isn't worth mentioning. I mean, it was always good, but nothing as exciting or as memorable as the parking lot thing. Eventually, I realized I was too insecure to carry on with a guy who could have his pick of just about any girl - and I'm sure he still did anyway - and I just sort of faded away. He didn't try to follow, which made me realize it was probably for the best.

Where is he now? Still playing in a band. He's made a few solo albums, traveled a bit, done a lot of collaborations with a lot of talented artists. I'm guessing he still has a real name, but he has a stage name that he uses professionally and on Facebook. I found him through a friend and sent him a request; we've had a few exchanges, but it's been nothing important. He's doing well, pretty successful as a musician, and I'm happy for him. In case you're wondering, he's still incredibly drool-inducing.

Next up: Zack P.

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A Rescue Dog Rant

I always get rescue dogs. I've had a Toy Fox / Rat Terrier mix (who was a puppy mill breeder dog), a black tri Aussie (the owner found out he was sick and didn't give him any treatment, and decided to give him away on Craigslist to dump the problem), and I currently have two Aussies, one who is deaf due to irresponsible breeding. I've been considering getting another small dog - either another Terrier or an Italian Greyhound - so I've been cruising the rescue groups' sites. What I see is a ridiculous amount of Chihuahuas or variation thereof.

This always happens when the media uses a dog to either promote something or star in a TV show.

Responsible Collie breeders have been fighting for years to reclaim the health and stability of the breed following "Lassie." The same can be said of German Shepherd breeders following "Rin Tin Tin." Jack Russell Terrier breeders and Chihuahua breeders are battling the same thing now, due to "Frazier" and the Taco Bell dog (which wasn't a standard Chihuahua, anyway!)

I get so annoyed with two different types of people: a) people who decide they have to have a particular breed because they see it on TV and, b) idiots who decide to breed those dogs because they've suddenly become popular and see dollar signs.

Here's what I see happen, and I'd like you to stop and think about whether or not you agree. I'm just voicing my observations in my area.

When "Frazier" was a popular show, there was a cute Jack Russell on the show. People watched the show and decided they wanted that type of dog. I'm guessing they didn't do much research on the breed because, within a couple of years, there was a huge influx of Jack Russells into rescue. I'm assuming people bought these dogs through backyard breeders or a pet store, because a responsible breeder would have made sure the buyer knew what they were in for. After living with the highly-energetic handful of a dog, the less-than-educated owners decided they couldn't handle the dog anymore. The dog went into rescue or shelters because they didn't know what else to do. Some of those people bought JRs and bred them themselves, deciding to make money the same way the others were.

A few years after that, the dogs used for irresponsible breeding began showing up in rescue. When the litter-producers could no longer turn a crazy profit, they dumped their dogs as well. That ended up being the second wave of rescue JRs.

Very few of these rescue dogs were healthy, met the breed standard, were eligible to be registered with the AKC, or maintained the integrity of the breed. That's what happens when people breed dogs for profit, as opposed to breeding for the love of the dog and to preserve the breed's initial purpose.

The exact same thing happened with Chihuahuas. The "Taco Bell Dog" wasn't even a true Chihuahua; it was a mix. But the Chihuahua Craze had already started, and even now, several years after that advertising campaign ended, rescues and shelters are being inundated with these dogs. Most are mixes, and my theory on that is that people bought the dog on a whim, never altered the pet because they were either too ignorant to realize that, unless you're a breeder, you probably shouldn't keep an intact dog as a pet, or they just didn't give a shit about it at all.

The problem with the Chihuahua thing is that there are congenital defects and problems these dogs have that responsible breeders try to eliminate from their litters. They have a tendency to have knee problems (luxating patellas), seizures, heart problems, eye problems, dental issues, and fontanelles that never harden. Poor commitment to responsible breeding most often results in temperament issues, regardless of breed. Backyard breeders aren't concerned with that; they just want the money, and there have been plenty of customers. As a result, all of the rescues and shelters are trying to adopt out or eternally-foster special-needs dogs which, I'm sure you can imagine, is next to impossible.

Don't even get me started on the "pocket dogs" and Peek-a-Poos and Cock-a-Poos netting stupidly high prices, or any ridiculous version of a "designer pet" that us old-schoolers call mutts. Or the fighting dog thing. PLEASE don't get me started on the ghetto trash that want fighting dogs...

Understand my view on this, though: Mutts are perfectly wonderful pets. And many special-needs dogs are very easily manageable, although some require lifetime medication or other financially-draining treatment, although that doesn't keep them from being great pets. And my issue here isn't with the dogs themselves, and I'm not trying to come across as purely pro-breeder, either. Shit happens. People die, people become too old to care for a dog, people get divorced or have to move and can't give the dog appropriate accommodations, dogs get loose and are never reclaimed, or whatever. I get that.

I guess what I'm really mad about are people who see animals as a cash cow when the opportunity comes up. Irresponsible breeders don't worry about spay/neuter contracts, genetics testing, education, consulting with families to ensure proper placement, or anything else. They're in it for the money. As a result, hundreds of thousands of dogs are euthanized in my area every year because, while they may BE adoptable, there are simply too many dogs to place. It breaks my heart.

I think about my girl, Holly. She's a 14-year old rescue Australian Shepherd who I adopted at a year and a half of age. She was put into a shelter in Louisiana because she killed another dog on the dairy farm where she lived. The owner never fed her dog food; she had nothing to eat but milk from the cows. She was abused by use of a cattle prod. When she got pregnant from the "family dog," a black lab, she was given no shelter or whelping box in which to have her puppies. She had to defend her puppies from predators and the other dogs through aggression. She went into rescue because she's a highly sought-after blue merle female with blue eyes. Three of her puppies were euthanized because they "didn't look right." Even the rescue had a date for euthanasia because she was so dog-aggressive.

Then I came along; a single, dogless woman who wanted a pet who would just jump up into the cab of mytruck and go...anywhere and everywhere. And Holly's nature fit that bill perfectly.

It took me 8 years to get her accustomed to other dogs. On a leash, she was fine. She graduated at the top of her obedience class at the age of two, beating out a Golden Retriever from a reputable breeder. Let her loose around other dogs, though, and it was full-on war. Like I said, it took me 8 years of working with her before I could take her to the dog park and get another dog as a pet. Even before that breakthrough, she was the best dog ever.

When I got her, she was damaged. Almost unadoptable to anyone except someone like me. Lots of people wanted her because they liked the way she looked, but her situation was not optimal for anyone. Not to mention that there were so many other dogs in rescue that were "more adoptable" than she was.

Holly has slowed down quite a bit, being almost 14 and suffering from laryngeal paralysis - most likely due to the abuse she suffered as a young dog - but she's perfect for me. That's the catalyst for my rant.

Holly's the best thing that's ever happened to me. When I felt I had no reason to live, I realized that Holly would, most likely, be euthanized because nobody else could handle her. I could never let that happen, because she had so much love to give, is so willing to please, and has been so easy to train. But she suffered for far too long and we went through so many hard years - even with me - as I tried to undo all the damage she'd incurred before I came along. It was difficult. I refused to give up, because I saw her love and intellect and, without meaning to be too cheesy, we are like soulmates.

My deaf boy came to me in a different way, and he is a HUGE responsibility in a few ways, but what I get out of our relationship outweighs the complications. It could also be argued that some of the undesirable issues could easily be solved if I put some work into it. Just to give you an idea about that special-needs stuff...he was in rescue for two years before I adopted him. The others at the rescue - the deaf ones with eye problems as well - had been there for as long as six years.

It's a tragedy that so many people view animals as a way to make money, rather than recognize their true purposes: either to do what their breed was meant to do, or to be fantastic companions. I'm tired of seeing pit bull, terrier, and chihuahua mixes stuck in shelters where they're living on borrowed time.

I feel as if I lost my focus. I'm sorry for that. There are just so many points I wanted to make and so many facets to the problem...Maybe I should have done some pre-writing! LOL.

Please...leave a comment and let me know what YOU think about anything I touched on here. Am I off-base? Too critical? Do you agree? Have any information or thoughts you'd like to add?

 

Chapter Five - Paul B.

I met Paul through some friends. He was a computer genius that was into all the same local music all of us were. He was quite a bit older and I don't really recall ever showing any interest in the guy. But, he was the guy with the biggest car - a 1960-something sedan that would hold, like, 12 people - so he was always willing to drive, so we saw each other a lot.

Paul wasn't a love interest; he was a "date" rapist, although there was never any date involved. So, does that just make him a straight-up rapist? I suppose.

On his 21st birthday, he asked if he could stop by and bring me a piece of cake and some champagne. We were both night people; he worked graveyard at some oil company in their IT department, and I just had my days backwards. He showed up at about 11pm and came in with cake and a bottle of champagne. I had no intention of drinking any of it, either. I've always gotten terrible headaches from just one glass. At that time, I wasn't a big drinker anyway and, when I did, it was usually just beer or wine coolers.

However, I brought in one glass and two plates. We ate cake and he poured some champagne. He was drinking out of the bottle and told me that glass was for me. Only it was really more like a tumbler, not really a glass. I figured, "What the hell...it's Moet, not Korbel!" We talked about just random stuff, some bands coming up that we wanted to see, gossiped about friends...you know...nothing of substance.

As it turned out, I got pretty drunk and told him it was time for him to go. He said it was fine, and he picked his stuff up and started to leave. I told him to let himself out and, very quickly after that, I passed out.

I don't know if he ever even really left, or if he left and came back, but I woke up with him on top of me, damned near beating the hell out of me. I weighed all of 90 pounds. Paul was skinny, but over 6 feet tall. I tried pushing him, I tried fighting, but he got what he wanted before I was able to do too much about it.

I could have screamed, I could have yelled until my father came running, gun in hand. In my shock, I actually thought *I* would be the one to get in trouble because I was drunk. I wasn't thinking straight at all.

As soon as he was done, he got up, zipped up his jeans, said, "Thanks. See ya around," and walked out of my house, leaving me in a limp huddle, crying uncontrollably but silently. The very next thing I did was vomit a few times - more from disgust, not drunkenness - take a shower, and pass out in the bathtub.
Like most young women, it went unreported. I felt ashamed that I could have let it happen. I felt guilty because I let him into my home. It was my fault, right? Having a 21-year old guy come over at that hour of the night, even if I thought he was a good friend, was a foolish mistake, and it was my bad judgment that caused that situation, right?

Apparently, like most guys who do that type of thing, he didn't think he'd done anything wrong. Any time I saw him out somewhere, he acted all friendly with me, as if nothing had happened. My friends had no clue why I refused to go anywhere with him, although they suspected something pretty bad had happened between us because I refused to discuss it.

You would think that I'd learned a lesson from that. I didn't. As you already know if you've been a longtime reader, I continue to put myself in risky situations.

He took something from me. When he left my house that night, he took my Give-A-Shit. In the 4 people I'd slept with, the 'relationships' ran the gamut of circumstances. I guess I felt like, at that point, sex really meant nothing at all. If it was so easy for someone to get that from me, regardless of the method, then it must not be that special after all, right? That was a turning point for me. I realized that the giving and withholding of sex gave me a sick amount of power. He'd stripped me of my dignity so there was no point in trying to recover it. Or so I thought.

That previous paragraph was sort of a revelation. I hadn't really analyzed what had happened; I'd pretty much just skipped over it and never dealt with it. Never talked to my shrinks about it, never really talked about it with anyone. I guess I just figured some stuff out, huh?

Where is he now? Beats me. After I told my friends I never wanted anything to do with him ever again, I didn't see him again. Somebody gave me an update on him awhile back, I think, but it might have been about someone else. Really, any time someone would speak his name, I'd tune out.

So, I'm not sure if he should be listed here, but he is. Because it happened, and it still counts. Just not in the good way. For the record, I was raped again several years later. Someone followed me up to my apartment when I left the pool. He came in the door and attacked me. My roommate came in - just a few seconds too late to prevent the actual rape part - but she scared him off and he ran away. Again, I never reported it again. I didn't get a very good look at his face and neither did she. I had no idea who he was, so what was the point? That event, however, is probably what gave me a huge aversion to very dark-haired men. It makes my skin crawl. No matter who it is, how nice they are, that's all I can think about.

And that's the end of that. Time to move on.

Next up: Mike S

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Chapter Four - Chris D #1

I met Chris D #1 (yeah, there's been more than one of those) at some concert of a local band. I don't remember who it was, how we met, or much else about it. Either way, I thought he was cute and we had the music thing in common.

There are really only five memories I have of the guy. I don't remember anything spectacular or freaky about the sex. Sorry to disappoint. It was just kind of a normal relationship. Well, normal for ME, anyway.

The first: He was poor - I mean, DIRT poor - and lived in a dilapidated shotgun shack in the gang-filled west end of downtown. He lived with his grandmother and his mother, sister, and nephew lived in an equally-dilapidated shack next door. The houses were so old they were falling apart and it was almost impossible for them to keep them clean. I figured the reason he always took me through the back door into the house was because his room was next that door. I went over one day and he didn't answer the back door, so I went to the front. His grandmother let me in. It looked like a scene from a horror film. It was decorated in typical "old lady" decor, but everything was coated with a thick layer of dust. Roses that were years old, turned gray from the filth. I had to walk through the kitchen to get to his room and the water heater was in the corner. There was what can only be described as a mob colony of German cockroaches huddled in the corner; thousands of them. I guess that was why Chris's room was always spotless. I thought he had OCD because he vacuumed when he got up and before bed and sprayed around his door and windows all the time.

The second: He was the first person I met that snorted flake heroin. I didn't even know there was such a thing until I met him. And I did it a few times, but decided I didn't like it. This was before Nirvana became mainstream and the Seattle thing was just beginning to get some recognition with us weird undergrounders. He claimed to have stopped doing it when I expressed my displeasure, but I'm pretty sure he kept doing it, just not when I was around.

The third: All was one of our favorite bands. We listened to the Descendants and All constantly. He sort of considered "Net" to be our song. It's still one of my favorites! Anyway, I remember so clearly when we traveled to watch All play at the Axiom in Houston and it was a magical event for us. It was just a really great show. It meant a lot to us and it meant a lot to me personally because I'd been a fan for so long.

The fourth: Every time we had sex, he would jump up right before he came and would run to the bathroom. He said it was disrespectful to ejaculate in or on a woman, and he wouldn't do it. He always just ran to the toilet and dumped it there. Interesting, huh?

The fifth: Emmitt came over one night and I was trying to get rid of him. He wouldn't go away and, at that moment, Chris called. I told Emmitt to shut the hell up before I even answered but, sure enough, as soon as I got in the middle of the "good night" conversation, Emmitt piped up, "Who is THAT?" as loud as he could. Chris freaked out, with good reason. I tried to explain what was going on but, well...it didn't work. That was the last time I spoke to him. All over a misunderstanding. And I guess he quit going to shows because I didn't see him anywhere again. Either that or he was really good at avoiding me.

Where is he now? I wanted to catch up with him several years ago, but his number was disconnected. I figured I'd go by his house. Both his house and his mother's house had been razed and replaced with $300K townhomes (isn't neighborhood revitalization awesome?). Either way, I found out that he died in 2001. I have no idea how or where. I was hoping to just catch up with him and see how he was, but that's what I found when I started digging: his death record. Died young. What do you think? Heroin? That's what I was guessing.

Next up: Chapter 5 - Paul B.
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Chapter Three - Rene

Rene was Emmitt's best friend. It was Rene's house where I first met Emmitt in the first place. I don't remember how we ended up getting together, but we did. I guess that's when they quit being friends, I suppose. We really had very little in common. I was pretty heavy into the local music scene, but he was into the club scene.

There was nothing about Rene, looking back, that was good for me. Oh, who am I kidding...I knew that then. He was a drug dealer and owned his own house at only 18. He had two GT Mustangs. He wasn't very careful about keeping his profile low-key. Maybe that was part of the attraction.

I had just started attending a private school that was extremely lenient on rules. It was a work-at-your-own-pace kind of structure (if you could call it structure), and we were required to attend classes for a certain number of hours a week, taken as we saw fit. It allowed for two hour lunches if that's what we wanted. I did that a bit too often with Rene.

What I remember most were the days he'd pick me up from school and we'd spend that time in his car, 98% of the time in the backseat. I usually had to stay at school almost all of Monday just so I could make sure I had enough spare hours to waste having tawdry sex with a loser for a couple of hours each day for the rest of the week.

The bulk of everything I remember about Rene revolves around the different parking locations over that period of time. Sometimes we'd just pull around behind the school (which was actually housed in a church), sometimes we'd go to the city park by the creek (which was across the street from an elementary school), or do other crazy things like go park in the middle of the grocery store parking lot, just to see if anyone would notice.

Please remember, I wasn't always sober; I still had a bit of a drug habit myself, and often did things that make me shudder to think about now. Once, he came to pick me up and one of his friends (i hated the guy), was in the passenger's seat, reeking of alcohol. Passed out cold. Rene and I still had sex in the backseat. I can't imagine the guy stayed passed out the whole time - I still suspect that he was just fine but Rene was trying to prove a point about how much of a freak I was - and that he was watching instead. Given Rene's affinity for exhibitionism, it wouldn't surprise me too much. Given that I typically didn't give a shit, the fact that I did it doesn't surprise me much, either.

On the weekends, I'd usually spend the nights with him. Sex was all we did. There was usually pizza and beer involved, though. Sometimes, if we were feeling particularly skanky, we'd get a 4-pack of Everclear Purple Passion.

One of the most embarrassing and freaky things that ever happened involved his pit bull, Sandy. She was a sweet dog, but she would crawl under the covers after we were asleep. Rene had an oral fixation with me and would often wake up in the middle of the night and go down on me. Do you see where this is going? Yeah. One morning, I thought it was him, but it wasn't. I figured it out pretty quickly, and I made him establish a "no dogs in the bedroom" rule from there on out.

It wasn't the quality - that's for sure - but the quantity. Bobby's emotional involvement in our relationship had fooled me into thinking that most people who slept together cared for each other. I guess I made the mistake in thinking that because Rene spent so much time and money on me that he must've actually cared about me. I think that was probably where my ridiculous idea of sex = affection began.

Eventually, he met some rich girl with a Daddy complex who was rebelling against her family hard enough to proclaim her love for Rene. He couldn't help himself; she'd been Homecoming Queen at the local high school and she had great grades and a bright future. I told him I understood (I did), and that I was okay with it (which I really was, mostly).

We still got together for a weekend marathon every once in a great while, as our lives continued on and we moved on. He moved out of town but came into town every so often. He gave his grandmother his house, which I thought was kinda nice.

There's an interesting story about how I got him to help me buy a gun when I was 17, but that might be an entry for another time. It's a fun story to tell, though.

Where is he now? I have no clue. I haven't spoken to him in probably 15 years. I'm not sure how long he was in the drug game and I haven't done anything to try to find him. No need.

Next up: Chris D.
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Chapter Two: Bobby B

My love affair with Bobby had existed pretty much since I began high school. He was the second person I was introduced to at the school and so then it began. We started seeing each other. I was still a virgin and he said he liked it, but he wasn't going to be the first one. "My father always used to say, a girl always falls in love with her first and they'll never get over it, and I believe that. I don't believe in love, though, so I can't be your first," he said. "I'm not seeing anyone else, and I can wait, but if you get the opportunity, take it. I'd love to be able to finally be with you." He was a junior, I was a freshman, and as much as I wanted him to change his mind, he wouldn't. The whole thing was kinda weird, but whatever. It wasn't like I had any better options.

I won't get into the whole thing about how much he taught me - in several arenas - but I learned more about what men like and more about drugs than I ever thought I would.

(by the way, you should always be wary of a teenager that's been given the master bedroom. i've known three of them, and they were always super-fucked up)

We dated for close to the whole school year and then we had that conversation. You know...the one that makes the sky feel as if it's falling into your stomach. He told me that he was interested in another girl and was ready to start having sex again and he didn't want to lie to me. So we broke up. And soon after that was when Emmitt came along. I still saw Bobby at school and we still hung out. We kinda started seeing each other when things with Emily didn't work out so well and they ended it only a month after they got together.

A few weeks into Emmitt, he went away on vacation with his parents for a week. And the day he left, I called Bobby. I didn't even have to tell him why I was calling; he already knew.

I remember the pink hue cast all over his bedroom from the red scarf he'd draped over the lamp. We were tired, worn out, and sweaty. His drapes swished in the breeze of the fan. The smell of incense filled the room as we smoked the cliche after-sex cigarettes. Kate Bush's angelic voice filled our ears, Bobby's hand swirling around on my back to the beat of the music. I felt so secure and so loved, wrapped up in the satin sheets, feather down comforter, and his arms. I stayed late into the night, succumbing to desire time and time again, Bobby attentive to every need and whim I had. I could feel him on my skin and smell him in my hair and when the CD changed and he mumbled softly the lyrics to "Just Like Heaven," I distinctly remember thinking, Yes. JUST like it.

That experience, that feeling...that's what I thought it was all supposed to be about. I knew he wasn't in love with me and I was okay with that. I was getting the best part of him and, much like women feel as if sex is the most precious thing to share with someone, I felt that same thing about what he was giving me: the most precious thing to share with me.

And it wasn't just about sex with us. It wasn't about a relationship, either. He got back with Emily while we were still doing our thing. And, yes, Emmitt came back but I didn't stop seeing Bobby. I did love him, just in a different way. Emmitt...there were no feelings there whatsoever, but he did things for me, so I kept it up. Eventually, Bobby decided to stop seeing me and committed himself to Emily. I was disappointed, but I understood.

But I will never forget the feeling of the carpet burns on my back, rolling around on the floor, drinking screwdrivers made with vodka given to us by his mother, jamming out to Jimi Hendrix before doing it all over again. There are so many things about that time that I don't remember, as well. That's not entirely all his fault, though.

Where is he now?

He ended up marrying Emily when she got pregnant after high school. They moved to Austin. One night when I went to the tattoo shop for some work, he showed up for a piercing. We talked for a very short while and he left. I kinda felt punched in the stomach. Then I heard nothing until about a year ago. He found me on Facebook. He'd divorced Emily - amicable breakup, they just shouldn't have gotten married - and is dating a much younger girl. They seem happy, despite some of the rockiness we talked about and, last I heard, he'd proposed to her. He's working as a mechanic in a dealership and his son is a really, really smart kid and has a killer personality - just like his parents. We spent hours talking and texting, reminiscing about all the good times and fun, and he helped fill in a ton of the blanks from my teenage years I don't remember. He's invited me to come up and spend some time with them, but I'm not really into that idea. We still talk even now, but he hasn't made it down to my part of the state yet. He hates it here - I don't blame him - but when he comes, he promised we'll get together. When we do get together, I'm sure it will be a very interesting evening.

Next up: Chapter 3: Rene, Emmitt's best friend.

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Chapter One - Emmitt

I was the last of all my friends to be a virgin. I didn't consider 14 to be a normal age to start having sex, so I was confused about why all my friends were doing it. But you probably remember your mind as a teenager; racing, obsessive, thinking no further into the future than to the weekend. At that stage in my life, 3 months seemed like an eternity. Listening to my friends talk about their exploits over an entire school year made me feel as if I'd never find someone.

The main issue was that my friends were actually in relationships; they weren't just sleeping around. I, on the other hand, couldn't keep anyone around longer than 2 or 3 months and I was miserable and finally came to terms with the fact that waiting for "the right guy" was a fairy tale accessible to only a few. So I decided that I'd just go ahead and get it over with, with the next guy that didn't repulse me and tried to get in my pants.

As luck would have it, there was a party that weekend. I ended up getting chummy with a guy named Emmitt who was not even remotely my type. Ralph Lauren and Cole Haan and all buttoned up. Came from a rich neighborhood, went to great schools and, basically, came across as a spoiled little rich boy. Although I spent the night at the party with him, I didn't drink or use drugs (ha! at the time!), and everybody was pretty hammered. He took me up on the roof of the host's house and we talked for quite some time. I found out about his checkered past and his getting sent to boot camp and reform school and how he totally changed his life around. He swore he didn't use any drugs at all anymore, but I suspected that he smoked weed quite a bit. After all, we were at the house of a drug dealer. An 18-year old drug dealer who owned his own house and two new Mustangs. 5.0 Mustangs, too...not those stupid little 4-bangers. We fooled around a little but, mostly, I just wanted to sleep.

He borrowed his friend's Mustang to take me home the next morning. My parents were at work and I thought, You know, Stillie...maybe this is the way to go. So I invited him in. We fooled around a little bit more and then told him to go for it. I'd never told him I was a virgin, either. Like a moron, condom-less and impulsive, we had sex. Short, pathetic, "i'm not sure he's in yet because he's that small" sex. Like most girls, I was underwhelmed. Totally unimpressed. I mean, sure, I liked the feeling but it was just easier to take care of myself and actually revel in the sensations.

He wouldn't leave. I literally had to kick him out. I told him I didn't want to see him anymore. I mean, we had nothing in common besides acquaintances and I'd gotten what I needed. He showed up at my house every evening, begging my father to let him see me. Dad didn't understand why I wouldn't want to go out with such a "nice looking boy with a nice car" who "obviously comes from money."

Eventually he wore me down and we started dating. He went out of town for a week over the summer and I started having sex with another guy I'd been crushing on for 2 years. But that's Chapter Two. Emmitt and I had been going out for about three months when he went to eat Christmas dinner with my family. I overheard my oldest cousin say, "Well, she finally brought a guy over...she must not be a virgin anymore." Gah. It was about a month later when I took my best girlfriend over to his house one afternoon. He started mildly flirting with her and I broke up with him right there. Then I started fucking his best friend. But that's another story. Chapter Three, to be exact.

Where Is He Now?
Apparently, while we were dating, he'd been sleeping with another girl. He got her pregnant and her grandfather forced Emmitt to move in with them. I heard they got married later. I never had any desire to find him at all until I was doing some background checks and had to look up public records of someone with the same last name. Seems that the old ex got busted with pounds upon pounds of marijuana with the intent to distribute and, at last check, is currently in a local prison.

Next up: Chapter Two - Bobby B

(by the way...i don't plan on writing so much for all of these guys. i just figured, you know...the first and all. good background for you to get a feel for my self-destructive pattern.)

 

The Night After Steve's Funeral

The night sky was an inkwell and someone spilled glitter into it. The glassy lake, an obsidian slab, was untouched by breeze. An occasional shooting star raced across the sky, its celestial path mirrored on the lake's surface. And there I was, just floating in the center of a lake that seemed as if it could have been the edge of the world: no shoreline to be seen. I'd lost sight of it just after dusk; that time when everything appears to be coated in dust, as if a building had been imploded nearby.

I was the nucleus; the full moon slowly rotated around me. The guttural croaks of the freshwater drum gradually subsided as the night grew long. I had no sense of time, lost in an environment captured as a Polaroid snapshot, a scene that would fade and turn to a blurry, sepia-toned memory as time passed.

The distorted voices of campers, once carried over the water, faded and ceased altogether, my sign that I was truly alone, secluded and sheltered from the world. Then - finally THEN - I fell into, at last, my element. I disappeared into the comfort and familiarity of nature, wholly enveloped in the only form of peace I know: the solitary method for me to achieve a quiet mind.

In this rarely-visited alternate universe, I was able to forget the disturbing form of grief I had endured that day. I disconnected my feelings of confusion and, for the first time in a long time, felt absolutely nothing. Relaxation (or was it mental exhaustion?) took over and I began to fall asleep, floating flat on my back in the onyx water.

It expended a great amount of willpower to pull myself out of the trance. Soon, someone would be looking for me. Soon, I was going to have to get back to the dock. Going back meant driving back home in a few hours and returning to the life I'd grown to hate: city life. As I begrudgingly swam back, I kept looking to the east, silently cursing the sky's ever-growing light blue hue.



(i know someone said they were waiting on my narcissistic entries about my sordid sex life. i haven't forgotten, but i lost inspiration for awhile. being busy is kind of a crappy excuse, but i will do my best to sit down and write them. they're just going to be small memories; not the whole horrible affair, so maybe it won't be too painful to read.)

62 Chapters of Dick

Because I'm bored and in the mood to reminisce, I'm thinking about doing a short flash of memories in 62 installments. Not the full stories, just a blurb or two. More for myself than anything else. Once I open the gate, the rest of the memories come flooding back - usually - and I sure miss my life. There are so many things I wish I could remember, but my brain's fried. I think that, while my two readers will be either disgusted, entertained, or just feel sorry for me, I will be able to regain parts of myself.

I feel as if I'm mellowing, slowing down, or something. I want to relive what I consider to be conquests. So...anyway...more of that later. You've been warned.
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Redneck in the Suburbs

The weather out in the country the last few years has really taken its toll on cattle production, so I thought I'd sell the farm and move into the city. Well, the suburbs, I guess. It wasn't anything I wanted to do, but I was able to get a job at Tractor Supply and Feed and it seemed like it would all work out okay. I quickly learned that things work a bit differently here. I've been fighting with my homeowner's association since Day One, pretty much.

I had a lot of things I wanted to put in outdoor storage. Seems that whatever it is has to be shorter than the fence height. And you had to have a permit. So I got one. No problem, I thought. I had to get the covered storage back there anyway, so I pulled down the 6 foot fence with my truck. The cops were upset that I blocked up the street for a few minutes getting it dragged out. I showed them the permit, though, and they left. After that misunderstanding, I went ahead and got the truck in the backyard. It didn't take me long to put up the new 10-foot, 5-strand barbed wire fence, so I moved all my stuff into storage.

I got a nasty letter stating that a barbed wire fence is not compliant and that it's a safety hazard. Apparently a 1979 Ford doesn't constitute a "storage shed," either. I don't know what's wrong with these people, because they began complaining about EPA regulations and contamination, so the truck had to go. And my new fence.

I decided to spiffy up the front yard with some landscaping and plants. I heard somewhere that native plantings are easier on the environment and cut down on water consumption. Since a lack of water was what caused me to move out here in the first place, it sounded like a great idea. I also read about raised flowerbeds and thought it would look nice. I found a big plastic rectangular shell and figured I could use that, and edge it with rocks or something. Next thing I know, I got another strongly-worded letter saying that an old truck bed liner is not an approved landscaping material, that the weeds I'd been growing in the aforementioned bed liner were considered an eyesore, and that crushed concrete is considered commercial waste and, therefore, not allowed in landscaping. I tried to reason with them and tell them that they weren't "weeds," that they were native wildflowers and scrub brush, but they threatened to fine me if I didn't get rid of it. So that had to go.

Then they complained about the dead patch of grass where the bed liner had been. It was a mandate that I re-sod that area. I guess you just can't make these people happy around here.

I guess the dirt and sod I picked up had seeds of some sort in it, because then I ended up with real weeds popping up all over the place. Since the grass was dying anyway (yes, due to lack of rain), I let them grow. They were green and had pretty yellow flowers. I was outside admiring the pop of color when the HOA monitor stopped by and told me I had to remove them. Given they were so worried about chemical contamination and whatnot, I decided the best way was to just cover them up, so I dragged an old rug outside and put it on top of my pretty yellow flowers. I mean, hell, all the grass was dying at that point. A few days should have done it, but I came home the next day to a warning notice on my door telling me that household furnishing are not allowed in the front yard. Once again, I had to abandon my foolproof plan. I rolled the rug up and put it out by my trashcan.

I got another notice on the door stating that heavy trash is only once a month, and the rug had to be removed until three weeks later. What the hell is wrong with these people?

Since I had to remove my storage idea from the backyard, I decided maybe I needed an addition to my garage. Again, I had to have a permit, so I got one. I cut out part of the wall to my garage (inside my backyard, behind my new fucking fence), removed the fence again, and put the new prefab addition on. I put the fence back. Next thing I know, I've got a committee of four representatives paying me a visit, telling me that an old Airstream trailer is not an approved addition, regardless of the fact that you can't see it over the fence, and housing additions don't need to be below the fence line. I was also told that, no, just putting roof matching the house on top of the Airstream wasn't acceptable. Seriously? How many hoops does this neighborhood want me to jump through?!

I had to take down the fence again, remove my Airstream, put the fence back up (at this point, it was rather rickety and I had to keep it up by using baling wire and secure it to the nearby tree), and was given 2 weeks notice to restore the hole in the side of my garage. And was ticketed for my repeated fence offenses, specifically in regards to the baling wire. For fuck's sake!

And then again with the weeds. I finally said "fuck it," and decided to go back to basics. It was a clear day with no wind, so I pulled out my drip torch and got a buddy to stand by with the hose, just in case. The burn was going as planned, and I couldn't wait to see all the new growth pop up within the next few weeks, but before I could complete it, the damned fire department showed up and I got a rather large ticket. Apparently even a controlled burn isn't allowed. What the hell? People do it all the time to eradicate weeds and invasive plants! At least I didn't use diesel fuel! There is just no understanding of plant succession around here, I guess. I'm fighting that ticket...

The neighbors around here are a little frail, I guess. They're not used to being outside like I am. Every time I see them, they're eyes are all squinted into a scowl, like the light's too bright. They must be a little blinded, too, because they never wave back. They should get out more so the sun doesn't mess with them so much.

Christmas was coming up, so I was excited to decorate. That's what I needed, was a little Christmas cheer, after being messed with all year. I put up the lights around the gutters but thought the yard needed a little something extra. I put out my old International Harvester tractor, put a Santa in the seat, and lit it all up. With the new year I got busy, so I put away Old Saint Nick and left for a week to go hunting. When I got back, my door was plastered with notices about the tractor. I called City Hall and told them that I'd been out of town and I'd get to it that weekend. Since I'd been given 48 hours notice 4 days ago, I received a few tickets in the mail. This was really beginning to piss me off.

I guess I managed to use up all the ink in the HOA's pens, because they left me alone for awhile. A couple of months later I was told that the Christmas lights had to come down! Imagine that! I thought the white lights made it sort of cheery, like the other kinds of landscape lights the neighbors used. Seems it's perfectly okay for some people to have colored lights in their flowerbeds, but I can't have white lights around my roofline. So I unplugged them just to make everyone happy.  But I got another notice on the door a few weeks later, saying that the holiday season was over months ago, and the lights were against code. WHAT THE HELL? I'm just going to have to get back up on a ladder, narrowly escaping death, all over again in three months! Well, that's just not going to happen.

Fuck all this stupid shit. I'm moving back to the country, even if I have to live in that damned Airstream!


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Coffee and Coke

Mike showed up at just the right time in my life. I had been in a string of short, meaningless flings for a few months after leaving my boyfriend of one year. At 17, that had seemed like an eternity. I played house and was somehow surprised when he left me for a woman his age. I had a hard time moving on at first; sleeping in my truck, hanging out anywhere I could in our neighborhood, crashing on random couches, just because I couldn't stand to be back at my parents' house.

A couple of weeks after the breakup, a new coffee shop opened up and they were very welcoming to the throngs of teen runaways, junkies, slackers, and night kids. The owner had transformed an old 3 bedroom bungalow into an inviting hangout. Inside, it was dark, smokey, and comfortable. The scent of the espresso was relaxing yet invigorating. The patio outside was spacious and always crowded. When I close my eyes, I can still remember the summer nights with the busy street and crowded sidewalks, where I watched the world go by, my sense of time only marked by the coffee cup.

As expected, I became friends with the employees. We were the same kind of people. When the place closed down at 3 AM, we'd go over to the burned-out restaurant next door, sit on the porch all night and drink 32 ounce bottles of Bud. We were always the same crowd but then, one night, we had a newcomer: Mike. His roommate and one of our regulars, Todd, introduced us. Mike had just moved in with Todd into a seedy fully-furnished, rent-by-the-week apartment complex.

Mike came from a damned good family but was a typical rebel: he was all about "screw conformity, money's evil, I'm embarrassed of my family because they sold their souls to be rich," so on and so forth. He was tall, average build with biceps that just begged to be caressed. Mike's eyes were deep, inky blue lakes in the midnight, sprinkled with glints of stars reflected on their surface. That's what I remember most. His hair was close-cut, so blond it was almost clear. He would get a 5 o'clock shadow (of course, it was 5 in the morning) that showed only the slightest hint of Irish descent when the occasional whisker caught the glow of the sunrise. I loved watching his lips as he took long drags off his cigarettes, gently pursed as he exhaled the smoke.

We had really long talks sitting on the covered porch of the charred, charcoal-scented pizzeria. The buzz from the caffeine and beer made for mellow evenings of shared laughs, one-upping our stories and, sometimes, just sitting and staring at the empty streets, hiding in the shadows from the homeless and the hookers. We were forming a very special bond, and we both felt the chemistry brewing.

Mike didn't seem to sleep very much and Todd confided in me that Mike had diabetes and Addison's disease. In a way, it endeared him to me even more. He was one of those nice guys that seemed to have everything and, at my age, I deeply respected him for walking away from a privileged life for the sake of being true to himself. Knowing his medical history made me admire him even more for his willingness to handle it all on his own.

I asked him about his family once. He said, "They call me Drew. My first name is Andrew, and I've always hated it. I've gone by my middle name my entire life to everyone else, but they always call me Drew. They don't even care enough to use the name I prefer."

I met his mother once. He was right. She called him Drew and seemed to be extremely pretentious, uptight, and very condescending to him. I can understand a little about why she was less than cheery - she had to check up on her boy - but I tried being nice to her and it didn't work. I know now that she blamed me - and all his friends - for the way everything went down.

Eventually I got a job working in a nightclub and worked from 8 in the evening until 3 in the morning. It still worked out quite well for hanging out with the coffee crowd. Despite my new support system, I was still self-destructive in my drinking and, admittedly, I had a pretty strong addiction to ephedrine. The club had the type of crowd that threw money around. It was the new, hip place to be. Celebrities came to our club when they were in town. Local celebrities spent their evenings at our bar. Most of them had more money than sense and thrived off their flamboyancy and image. I was tipped well, but not always with cash. As we accumulated regulars, I began accumulating customers that preferred to tip me with coke instead of cash. I was all too willing to accept.

I began to see characteristics in Mike that I recognized in myself. The all-day coke rush to stay awake, the drinking at night during the come-down. One night after work, as we were baring our souls, I confessed to the coke use. He did too. We never did it together; neither of us was proud. We wanted our time together to be different; to be a more innocent form of connection, rather than one bound by controlled substances. We kept that part of our lives out of our friendship. For a girl who gave herself away to anyone who wanted it, just to feel like someone cared, even if it was for just a few hours, this was different. I knew I wanted him, but I also knew I didn't want to ruin it. I had a pretty sneaking suspicion the feeling was mutual, but I wasn't going to be the one to take the chance and find out I might be wrong. To me, he was worth waiting for. For once, I felt like it was okay to let him come to me, if that was the way it was supposed to work out. Regardless of my feelings for him, the friendship I had with Mike had kept me from going crazy at a time I was just about ready to give up on everything. It was never spoken, but I'm fairly sure he knew.

After a particularly busy Sunday night for me at the club and a rather low-key night for him at the shop, we were doing our front-porch sitting. The weather was turning colder and the evening sky was clear. The neon and the streetlights obscured all but the moon, which was full with a silvery glow. Years later, the words still echo in my head. "You know, Angie...I've been thinking. We spend a lot of really good time together, but maybe we should, you know...go out somewhere. Would you want to go out with me? Like, on a date or something?"

Back to the present, for one moment. For many years, I could remember exactly how it sounded when he said those words. The tone, the inflection, the sound of his voice. Somewhere through the years, Mike's actual voice has slipped out of my mind, and that makes me very sad. Okay. Back to 1994.

Todd approached me the next day, beaming from ear to ear. Mike told him about our date for that Wednesday. He was just as excited as I was, I think. I'd known Todd for quite some time and he was thrilled that his two friends decided to finally get together. "I just knew it would happen! From the moment I introduced you two! What took you so fucking long?!"

Monday evening I went to the shop to meet up with Mike when he got off work, but the shop was closed. All the lights were off, but I could see Todd sitting inside at a table, all by himself. When he saw my silhouette in the door, he got up, slowly, and shuffled to the door and opened it. His expression was one of emptiness. I knew immediately that something was horribly, horribly wrong.

"What happened, Todd? WHAT HAPPENED!?"

"Where have you been?" His voice was so low and hoarse I could barely make out his words. "I couldn't find you. You never called me back. Where did you sleep last night?"

I told him where I had been and explained that my pager battery had died. I asked him several times what had happened before he finally said the words I feared he'd say: "Mike died this morning."

He OD'd in their apartment and his failure to monitor his diabetes that day contributed to his death. He'd locked the door when Todd went to the store. When he got back, Mike wasn't coming to the door. Todd saw what was going on from outside, looking in through the window. He broke out the window but couldn't fit through it, so he sat there, wedged in the window, watching the whole thing happen while waiting for the ambulance. By the time the EMTs arrived, it was too late.

"But...we were going to go out," was the only thing I could say. "We had a date." Todd just stood there, arms limp by his side, and stared at me.

There's more to the story after that, but it doesn't matter much. Our group pretty much just fell apart after that. The owner renamed the coffee shop "Mike's Place," but it only stayed in business about another six months and went under. A tattoo shop now occupies the building. I haven't spoken to any of the guys since the funeral.

And in all the eulogies, they called him Drew.
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It's Just Love's Done Gone

First off, let me say thank you to a couple of my readers who were checking up on me lately. My life has been in such an upheaval...I've just been maintaining. This is going to be long, so either hang on, or go ahead and move on - I won't mind.

The Boy and I have been together for almost 2 years now. In that time, he's given me the whole "I don't know what I want" bullshit twice. The first time, toward the end of last school year, I flew off the handle and more or less broke up with him - I'm not sure he accepted that, because a few days later he acted as if everything were normal.

But there was this guy at work that had been flirting with me pretty hard - he's pretty playful anyway, so it was hard to know for sure - and he asked me to happy hour the next day right after The Boy had his little commitment glitch, and I said yes.

Bob and I started dating. Now, I had already told The Boy, "Fine. You don't know what you want? Then go out and see if you can find it, and so will I." And I was upfront with Bob from the beginning, and told him about The Boy and what was going on. Bob said there was no reason for us to rush into anything, anyway. So that was good.

Even after The Boy started acting all normal again, things got better for awhile, but the sex thing was still an issue. My drive is out of control and The Boy could probably live the rest of his life without sex ever again.  There are certain things he will not do and he's pretty conservative about sex in general. I'm a freak. I admit it. So we weren't having sex.

Bob and I, however, continued to see each other, and the sex was phenomenal. I told Bob that although I was still seeing The Boy, we weren't sleeping together, and I wasn't going to have sex with more than one person. He said he was okay with that, as long as I was always honest with him. I promised that I would do that.

Somehow, our principal found out we were seeing each other. She asked Greta, a co-worker who happened to be my best friend at the time, to tell her how serious we were. Well, I hadn't even told Greta. She was going through all kinds of problems with fertility and she didn't need to hear me whine about my relationship drama. Greta answered honestly when she said she didn't know. Then she called me and I told her that, yes, we were going out on occasion. Greta got very upset with me, told me I was being a total bitch for stringing Bob along, and on and on. She didn't seem to hear me when I told her about being honest with both of the guys and the full deal.

She also mentioned that my principal had it out for me, and she was totally against colleagues dating and that she would do whatever she could to get me out of the building if she thought it was going to be a problem. It wasn't ever going to BE a problem, because he works on the other end of the building, he's in a completely different section, and he teaches a totally different content. We literally never see each other at work unless we make it a point to do so.

But Greta kept putting pressure on me, making me feel bad about myself and my choices. After all the problems I'd had with my principal over the year, I was a little frightened that my situation was going to get even worse if I kept dating Bob. I discussed this with him often and, even though we'd both confided in a couple of people at work about us, we eventually decided to take a break before school started, to kind of feel things out at work before we decided what to do. He seemed to me like he was getting a little too serious too fast anyway, and that scared me.

About three weeks after school started, I emailed Bob at work to ask him to return a cooler he'd borrowed over the summer. I gave him the option to just drop it off on my porch or put it in the bed of my truck, but he gave me his number again and said we'd work it out.

That same night, I got some vile, hateful texts from Greta, telling me how much of a liar I was and how I was so selfish, that I'd never stopped seeing Bob. Now, how in the HELL would she know we'd been in contact again? I know. My principal had been monitoring my emails and then reported back to my "friend," Greta. I tried to explain to her that I hadn't been talking to him at all, that I was just asking for something he'd borrowed months before, but she never would reply. That was in October, and I haven't spoken to her since. I figured if she wasn't even going to believe the truth, after being my friend for 6 years and having me as a bridesmaid, then fuck her.

Bob insisted on delivering the cooler to me while I was there, about two weeks after the email. We lounged on the couch and talked for about 3 hours. We decided to get back to the dating thing but we also decided we would keep it private from people at work because neither of us needed the problems. He keeps joking, even now, that he stole me away from my best friend, and I keep telling him that she's the one that caused us to end our friendship, not him.

So The Boy and I are still seeing each other and we're still not having sex. He's not a liar, and I know where he is pretty much every minute of the day. His dad was a liar and a cheater and I know with all my heart that if he weren't happy with me, he would just break up with me before he would ever cheat on me, so that's not it. If he were interested in seeing someone else, he would just tell me so. He's a good man like that. But he's also mildly Autistic and has a tendency to be extremely selfish. His back-and-forth with the "I don't know what I want" crap is him feeling like it would be easier on him if he were just alone.

His business is failing and he has to get help from his mother every month to make his mortgage and taxes. He took a job offshore and was gone 14 days at a time. I couldn't handle it. I missed him so much. This was before Bob and I even started dating. I had to find a way to be okay with being alone all the time and I had to find a way to deal with the fact that he was okay with being gone for two weeks at a time. Eventually he quit because he couldn't do whatever he wanted to do when he wanted to do it. Throughout all this time, The Boy has been trying to find alternative ways to earn income.

He started to put together some products we use in the racing stuff, and it's starting to pay off. But I also get maybe twenty minutes of conversation with him a day and, even on the weekends, I don't see him much because he's so wrapped up in working on this new thing. He's also extremely insensitive with the things he says - like, no tact - and my doctor says that's part of his autism. Nice, huh?

And, here we go again, with Stillie learning to be alone but wishing I could do things with someone important to me. Bob and I have been spending more time together. I've met all his friends, I hang out with him and his mom and aunt, we take his aunt's awesome Borzoi on walks, he introduced me to the best place to get authentic Chicago-style Italian beef in the whole city...we're having a good time getting to know each other better.

Today, we had this conversation. It started off something like him saying, "I know you see a psychiatrist and you were very honest with me about how you're working through some of your issues, so here's me, learning to work through some of mine: I'm going to be better at communication, so let's talk." We discussed our relationship and he told me that he was totally committed to me and had no desire to see anyone else. He wanted me to understand that his schedule is busy (i knew that), but he loves spending time with me and says I make him very happy. He said he's ready to get a bit more serious.

In the meantime, The Boy seems to be trying to keep a distance from me and put distance between us, and it almost seems as if he's fallen out of love with me, even though he says it pretty often. Reminds me of that song, "Love Done Gone" by Billy Currington.

Wow. So, anyway, I'm not sure what the point of all this was, except that while The Boy does everything he can to pull away from me, I've got another guy who's actually interested in doing the opposite. I'm not sure what's going to happen.

I have a lot of decisions to make.
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