Life in Ink and Footsteps

Remember how I mentioned that one specific man brought a lot of drama into my life? Yeah, we are not done. Unfortunately. Welcome to another episode of me being a naïve airhead for a pretty boy. Today’s program is the most humiliating one yet. And I am not overreacting for once, because when I say it was humiliating, I mean it. It was the most degrading dating experience I ever had. And that includes those eight years that passed since. So what happened? Not really all that much. This will be a short story.

The plan was easy. Meet Sir MagicalCarpet S. at 5 pm at his apartment. His mother went to some party, he was home alone, and we were supposed to use that situation if you know what I mean. Wink, wink. So, being the good doer I am, I was ready by 4 pm since it took about 30 minutes to get to his place in Queens. And, ironically, I didn’t want him to have to wait for me. So I was sitting on my bed, patiently waiting for the time confirmation, just as I was told to. If you’ve read any of my previous entries, you know how this goes. I waited and waited until, after 7 pm, he finally decided to reply and told me to come now. So I went. I was mad, but he was so nice and apologetic—just like always — and so I did as I was instructed.

I arrived and was greeted by him already high—did I not mention the weed earlier? Probably because I didn’t want to put two and two together. We cuddled and kissed, most of our clothes were on the ground. And then, someone walked into the apartment. And he lost his shit. When I say lost his shit, I mean absofuckinglutely freaked out. Pacing all over the room, looking for our deserted clothing and muttering that it must be his brother-in-law and that he was in so much trouble. He was not only panicked but scared as well. It was honestly terrifying to see him like this. I didn’t know, if he had such a fear of his family finding out or if the drugs made him more paranoid.

Suddenly, a silence. He held his hand over my mouth and started listening behind the door of his room—if it even was his room. At this point, I didn’t even know if it was his apartment, especially after his reaction to someone coming inside. After a moment, he realized that it was only his brother and that it was not as bad. He calmed down slightly and told me to dress up. At this moment, I stupidly thought he wanted to introduce me to his sibling, but oh boy, was I being a dumbass. No, not to introduce me. To sneak me out of the apartment like a criminal, barefoot, with my hair and makeup smudged, barely looking decent.

Why was I looking like a mess? Because he didn’t even let me put my shit together properly. He dragged me by the hand like a petulant child, pushed me out of the door, and closed it right behind me without saying a word of apology, explanation, or at least a fucking goodbye. So I stood there, in the hallway of this apartment building, looking like a prostitute and feeling dirty about myself. Confused. Like I had no idea what on earth happened in those past five minutes.

So, I did the only thing I could. I went to my car, sat down, cleaned my face a bit, and just stared, lost and dumbfounded. I don’t know how long it took my brain to catch up on what happened. A few minutes, maybe? After that, I started the car and drove home. But during this ride, it all came rushing down on me, and I had to stop and cry for a bit. And boy, did I cry. You know that ugly face-making, can’t breathe, hiccuping kind of cry. Yeah, that’s the one. When I couldn’t cry anymore, I got mad.

In normal cases, I would call the girls for support, but they were both away, so I was alone. And what do you do when you are alone and hurt? You go get a drink.

So, I went to our usual spot, Manning’s. It was a little Irish pub—or at least it pretended to be, what do I know, I’ve never been to Ireland—somewhere on Old Country Rd, close to the Cheesecake Factory. I remember this because we often went for dinner to Cheesecake, and after that, grabbed a beer at Manning’s, which was on the same road. I wonder if it is still open. Anyway. I drove there and sat at the bar, alone and depressed. Joe, the bartender, was a cool guy and was pretty sweet to me. I guess I was not the first nor the last broken heart he saw during his career behind the bar. So I sat there, drinking beer and trying not to think about what just happened. My pride couldn’t handle that kind of treatment.

After a few, I went home to cry some more.

I wish I could say that was the end of it, but no, not yet. Thankfully, some invisible line was crossed that night, and I started to value myself a bit more, stopped excusing his behavior, and started pulling out of it. We met a few more times and even had pleasant moments playing pool with the girls, but the hurt that was caused that night could not be erased. I became passive-aggressive because I didn’t know how to navigate the emotions and pain while trying hard to hold onto this illusion of him being good for me because I was afraid of being alone. But the end of it all was coming in fast.

This felt deeply fitting to the mood.
Nirvana – Where did you sleep last night