Tuesday, August 04, 2009


We meet at a football game. Neither of us were the types who went to football games but by the accident of being born in a small rural town there wasn't much else going on Friday nights. We didn't have our licences so cruising the one main street through town was out. So both of us were dragged by friends to a football game. We stood out which is no doubt why our friends figured we would be a great couple. He was dressed all in black including a black trench coat with fingerless leather gloves. He had a habit of shoving his hands into his pockets, lowering his head, and then looking up at you from what he thought were hooded eyes. I was also in black, had half my hair shaved off, wore a sliver hoop in my nose, white make up, and dark red lipstick. We were freaks too weird and freaky for even the freaky kids. And we were damaged. Our dating was no doubt inevitable.

But he and I were no good for each other. For a few weeks, we lived out the pretensions of how we wanted other people to see us. Then there was a blissfully two weeks were we relaxed and started to act more naturally. Like this he was goofy and funny. Charming. He wasn't trying to be dark and seductive. He stopped trying to be something of an Anne Rice novel. He made me laugh. Sometimes he'd be serious and we'd talk about our childhoods and religion. We both wanted desperately to be witches even though neither of us was really sure what that meant. I decided to fall in love with him during those weeks.

And then the fighting kicked in. We argued over everything. The big fights were over things like him cheating on me (something he did frequently and without any seeming concern). He complained bitterly about my lack of trust while I ranted about his inability to keep his cock in his pants. He had a way of quietly provoking me until I exploded throwing things across the room, slamming doors, punching walls. He would cry sometimes, whining about how cruel I was to him. He sulked moaning about my lack of compassion. He told me I was mean to him, and that I couldn't really love him. And I thought that maybe he was right.

While it would have been wise to just break it off, we didn't. We suffered through a couple of years of him falling in love with half the women he cheated on me with. I used to cry but eventually realized that in a few days, he'd be begging me to come back. We were sick together. He craved my cruelness, and I craved his accusations and emotional abuse. Eventually, I moved away which is what it took to separate us. But he was that guy who never really left. We continued to screw for years after the final break up. And oddly enough those moments were okay for both of us. Having sex as friends, using each other for a quick fix, was more meaningful than our relationship had ever been.

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