I am sure I am not the only person who has thought from time to time that kicking someone out of my life would be somehow insufficient. For some - a certain select few - it would work well if they simply ceased to exist.
I had that thought about the Frenemy this afternoon. He has done nothing in particular to engender such a thought - at least not in the recent grand scheme of things. He came over the other day with the promise of free clothes - a result of him clearing out his closet. I am by no means above hand-me-downs / cast-offs / and the like, but they were my own. Steven showed up with XL T-shirts (neither my size or at all my style) and pants he'd borrowed from me or otherwise co-opted in his heavier days. Now that he is thinner (although still a size or two larger than me), the Frenemy decided - rather than taking these too-large and out-of-fashion items to Goodwill - to plunk a garbage full of things onto my bedroom floor. He also ate most of the salad I made for lunch, and - when they came out of the oven - ate most of the scallops and half the new potatoes.
Having whined about his love-life (a "where is this going?" line of thinking re.: a guy with whom he's had 2 dates!!!), bragged about his sex life, lamented the loss of his transvestite alter-ego - Tori, and asked me - again - to plan his date that evening, the Frenemy swept out of my home in a flurry of brash and bravado. I should say that he wanted me to come with him to pick up his truck - which the Czarina's husband was repairing at the time. Logic would dictate that I drive as I had plans that evening, but that would have inconvenienced Steven mildly and thus it did not happen as it could have.
That same day, on another note, I met a man online who was enthusiastic about meeting me - very enthusiastic. I expressed a lack of interest, which was enough to inspire the Frenemy to get the guy's number from my phone and contact him separately. I cannot say that I cared, save perhaps that Steven's eagerness to leap upon someone I was uncertain about abandoning was rude and all too typical. He actually called to complain about my taste. The Frenemy had immediately approached this fellow, Beto, and - under the guise of his alter-ego / whore, Tori, got Beto to send him pictures - via a camera phone. The results were - to say the least - disappointing.
I will not bemoan the sad state of my love life (again), but let us trip down this (primrose) path a moment, shall we? I met Beto while looking for a phone sex partner - it's a tad ol'-fashioned but the old party line thing modified by way of corporate greed meets lust is a tiny bit refreshing. Anyway, this darling boy was eager to play with me - despite being straight. We exchanged numbers; he called almost immediately; his eagerness, though amusing, proved psychotic ... before even meeting, Beto proposed that we become regulars (fuck buddies, to reinvigorate a grand ol' chestnut). While he was talking his way out of my good graces, the getting to know you phase began: he lives with his mother; he is 18 years old, and - need I mention here - just out of jail (for the second or third time); he has no car.
When he called - the fifteenth time in a three hour period - Beto suggested that he would tell his mother he was going to a movie and wanted me to pick him up in the parking lot of a Whataburger a few blocks from his home. We thus had an hour and a half or so to play, before his curfew. I pointed out that we had nowhere to play as my father was at home; he suggested I pull my car into the garage and we do it there - so we could have privacy. I (mentally) questioned his ability to walk and chew gum at the same time - let alone his ability to put his penis in whatever hole he's thinking of attempting.
I demurred his attentions and thwarted his intentions; to date, I am still holding on to my innocence (ha!). Oh, and so the Frenemy's "exploration" proved informative. Beto, it seems, rather than being the 5'11", 200 lbs. solidly built fellow he claimed to be has not only more chins than the proverbial Chinese phone book, but also manages somehow to be as wide as he is tall (which would appear not to be 5'11," mind you).
This does wander back toward that whole last rites line of thought; my career hasn't sprung to life as yet (the old ladies chained in a room with prayer beads and cups of coffee clearly are overworked - my prayer circle is back-logged!). My love life - for all its lovely moments with the guy I'm seeing - does not exactly a Barbara Cartland make. Danielle Steel would scoff, but that's not saying much ... and Jackie Collins would shame me for not doing more anal.
And on the subject of shit-holes, I am in rehab. As another costly aspect of my probation process, I am in rehab. I haven't the foggiest notion what this entails, although if the class I overheard (for the 3 hours I was sitting - waiting to be processed) is any indication, I will become very well acquainted with movies involving drug and alcohol abuse - as shown in a negative light, that is. For the life of me, I can't really think of any; then again, I consider "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" a weekend guide-book.
I got there at 9AM and did not actually do the paperwork that is the intake process until noon. I had spare time for social observations and biting commentary. Among them:
It occurs to me that while the men in jail were equally vicious or otherwise hardened criminals, at least they were better dressed. I could not quite figure out how it was that everyone was so singularly ugly. This is a city with a lot of really hot, thin, (vaguely homeless) guys wandering the streets (and / or legal system), and yet it seems none of them were arrested in the past few months. In addition to the plethora of pregnant woman - many of whom had golden hued hair and stripper heels - there were men so large that the whole place was a sea of bling and tattoos, really BIG cotton T-shirts and, in the case of one guy, Dickies capri pants. I considered bumming a smoke from the 8 months pregnant woman chain-smoking while yelling into her cell phone but thought the karmic debt would surely kill me. And then I spotted HIM. No, not Jesus - although he may have shared the name. Among this sea of pregnant cholas and the waves of Tommy Hilfiger clad men I went to high school with, there was a tall, thin, ripped Latino interpretation of Michelangelo's David. He seemed sculpted from a dark, smooth stone ... high cheek bones and coal black eyes suggested an air of something unique in that unfortunate place.
Upon closer inspection, this flawless man had his share of bumps ... three children for starters, all under 4; his wife, or at least the woman with him, was also pregnant. Her tattoos seemed to complement his while also speaking to her devotion to Christianity. His teardrop tattoo was a simple enough statement - as was the bullet in his head. I turned on the heels of my driving moccasins and walked back into the small seating area behind a large, steel door.
Mark
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