Monday, January 25, 2010

It is Complicated.

the Frenemy and I sat down for dinner Friday night - at Ounce, a rather lush and extravagant steak restaurant. The lights were low. The wine was divine. And three dirty martinis into the meal, I was knee deep in his sex life. We've done the audit for years now - getting together for an expensive meal and marvelous drinks while I go through a hard copy of the Frenemy's journal - counting off, with hash marks, the number of sex partners he enjoyed throughout the previous year. Repeat visitors don't count, and indeed there are not many of them. It's ego-stroking at its most puerile, but I am never one to pass up a free meal. The Angus filet, by the way, rare - was like butter.

the Frenemy stepped it up a notch - in more ways than one - this year. First, he went multi-media; the journal included pictures of all his numerous conquests - since nearly all of them came He included video stills as well, which inevitably produced a few embarassing moments as the waiter brought my salad and got a glimpse of a nearly full-page blow-job.

The number was no shocker, though it was also a step up from last year's 200+; in 2009, the Frenemy slept with 263 men - 81 of whom he met while cross-dressed, giving blow-jobs behind dumpsters in West side bar parking lots. The other 182 - including several men I was pursuing but he got to first - he came by honestly, via Craig's List, manhunt, and the aforementioned

And on the subject of sex, I am still not having any. Mount Gay is still around, but unavailable. And the phrase 'it's complicated' leaps to mind. Two weeks ago, he told me - as he got home from work, and I was putting in the third load of laundry for the day - Gay got a phone call from his 18 year old son. He was planning on a road trip - to LA - with about $1200 in his pocket and a dream in his heart. Gay, who made his own such trip at around 19, freaked the fuck out ... and convinced the boy to instead come to San Antonio. Somehow, it seems, the other 4 teen boys agreed. So, Mount Gay - who's not out - gave me back all the gay porn I brought over, and was hurriedly hiding a pink T-shirt, a rainbow ashtray and various and sundry obviously gay items.

The kids didn't make it into town easily - or smartly. Gay initially refused to tell me what happened, and when he did, I understood. Five white teenage boys in a beat-up older model Lincoln driving into town with out of state plates after midnight ... who were smoking pot and drinking in the car ... got stopped, and three of them got arrested. Gay's son and another friend got to go back to his place that first night; he spent the next two days bailing out teenagers. For the past week and a half, Mount Gay's had 5 teenagers crashing in his one bedroom, 600 sq. ft. condo, and his son will be staying on indefinitely. His 13 year old son is coming to stay - permanently - this summer. As the Frenemy and I discuss often enough, I didn't sign on to be a stepmother, and I paired up with a gay man - not someone who needs to hide in a closet.

I picked him up on Saturday, after the memorial. I needed to see him, wanted to get laid, and thought I could give him a break from teenagers and parenting and not being gay. He spent the night with me - at my father's house, in my childhood room, with the mattress on the floor - so we wouldn't make noise. There was no need. We fought half the night, and I drove him home with only the sound of the Trinity jazz station to fill the void.

I am unsure what to feel about a relationship dying; since it is my own, I am a little more invested than when I told the Frenemy to dump his drug-addicted, POZ, bi-polar recent ex. I am little more invested than when Dr. Bartender asked for relationship advice regarding the guy for whom he dumped me.

I somehow thought my first boyfriend would be someone with whom I'd spend a few years, that he would love me, and that I would love him ... not that it would be easy, but that it would be worth it all. And this, my first time around, isn't.


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