"Just do me a favor, please don't blog or tweet about this encounter," pleaded the FedEx guy in my kitchen late afternoon. "I don't want to be pulverized by your ex-boyfriend."
"He lives thousands of miles away," I stated. "Never gave a shit what I did, especially not now."
The FedEx guy gave me a sad smile. "Don't underestimate men. He'll fly out here to kill me, trust me, I know."
"Stop worrying. Not him," I stressed. "He never had passion for me. This is the same guy who didn't defend me when his online 'ex-girlfriend' threatened me, a 350lb guy in real life. Hell, he still follows the guy on twitter, but blocked me! Let's not get into the ex-wife who beat him, set his balls on fire, humiliated him. For her, he moves heaven and earth."
To those new readers, I implore you to read my earlier posts. The so-called love of my life was a former porn bondage star. During his disclosure, he lied and declared similar to Bill Clinton, "I never had sex in those films." I found quite a few where he did. That's neither here nor there anymore as the relationship died the moment I saw those videos.
Making out with the FedEx guy in the kitchen, I had two epiphanies of which only one I can write about in this blog: a man like the ex-boyfriend could never love me.
It bothered me throughout our relationship that he could never summon passion for me. I'm not talking about sex, I'm talking about emotions. Damn, I'm a hot lady. Hot enough to have a gorgeous, 27 year old, well-built, well-hung FedEx guy make out with me in my kitchen.
"Say, have you been working out?" he asked.
"You can tell through these sweaters?" I answered, preening. Right before Valentine's Day, I quit smoking. To counter the metabolic weight gain, I took to daily intensive workouts. No stranger to exercise as I was a gym rat for ten years, I highly recommend Jillian Michael's 30 day shred DVDs to kick ass, shed weight and tone in only 27 minutes each session. Accustomed to hard workouts, lately I do two sessions daily - actually, I'm so pissed at the ex-boyfriend, it's the only way I can shake off the anger now that I don't smoke.
I should never have watched those videos. For I saw how much he loves the ex-wife to allow her to burn his cock, tie up his balls, hang weights from them, to asphyxiate him with her fat ass and cunt, spit on him only for him to kiss her with unconditional love afterwards. No fucking way would a guy like that ever love me! I couldn't elicit passion like that from him unless I used a blowtorch on his testicles.
The emotional comparison killed me. I always knew I wasn't his cup of tea, however, to see what he preferred over me made me projectile vomit.
One thing for sure: if the events of the past several weeks didn't have me grabbing for a cigarette, I'll never smoke again even though I wish it wasn't put to the test. For I've been struggling with several questions about myself, namely:
Why would I want someone like that to love me, for what does that say about me?
What the fuck is wrong with me to believe HE was the love of my life?
At the very least, I discovered a positive element about myself. Besides my tolerance for aberrant behavior: I see the beauty in people that few see. Although an admirable quality, it gets me in trouble. I gotta stop that. From now on, people have to prove to me their value. No one from now on gets a green light. Guys, for that, thank the ex-boyfriend.
Between kisses and groping, the FedEx guy and I discussed this debacle of a relationship. Come to think of it, he must be accustomed to my litany of romantic misery. Since the very beginning of our torrid meaningless sexual encounters a year ago, I lamented my other long distance relationship. And the one I had locally seconds after.
I have to admit, for a young stud, he's a terrific listener. Only because he gets rewarded.
"Not in the kitchen," I yelped as he started to remove one of my sweaters. "It's freezing in here."
My sexual relationship with the FedEx guy jumped the shark a few months ago. Still, I wanted him to be the last cock inside me as opposed to my ex-boyfriend's. In that way, I'd feel better about being a celibate for a while, perhaps forever.
The last time I spoke with the ex-boyfriend, I said, "I'm so envious of you. You never had deep feelings for me so you won't suffer. I only hope that my suffering over you won't take a long time."
"After you, I'm done," the ex-boyfriend said to me at the very beginning of our relationship and repeated during this phone call. Now I got what he meant despite the fact he's full of shit. I know he already lined up another victim online. Let's hope she has a stronger stomach for what she'll go through. Then again, considering he uses twitter as his edating site, given the amount of people into bondage, he may've met a match from heaven.
I, as well, have said, "I'm done," not from the jaded perspective of someone who has deadened their soul. My rationale has more to do with dating for 40 years and the only man I could call my soulmate was this golem, this clay man. Which kicks back to deep reflection.
While the FedEx guy washed up, I checked my text messages and emails which dinged the entire time we were in bed. Sure enough, the ex-boyfriend contacted me; the man must've a second sense. Simply, he wanted to notify me he sent funds.
His last gesture of largesse was to send me money so I can get a tattoo (I've quite a few). First off, this was to replace the Valentine's Day gift he purposely gave me belatedly, then rescinded, something I wrote about ad nauseum. Secondly, I didn't want a 'gift' per se, I wanted the romantic acknowledgement, something he would NEVER give me as withholding love is part of the S&M routine. So, money's the easiest way to muzzle me from trashing him in my blog.
The FedEx guy got a new job so we won't see each other anymore. I'm glad he's moving on in life and wish him the best. He's a really good egg and our sexual trysts, for the most part, were fun and even more important, non-damaging to either of us until this admission:
"My fantasy has always been to do porn. Not like your ex-boyfriend, but simple hetero porn."
I groaned. "Trust me, that'll deaden your soul."
Unconvinced, he bobbed his head and talked to me for a while prior to being thrown out. At least I washed my hands of another. Not bad in two weeks.
While I'm wallowing in self-pity, shame and humiliation (that I paraded him in my life and in my blog as my 'Knight in Shining Armor'), I've something to look forward to: I'll have a new tattoo in two days. It won't ever remind me of wasting nine months working on a relationship doomed from the onset for failure.
Already, my fascination for this awkward, damaged, weird man has declined. Which reminds me of this quote from Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier:
I can't forget what it's done to you. I've been thinking of nothing else since it happened. It's gone forever, that funny young, lost look I loved won't ever come back. I killed that when I told you about Rebecca. It's gone. In a few hours, you've grown so much older.
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