I.
We never text or call because he blocked my phone number. We don’t Facebook because he blocked every one of my FB accounts that he knows about. (Shhh—I have accounts he doesn’t know exist—haha!) This off-again on-again off-again poet says he doesn’t “feel comfortable being in contact with [me] via anything other than email.”
A few hours ago, he sent me this particularly lyrical message:
Hi,
I’m sorry, but I don’t think I’ll be able to hang out today after all. My wife [blah blah redacted because it’s boring and irrelevant to this story].
Also, when I’m very honest with myself, I have to admit I’m not interested in any kind of relationship with you. I can’t give you what you want from me, Susan. I’ve told you this many times. You are not my soulmate, nor are you my wife, and I don’t love you.
So instead of the date I thought we’d have in my room, sipping wine and doing other things that two people who are married but not to each other tend to do in hotels, this afternoon I trudge aimlessly through the Tenderloin until I find a quiet corner in a grungy pub. I kill a couple of hours eating salad and drinking scotches, neat, with ice water chasers, before I get bored enough to wander back outside and see if I somehow overlooked some fun to be had under the sun.
II.
Maybe I should introduce myself. My birth name is Ikhnaton Skypeople. Obviously not a common name, like Linda Miller or Scott Jones. But then, my early life was also far from ordinary. My parents were Shamans who ran an ayahuasca spiritual retreat in the Peruvian Andes. I was born at noon on that compound almost 40 years ago to this day.
My birthday is the day after tomorrow, in fact. I’m a Gemini/Cancer cusp, and my personality reflects my astrological chart in every stereotypical way.
Just over ten years ago, numerous incredulous villagers swear they witnessed my moms and dads (three moms and two dads: it takes a village, as they say) board a spacecraft, which then disappeared into the stars. And while UFO sightings are regular in those parts, my parents were never seen nor heard from again.
Kidding, kidding. They’re still around, and still running the ayahuasca business. Everything else here is true.
This morning, Phil (let’s call him that) blew me off via Gmail, after months of planning, after I had lied to my husband of fourteen years and had flown all the way from Des Moines to San Francisco, after the money I had spent on the flight and a three-night stay in a flea-bag hotel, after I spent all of yesterday primping and shopping for silky sexy underthings to wear for him.
That’s typical of him, by the way, dragging his wife into his excuses. She [redacted story from “I’m sorry…I don’t think” email] a few months ago, one night when Phil was out past his curfew, we can assume doing something with someone else. I’ll leave it at that. Even still, within a fortnight, he and I were making plans for this visit.
III.
“What’s your name, baby?” the guy across the street coos, nodding and smiling at me from where he stands in the shadowy doorway of a business that’s already closed for the day. “Hey lady, don’t be shy. C’m here!” I don’t answer and instead quicken my pace. “Naw, don’t be like that. C’mon! Don’t be shy. I have the gentle soul of a poet, so you know I’m harmless.” Harmless as a poet?! What bullshit!
“C’m here, girl! Wants some llell-o?” I stop and look over, curious. He’s encouraged by my ignited interest.
But then I figure he’s trying to sell me some, and I’m already way over budget, so I decline. He says he’ll give me some for free if I hang out and party with him for a while, because he’s lonely and thinks I look nice in my skimpy summer outfit: short jean shorts, braless, in a tight, spaghetti-strap top.
At first, I’m suspicious by what sounds like a too-good-to-be-true offer. What if he’s a serial killer or a human trafficker? Or maybe a mean-spirited practical joker, trying to get me to snort angel dust or Comet. I tell him to do some first and he does. And despite our unusual introduction under these less-than-ideal circumstances, I don’t get a gut-feeling spidey sense that he’s especially dangerous.
Normally, I’d never talk to a cokehead in a neighborhood like this. Thanks to Phil and his excuses, though, I’m up for almost anything just now. I’m sure I don’t have to spell out how rejected and reckless I feel. I taste a bit and it is indeed coke. Good quality, but not the best I’ve had.
“You’re pretty fine, honey,” he says approvingly as he leers at my body. “I like blondes with big tits; big tits naturally, not because she’s fat.
“What’s your name?”
Of course I’m not telling him my real name, so I say it’s Wendy. But my name’s Susan Ellis, has been since more than two decades ago when I emancipated from my parents, moved to the United States, and had my name legally changed as part of my plan to assume a low-key, normal identity.
Even as we do coke in the doorway, I’ve already forgotten what he said his name is. Bob? Rob? Hey, let’s call him BobRob.
IV.
This is much more fun than the last time I hooked up with Phil. He lost his erection before we got even halfway through foreplay. He jumped out of bed and ran into the bathroom. He was in there for several minutes, I assume whacking off, trying to get his dick hard again.
When he eventually came out, he was in a rush to put his clothes back on.
It was the night Trump got elected, and he said he needed to go because his wife was losing it, watching the results. Again, he used her as an escape route.
But I think he left because he was embarrassed by his erectile dysfunction. I mean, he went into the bathroom naked, his phone in the front pocket of his pants, which were on the floor. How could his wife suddenly come into the picture, if she had no way to reach him?
A bonerkill is never welcome in bed, so he was all, “My wife is freaking out, I have to leave now!” He ran out of my room so fast he was still zipping up his pants as he yanked the door shut behind him. This was at exactly 8:42 pm, according to the clock on the nightstand.
Earlier that evening, while having drinks at a nearby bar, I kept trying to find out his curfew. He was vague, and I knew that to mean he’d stay until the fun ended, or midnight, whichever came first.
V.
The next day, I was still bored, lonely, and fuckstrated, so I went to a sex club (my one and only experience at such a place).
At first, I tried to find someone who looked like Phil. Nobody even close. I decided instead to try out any random decent-looking guy with a nice dick.
I didn’t orgasm once, although I had sex with an array of people that night.
One guy was so big it hurt before he squeezed even half of his huge, thick cock into me.
I wandered away and came across someone handsome who was large, but not painfully so. He had such a strong Appalachian dialect I could hardly understand him. No matter; I wasn’t there for talking. He was a professional masseur; had a massage table there and everything. He treated me to a first-class whole-body rubdown, complete with nice-smelling lotions and warm towels.
Afterward, he wanted to bareback it. I might be reckless, but I’m not stupid. He was cool about it, though, and as a compromise, I let him finger me as he jacked off until he squirted all over my stomach.
Then he showed me to the showers, where I rinsed off before rejoining the orgy.
Next, a Russian Adonis started rubbing up against me. At first, I was interested, but then his terrible breath turned me off big-time!
I walked away and almost collided with a pair of beautiful Eastern Bloc night ladies, who subsequently put on a sex show for me. They tried to talk me into a threesome, but they too had mouths that smelled like they’d eaten heads of raw garlic for dinner.
I spent the rest of the night mutually caressing with a petite, beautiful, Snow White doppelganger of a woman who had these incredible knockers: large, firm, and fake. I don’t consider myself bisexual, but she was gorgeous.
She and her husband were in town from Albuquerque, I think she said. They’re rich and have kids. Going to sex clubs is their hobby. Of course, none of their friends, neighbors, or family members knows about it.
Her pervy husband played with his faltering, half-hard dick as he watched us touching each other, suckling nipples. This continued until I guess about 3am, when the fat Russian who managed the place kicked us out. “Place closed, place closed!” she yelled. “Get dressed! Place closed!” The staff walked us out and padlocked the door.
VI.
Over the years since Phil and I started carrying on, we’ve had numerous fallings out. We’ll get into a fight, swear we’ll never speak again, but then a few weeks or months go by, and I’ll contact him again.
He broke up with me last year on my birthday, a mere two days after saying he wanted to be a good friend and calming presence. And can you guess why he dumped me? Because we had just recently gotten back together. I was feeling sketchy, nervous he’d ditch me again at the next opportunity. I told him on the night of my birthday that I only wanted him around if he was serious about being a stable friend. He responded, “Clearly we’re incompatible…we’re better off leaving each other alone.” Then he blocked me. Again. (Starting to see why I have so many email and Facebook accounts?)
It’s always me, not him, to re-establish contact. It’s always me visiting him, lying to my husband, spending money I really don’t have to visit Phil in San Francisco. I saw him in person about a dozen times since we started up some seven or so years ago.
Despite my common sense telling me to walk away, to preserve an ounce of self-respect, once again, I am back. I tell you, with him I tend to do degrading things that make me feel humiliated and silly. Even now as I hate him, I worry I’ll contact him again and we’ll fall back into it.
I’ll find a venue to publish this story, then let’s see where the chips fall. Although it’s not like he’s ever read anything I wrote, despite the fact I’ve read most things he’s published. When I’d ask him to, he’d be dismissive, as in, “I’m really busy right now, but will try to get to it soon.” He never did. I bet he’ll read this story though, and to the end, once he sees that his very own narcissist self has a starring role.
In other words, no, I’m not important to him. He’s never begged for me, never came after me. Never even wanted me all that much.
I know it’s stupid, but one reason why I chase him so hard is because of his aloof, “I don’t care about you, but you’re fun once in a while” attitude. I guess for me, it’s the excitement involved with setting up and engaging in our trysts; the challenge of trying to distract him from other women.
And oh, yes, are there other women! You didn’t think the slut from his wife’s [unmentionable-event] night was a fluke, did you? It’s no secret that he’s a flagrant, compulsive womanizer. One of his ex-girlfriends told me, “He cheats on everyone. Not just his wife. He even cheated on his mistress Roxy, or whatever her name is.”
Most of the women he’s hot for are jobless, welfare-dependent trailer trash. They have nothing better to do with their days other than sleep in; somewhere there’s a vague hope their bastard kids will get their lazy asses out of bed in time to catch the bus to school, to free government lunches, to teach-to-test Moby Dick, and 2 + 2 = 22, or to wherever. The type of woman who wakes up at ten ‘til noon, lights a Lucky Strike, crushes up and snorts a couple Adderall, then writes and writes line after story after self-published series of angry, unimaginative repetitions: you’ve read one, you’ve read them all.
The chicks he digs tend to write in a “confessional” style, e.g., “My dad’s an alcoholic and I like it when my husband takes me from behind.” On their personal blog sites, they’ll introduce themselves accordingly:
I’m kind of famous online. Actually, I’ve always been famous. In fact, when I was in college, one of my creative writing teachers told the whole class he thinks my poem “has great potential” and that I should “keep writing.”
Also, something else about me I know you’ll think is fascinating, because it’s about me after all, and I’m fascinating! I banged that teacher a couple times in his van, in the dark, in his van, in an empty parking lot, and it was dark, and we were in his van, and it was late; it was after 10 pm, after class let out.
Check THIS out, my loyal readers: Notice the cool poetic things I did in that last paragraph and why it’s better writing than yours? You don’t see it?! Wow, you’re obviously stupid AND a far lesser writer than I! (Oh, and for the record, I banged the poetry teacher AFTER he said those things about my poem, so he didn’t say them BECAUSE I was banging him.)
You know when Phil especially likes a girl because he’ll write stupid comments not even related to the wretched writing he’s supposed to be reviewing. One example of several: “You rock, Roxy! You rock hard, Roxy! I am hard as a rock, as hard as YOU ROCK, Roxy! Rocking Roxy, I want to rock with you, Roxy, so hard! xoxo.”
Yeah, okay, so I’ve cyberstalked him. Let’s be honest: we all do stuff like this. At least I admit it.
In addition to the special ladies who make it onto his top ten list, Phil is like every other narcissistic writer whose instinct to publish often and widely has more to do with his need for attention and approval than with any artistic integrity. He likes to collect adoring fans, pretty girls who hang on to his every word, who worship his very farts.
***
For all installments of “Limp Dicks and Other Reasons Why My Ex-Lover is a Dick,” click here.
Ikhnaton Skypeople writes experimental work that is too gritty to publish under her own name. She has a conservative job and her public profile is watched closely. She would be much more successful, financially and socially, if she would instead write the boring peer-reviewed publications expected of a fledgling academic like herself. However, she decided she’d rather write what she wants, rather than what they want her to. So she chooses obscurity, to write under an assumed name, to hide her true identity. Her work has also been published in Red Fez.
