VII.
This brings us to Miriam Delirium McWhacko.
Ms. McWhacko is what the Germans call a “foreskin fly”: a needy woman who hangs onto a man’s foreskin so tightly that he can’t shake her off no matter how hard he tries. (Although I know for a fact that Phil doesn’t have a foreskin. Hahaha!)
Phil once told me that Delirium has an unhealthy obsession with him but won’t sleep with him because he’s married, and she has a strict moral code.
Rather than her make-believe moral code, I bet it’s a combination of two factors very different from that lie. First, she’s old and wrinkly, so she doesn’t want him to see her naked: she’s embarrassed by the crepey skin on her arms and legs, her saggy tits and ass. And we know she’s self-conscious about her age, because she won’t list her year of birth on any social media site. (Although revealing the month and day assures she gets the “Happy birthday!” attention we know she’s so desperate for.)
She refused to tell me—got downright insulted—when I asked. But I’m nosy and bad with money, so I paid a couple bucks to get a full background check on her. Turns out she’s been fooling us all these years with doctored selfies and 20+ year old glamour shots she posts to try to hide the fact that she’s pushing 60.
The second reason she won’t ride the Phil Machine has to do with her manipulative, head-gamey ways. Years ago, when she and I were still talking (sort of), she said she “won’t give them too much, because once they have you they won’t want you anymore.” Her not-necessary advice droned pedantically on: “You have to strike just the right balance between giving and withholding, so they don’t get frustrated and give up the chase, or, having gotten the sex they wanted, grow bored and move on.”
I have to give her some credit, though, for coming up with her own spin on the Nigerian banking scam:
I an African prince and yu are heir to thrown. If you give to me bank account # for you checking bank, and you’re social securty numbr , I wire transfer one million dollars to u in 24 hour. This no lie, but for truth!
A couple years before I got involved with Phil, when we were all freshly over from MySpace and still getting along, she posted a note that she needed money to get back to Germany to see her mother, who at that very moment was lying on her death bed.
I offered to send her $20: not much, but I figured anything would help.
She messaged me back:
I wrote that post to test whether anyone would give me money. But if I accept your offer, I’d have to tell you where I live, and I’m not stupid enough to give that information to someone I only know from the internet.
Since then, she’s set up GoFundMe accounts for her dad’s medical expenses, her grandpa’s burial costs, and so she could feed and find shelter for her homeless, near-starving young nephew. (Nephew? She told me she’s an only child!)
The company Phil keeps should have warned me years ago to stay away. But I am book-smart and street-naïve, downright dumb about matters of the heart.
I was an idiot from the start when I chose to overlook the disturbing things Delirium told me about Phil. She said he has a “weakness for women” and I’m his type: hot, a good writer, and insane. She told me he arranges to hook up with women at poetry readings around the country. He knows his wife won’t tag along to ruin any fun, because of her [redacted-]phobia.
Phil had denied this at the time and held fast to that denial over all these years. But more than once, he bounced around exactly this idea with me. He said if I’d set up a poetry gig that looked legit enough to fool his wife and promised we’d have a private after-party in his hotel room, he’d play along.
Even though I chose at the start to believe Phil’s, not Miriam’s, version of the hookup story, at that time I considered her a friend, having known her since we met in a poetry group, way back when MySpace was still a thing.
Once, when in her hometown of Oklahoma City for an academic conference, I offered to buy us a couple rounds of beer. She scoffed at the thought of PBR, but said she’d make the trip if I upgraded to good whiskey. Although I was a graduate student at the time, with no income, no real job, and already $70,000 in student-loan debt, I agreed to her conditions.
I was looking forward to our outing. I even turned down an overlapping invitation to dine with a friendly group of fellow conference attendees.
She stood me up. Didn’t even bother to cancel. Left me looking stupid, sitting at a small table with no company except an empty chair and an extra whiskey, at the barbecue joint where we were supposed to meet. You picking up on the “birds of a feather” vibe? Philtrum and Delirium sitting in a tree…
Within days of her finding out about me and Phil, Ms. McWhacko blocked me on Facebook, for no reason I can think of other than I was messing around with her #1 Crush, and she didn’t like this. Since then, we’ve only crossed paths twice, and neither of our run-ins were at all fun.
My first post-blocked WhackSquatch sighting was about four years ago, when she found out that I had drunkenly shared with Adam, a mutual friend (also from the MySpace gang), a few lurid details of my Fun with Phil playtime sex dates online.
She of course told Phil, who became livid about my “indiscretion,” as he called it, and said this is “one of many, many reasons why [I’m] a bad, untrustworthy friend.” This led into yet another huge argument, another flurry of angry messages.
Turns out he was forwarding my emails to his friends and they were making fun of me behind my back.
In fact, Delirium took a screenshot of an especially embarrassing passage and posted it publicly on her Facebook page. In the related Discussion strand, she and Phil called me names and wrote cruel things about me, all the while laughing and liking each other’s responses, and trying to outdo each other’s mean-spirited barbs.
They also teamed up and wrote a couple horrible reviews about me on RateMyProfessors.com.
A lawyer friend urged me to file a police report, so I’d have a paper trail started in case such cyberbullying continued. I followed this wise counsel, then mailed a hard copy of the police report to Phil…at his place of employment. (Nice touch, huh?)
Then, after not one word of contact for several blessedly quiet years following the police report incident, about a year ago Miriam sent me this out of-the-blue message:
Susan:
I told you Phil has a problem with women. And you’re not helping matters. You need to leave him alone.
All that time later and she was still pretending to be concerned about Phil, trying to save him from amoral temptresses who dare take advantage of his weak will and drag him off his True and Righteous Path. I know she’s just manipulating him. She’s jealous and doesn’t want other women around him.
These days, from what I can tell, Delirium is still hanging around, using Phil for his small-press connections to get her awful poems published.
Really, they’re all teenaged-girl angst, badly-written prose not more sophisticated than if hastily stitched together by a 19-year-old freshman Composition student. (I understand being unemployed and unable to graduate from community college must have its own stresses, so she probably doesn’t have the time or energy to work on making her writing better.)
When Phil and I first started up, I hadn’t asked questions because I guess I didn’t want to know. I ignored what Miriam said because at the time I wanted to believe his denials, that she had “her own version of the truth, which [didn’t] match the actual truth.” I trusted him. I stupidly jumped in head first and eyes tightly shut, no idea what I was doing or who I was getting involved with. I thought I was in love, that his experience with me was as special as mine was with him.
Despite everything, Phil and I stayed in contact. I was even foolish enough to fall back into his arms several times since that “leave Phil alone” email.
Honestly, I have no idea why I’m still bothered. I mean, I have an MFA from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop and a real job: a good job as a tenured university professor. I have things to do, important things. I don’t have all day to spend fucking around on stupid poetry sites with “LOOK AT ME! LOOK AT ME!” predatory masturbatory poets who hang onto each other via a circle-jerk system.
VIII.
I take BobRob back to the Akzent so we could do more coke. If you’re thinking of staying there yourself, here are some of the online reviews (which I should have read before booking this hotel):
dont go there !!! – Review of Akzent Hotel, San Francisco, CA…
https://www.yelp.com › Hotels & Travel › HotelsThere were bedbugs in my room. I got hundreds bites. I had to make an official costumer complaint to be sure that they will fummigate and never will happen again. The neighborhood is very noisey and there are tons of homeless people on the streets.
Disgusting – Review of Akzent Hotel, San Francisco, CA TripAdvisor
https://www.tripadvisor.co.nz > … > San Francisco Hotels › Akzent HotelOld facility, everything creeks. There is just NO ventilation on the room besides the window, it’s actually the most violent area in San Francisco. To make matters worse human poop, vomit, pee all over the street and we woke up to crazy people shouting outside our window. As soon as we left the hotel a woman vomited right outside the entrance.
Grossly disturbing, and disappointing. – 403 Verified Hotel Reviews …
https://www.booking.com/reviews/us/hotel/akzent-san-francisco1.htmlThe stench around the hotel. Room did not get cleaned once during my stay of a week. Building is so old and almost certainly a fire hazard. Elevator not working even though owner insists it does.
We took a calculated risk. – San Francisco Hotels – KAYAK
https://www.kayak.com > Hotels > United States > California > San FranciscoIt’s sad to say but the area (jones st.) is rough, with drug use, public urination outside the door. They don’t bother you, but caution is advised.
Walking to my room, I notice BobRob knows some of the people camping outside the security entrance of my hotel. He exchanges a few friendly greetings, says he’ll be back soon to “do business.” My Nubian prince Rob bobbing around peddling his wares.
In the lobby of the hotel, a young girl is crying, all her possessions stuffed into a black plastic trash bag, and the man at the reception counter doesn’t seem to care.
BobRob stuffs his hand in a pocket and pulls out a $10. “Hey baby, don’t be cryin’ like that,” he consoles her as he gently presses the bill into her hand. “It ain’t all that bad. Hey now.” She looks up at him, eyes wide and full of gratitude, like he’s Jesus Christ Himself.
I’m not sure whether he’s some kind of Tenderloin-based Robin Hood, or if this is a calculated move to impress me. If it is, it worked! (Sort of.) I admire his gesture, even though it makes me feel like a piece of shit, because I was pretending I didn’t notice the girl is here.
Once we get into the room, he cuts up lines. “You first,” he invites, handing me a rolled-up $20.
After our lines, he makes his move. But I insist that he first gargle with Listerine because it smells like something died in his mouth. (What’s with guys in San Francisco and their breath?)
We take a shower together. He’s an okay kisser, not the best: too much tongue and too little control over its rhythm. We want to fuck, but he did too much coke, so he can’t get it up. This is disappointing. Shades of Phil, and not in the funny Fifty Shades of Phil kind of way.
BobRob gets a call from a “client.” He asks if he can come back to my room after his business transaction. He wants to stay the night, and in the morning, we could try fucking again.
“Sure,” I say.
He looks skeptical. “Lemme have your cell, so I can text you later.” I start writing down a phony number. “Naw, lady. Not like that.” (“Lady?” He obviously doesn’t remember my name.) “Tell me your number now and I’ll text you back, make sure it’s the right one.” I give in and he texts “it me.”
Satisfied I got his message, he heads out for his appointment.
But when he tries calling again that night, I decide I’m over stupid boys who don’t deserve me. I ignore BobRob’s texts and phone calls. I won’t let him back in.
Instead, I masturbate. No Bob, no Rob. No Phil, no fill. Just me, my fingers, and my fantasies of Spock, that coldly distant half-Vulcan science officer of the Starfleet Enterprise, who was my earliest crush, back in Peru. His pointy ears and emotionless logic would get my seven-year-old heart pounding, pounding, POUNDING, and my blood Aah! Ooh! pumping my cheeks bright red.
I told you already—didn’t I?—that I have a weakness for unavailable men.
***
For all installments of “Limp Dicks and Other Reasons Why My Ex-Lover is a Dick,” click here.
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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.
