Malibu, D&G, And Some Little Blue Pills
November 4, 2008, 7:58 PM
Filed under: Love and Relationships, Rudeness and Manners, Substance Abuse

“Can I pick ’em or what?!”

I might say this about a cute sweater.  I might say this about a playful kitten.  I might say it about a restaurant or some sort of unexplored vista in the Pacific.  But never will you ever, under any circumstance, hear me say those words in reference to another man.  The simple truth?  I can’t pick them.  I’m awful at it.  Too much optimism and too low of standards are the big glaring reasons, but it’s also because I have a hard time being alone.  I never really enjoyed it, and I probably never will.  I can do fine on my own, yes, but I’ve always found masturbation to be oddly depressing.  Essentially, sometimes I just want a person to be with even if that person doesn’t really feel like being with me, even if they have no interest in me whatsoever, and even if they overall suck as a person.

I never used to think I was bad at “picking ’em,” until one of the rotten apples that I picked came along.  I’ll spare him the embarrasment (even though I really shouldn’t) and rename this man.  I think I’ll call him Dickweed.  It’s a good description of him.  In fact, I’d say it’s near perfect. 

I was first introduced to Dickweed around the same time I was introduced to internet porn and ‘The Sims Hot Date’ (which sometimes felt just as naughty with the new jacuzzi feature!).  I was about 15, a freshman in high school, and still closeted.  The surprising thing was not many people really guessed that I was gay, although a few did.  I just occupied myself with the girls who would have me for a few weeks and then moved on (with one exception), so nobody really questioned my sexuality.  Well, it was more so my unpopularity in the earlier years that would have caused no one to question it.  Actually, if you would have told most kids at my school that I was gay when I was a freshman, they’d give you a quizzical look and say, “Who’s that kid?”

I came across (while looking for porn, obviously) a website called, which is a website devoted to gay culture, dating, and lifestyles.  Not knowing or caring what culture or lifestyles exactly entailed, I went straight for the gold: the chat rooms.  I wasn’t approaching many in the chat room, so I was surprised by how many different men I spoke with.  The average age was well over 30, and all prospects had either divorce baggage or thick facial hair.  I couldn’t exactly call what I had with them “conversations”, since they were so trite and annoyingly to the point.  Example given:

Man: hey cute boi how r u?

Me: I’m well, thanks.  How are you?

Man: horny as hell.  stats?

I would always frown at this.  When I was younger, I never really wanted anyone to know my cock size.  Now it’s on my business card.

Me: Um, well, I’m about 6’0”, 160 lbs, and I have brown hair with highlights and blue eyes 

Man: oooh ur a cute little twink boy.  i like that.

I frowned at this too.  I wasn’t a “twink.”  I definitely looked like a stereotypical one, but twinks are also defined by their smooth body.  Now I may have only been 15, but even then I was more shag carpeting than linoleum.

Me: Haha.  Thanks.

No matter how grotesque the comments, I would always be somewhat flattered.  I mean, even though I had no desire to sleep with any of these men, I did take all of the comments in stride.  Someone out there found me attractive, even if the poor thing was dappled with liver spots.

Not everyone I spoke with was that out of the question, however, and there was one man I had taken a particular shine to, a man named Dickweed.  He was dangerous-looking, like a loose cannon cop in a low-grossing action film.  He was holding some risque objects in his pictures, including a bottle of malt liquor and a handgun.  The handgun should have turned me off, since I have a mortal fear of weapons, but it didn’t.  It didn’t necessarily turn me on, but I was curious to know more about this man.  I forgot which of us struck up the conversation first, and while the specifics elude me, I’d say this is a pretty accurate recollection:

DW: look what we have here.

Me: Uh, hi?

DW: so what’s goin’ on?

Me: Nothing really…just sitting here, bored.  You?

DW: ohhhh…bored.  more bored now that I’m talking to you.

Me: Wait, what?  We just started talking and you barely know me.

DW: well i know you well enough to know that you aren’t entertaining me so far.

Me: What do you want me to do?

DW: idk you could do a striptease for me.

Initially I was surprised, but not necesarilly in a bad way.  Come to think of it, I might have laughed, thinking he was joking.  It would take me three years to realize he wasn’t.  Rudeness did not equal sarcasm, in his particular case.  Rudeness was to be taken for what it was: rude.

DW and I would talk on and off for several months.  One day, he was completely ignoring me, and at this point, as far as I was concerned, we were getting married.  So as my future husband, this behavior was totally unwarranted and unacceptable, and after doing a bit of online research, I came across a friend of his to discuss this with.

Me: Hi, um, you don’t know me but…are you friends with DW?

Asshole friend: I am.  How do you know him?

Me: Well, we talk sometimes, and I’m kind of interested in him, and well, I’m pretty sure he’s interested in me too, but…has he ever said anything about me to you?

Asshole friend: He’s interested in you?  Romantically interested?

I had said he was, and I wasn’t prepared for what was next.  I didn’t take the inflection of his sentence in the proper manner.  What he had meant was, “He’s interested in YOU??  ROMANTICALLY interested??”

Asshole friend: I don’t think he’d be into someone like you.

Me: Well, why?  What’s wrong with me?

Sometimes we ask other people questions that we honestly do want the answer to.  That is, until we hear what the answer actually is.

Asshole friend: Well, let’s start with those glasses.  Hideous.  And your hair is clearly box color.  That shirt looks homemade and your head isn’t in proportion to your body.  Your hair is frizzy and you have a big forehead.  That enough for you?

It was.

Devastated, I made an attempt to defend myself (‘You don’t KNOW me!  Whatever, I’ll talk to him myself!’), which ended up being futile.  There were so many aspects of myself that I didn’t like, that I hated even, and to have them all layed out for me, as frank as a grocery list, was uncomfortable, upsetting, and a huge blow to my already low self-confidence.  At the time, I felt nothing but rage towards DW’s friend, but now, looking back, as harsh as it was…I look at the picture, and it was something that desperately needed to be said.  At least the parts that could be changed.  That means no more self-made tye-dye, but I’m thinking I’m stuck with a watermelon head and an landing strip forehead forever.

DW and I fell out of contact after that.  There was an occasional discussion here or there, but by the time I had started dating my long-term ex Dave, we had stopped all correspondence.  After my messy and horrible break-up with him, I fled to Riverwest and went into hiding.  When I was finally ready to be myself again, I decided to move.  I found the infamous 1811 on Craig’s List, which turned out to be the most insane period of my entire life.  I had become good friends with everyone who visited there, and people would come and go so often, it felt more like a treehouse or fort than an actual duplex.  I loved every minute of it.  And not once in that three year period had DW even crossed my mind.

I went online one evening in January to do what I normally did at that time in my life.  I was on the prowl for men, and while I knew wasn’t running low on potential mates, I had discovered another website that was, unfortunately, exclusive for hooking up.  This website was lewd beyond belief, at least in my opinion.  I guess there are some people out there that think it’s commonplace to have a close-up of your anus as a profile picture, but I’m certainly not one of them.

As I was perusing the site, I saw that I had a new message in my inbox.  It was a message from Dickweed.  But here’s the funny thing: he didn’t know who I was.  In fact, judging by his diction in the note, he had absolutely no recollection of having talked to me ever.  To play devil’s advocate, I did look much different (better) in January than I did when I had first met him.  I responded to the message, playing a little cat-and-mouse game until the numbers were exchanged, and then I called him.

During the phone conversation, I could hardly maintain my laughter.  He was annoyingly suave and sophisticated, to the point where certain phrases, if spoken eloquently enough, could have induced vomiting.  But to top it all off, he still didn’t know it was me.  Three years ago I would have been offended and upset, but now it was hilarious.  Finally, I asked him if he remembered talking to a kid named Chris a few years back.  His response?

“I know a lot of people.”

So I gave him my last name.  His response?

“I don’t DO last names.”

What do you mean you don’t DO last names?  The whole world does last names.  People are defined by their last name.  Some people are only known by their last name.  And you just…don’t do them? 

Apparently that wasn’t enough red flag for me though, and we continued to talk, setting up a date for us to get together for a movie.  I was excited, but not because I really liked him, but because I was finally meeting this strange man…finally, after three years.  It wasn’t like I was waiting, but it’s still a long time for something to happen, whether it be a hook-up or completing a jigsaw puzzle you lost the box to.

I ended up having a lot of fun on the first date.  We went to see “No Country For Old Men,” which was a bad choice, since I tend to shriek like a baby rabbit being set aflame whenever I watch a scary movie.  You could argue that NCFOM wasn’t scary in the traditional sense, but the lack of music and the nailgun made it a modern day Poltergeist to me.  Embarrassing both him and myself, I jumped and started almost every time something happened, followed by the inevitable and incredibly annoying, “Did you see that?” He did.

What was odd about DW’s personality was that he still seemed to be of high school mentality.  In his eyes, the world was full of prom queens and jocks and nerds and techies, and he just so happened to be the head quaterback.  He was handed everything on a silver platter.  What’s worse is that he acted like he deserved it, as if he was slaving away for days out in a cornfield so that he could get that sailboat from his parents, or whatever it was.  He had a knack for making me feel uncomfortable, useless, and all around shitty.  So, naturally, we started casually seeing each other.  At least, that’s the impression I got, but the entire time he was dangling other guys over me, as if I wasn’t proving myself to be enough for him.

“You know, there’s a lot of other guys out there that could be in your shoes.”

I’d fall for this every time. “Oh please!  Don’t leave me, you’re one of the greatest guys I’ve ever met, you’re so funny and attractive and sweet!  What do I need to do?”

“Bring me the remote, make me a pastrami on rye, and get on your knees.”

I never buy rye bread, so I was basically screwed.

One night, when he stayed over, we were laying on my futon mattress in my below-zero sunroom/bedroom, he got up to ruffle through his bag.  It was a bag that he mentioned earlier was “authentic Dolce and Gabbana.”  He told me this specifically because he knew I didn’t care, and also because I think he liked hearing the words come out of his mouth.  It was late, maybe around 2 AM, so I asked him, in a sleepy stupor, what he was getting.  He flashed a smile at me and pulled out a bottle of Malibu rum and a bottle of prescription medicine.  I was puzzled.

“What…?  What do you need that for?  It’s 2 in the morning.”

He explained: “Well, the pills I have to take, they’re for my sleeping disorder.” I didn’t believe him. “And the rum, well…the rum is so I can take the pill.”

I chuckled, thinking he was kidding, until he began to tilt the bottle towards his mouth.

“Wait, you can’t do that!  You have to take that with water!  Don’t you know there are serious consequences to taking pills with alcohol?”  I felt like a living after-school special, but I wasn’t going to be liable for anything that happened to him, since he was in my house.  I also didn’t feel like staying awake and resuscitating him when I had to be up at 9 in the morning.

After a small bit of arguing, he took the water from me and put the Malibu back in his Dolce and Gabbana bag.  I never did ask why he carried a bottle of booze around with him like a pocketwatch, but I didn’t want the answer this time.  I fell asleep, hoping that I would wake up in the morning, and the man laying next to me would stop being a inconsiderate card-carrying lush and start making me french toast.

The problems between us developed when I was at work one day, and we had been texting back and forth.  Our texts were either very playful and light-hearted with a kinky subtext, or rude and to the point.  Today it was the latter.  The texts included typical romantic phrases, such as “I’m not going to talk to you right now, you’re annoying” and “Boy, I wish I could change my number.”  I was finally getting sick of the way he was talking to me so I sent him: “I’m tired of you.” 

I didn’t hear back for a few days, and during my wait I discussed it with a few of my friends.  Hannah gave me the most accurate analysis of the situation: “Dude, he makes you feel like shit.  He’s not all that cute, and when I saw him, I totally thought he was a child molester.”  While this, like most of Hannah’s criticism, was blunt, it was mostly true, but I held on to one little thread…’He didn’t ALWAYS make me feel like shit.’  This comment was greeted by a roomful of eye-rolls, and I went back to my Ramen noodles, wondering what my next move should be.

Luckily, I didn’t have to wait long for an answer.  I had logged on to AIM later that evening to see that he was on.  I didn’t strike up a conversation.  Instead, I waited to see what he would say, hoping that he would apologize for upsetting me, and I didn’t have to feel so unsettled anymore.  I must have had my rose-colored glasses on, because what I got was in stark contrast.

“Hi, my name is C.J., I might not know much since I’m so young and stupid, but I sure can give great head!  But just remember, before you lift your legs, that I have the clap!!!”

He mocked me.  Like an eight-year old.  An eight-year old who knows way to much about sex.  Let me break this message down into fact and fallacy.

Fact: My name is indeed C.J., which stands for Christopher Jacob.

Fact: I am young.  Whatever, don’t hate.

Fallacy: I am stupid.  Actually, I suppose that’s up to popular consensus, but I don’t really think I am.

Fallacy: I have “the clap.”  Not only was I not altogether sure what the clap was when he first mentioned it, I’ve never had it, and I never really plan to.

That was the last straw.  I signed off, and vowed to never speak to him again, and I never did.  Except once when I was really lonely.

I’ve learned two things from this ridiculous excuse for a relationship.  One is that I should not be allowed to choose my men anymore, and instead should hire a pimp to do it for me.  Two, is realizing my own worth.  I began to understand the meaning of self-empowerment, thanks to someone who, at times, made me feel weak.  The trick is maintaining that image of yourself, that image that you are a good person, all while those who don’t believe in themselves try to bring you down.   And while I can’t seem to find the proper man just yet, I am proud to say that I can wake up in the morning, pack my bag, and leave the booze and pill bottles at home, where they belong.