When I first dreamed up these series of posts, breaking down the various ways I passive aggressively got women to break up with me, I thought that it would be both entertaining to me and the reader. I mean, the reader could get more of an insight on yours truly and see why my mother's term of endearment for me the last 10 years has been "asshole", and I could reflect on a time when I wasn't the most upfront person in the world, a time when the old me would have made the new me seem as non threatening and pleasant as Clay Aiken.(without an affinity for cock that is..) But as I began to jot down some random examples on a simple notepad, I started to notice that I was flipping more pages than Mark Foley, before I knew it I had 40 examples of how I had manipulated women in giving me the proverbial boot. I started to feel guilty, which isn't a natural reaction for a guy who tries to penetrate a woman's "back door" during the first sexual encounter, I felt like I should do a John Cusack in "High Fidelity" and reach out to all the countless souls that I've scorned. Naw fuck that, especially since a few of them have kids that look like me, chubby bastards with writing prowess's and shit.
I Implied that I was a homosexual: For a romantic sap like me, who dreams about having spirited pillow talk while tightly embracing your lover the same way any other blue-blooded American male talks about cross-over dribbles and a baseball team pulling off the "double steal", nothing is more distressing than not loving a woman who thinks the world of you. I dated this chick named Sharon who was great on paper, beautiful, caring, she didn't irritate me when she talked, she actually liked having sex with me, I trusted her, and I could totally see her sitting beside me in a rocket rocking chair in 40 years, asking me why I always wanted her to keep her shell-toes Adidas with the phat laces on during sex. But just because something is good on paper, like a basketball team flooded with talented three-point threats, talented centers, and slashing guards who effortless pass balls like two chicks giving a guy a blow job, that doesn't always equate to the team having a winning record. So Sharon, even though she had all the intangibles to make the perfect female, my feelings for her were nowhere near her feelings for me.
As time passed I felt more and more guilty, sure I enjoyed being with her, but something seemed morally wrong about having a woman put so much stock in a douche-bag that will probably die alone amongst a shitload of cats. Refusing to be honest with her and not breaking up with her wasn't taking the moral high ground either, but I was a pussy, and seeing the crushed look on her face as I broke up with her for the silliest of reasons wasn't particularly in my itinerary. So slowly, like an example of bad sitcom writing, I had the brilliant idea to come across as gay, forcing her to reassess her options in future husbands. Of course I couldn't flat out tell her that I was gay, not because it would have exposed my master-plan or anything, but because as a heterosexual man trying to get over any residual homophobia that I might of had, I couldn't particular fix my mouth to flat out say that I was gay.(Even if it was a lie..)
So I did silly shit like I'd make sure she caught me Vogue dancing when she came in from work, I'd buy a shitload of men's fitness magazine and when questioned about it I'd nervously respond "Um.. I want some workout tips, what's gay about that??" even though she never said the word "gay". It got worse, I'd pass up sex and ask why we couldn't just "hold each other all night", I took up knitting for Christs sake, I suddenly became a proponent for gay rights, and every so often I'd cryptically throw "There are deep rooted issues inside me that would rock your feeble mind Sharon!" into random conversations. After "mistakenly" trying on her perfume one too many times, and asking her what size woman's shoe did she think I wore, she told me in what would be the nicest breakup ever, that we should go "our separate ways".
It was stupid, for all I know I could have learned to love her and she could be Mrs. Humanity F Critic right now, instead of a bitter blogger who masturbates like his testicles have an expiration date on them. But most of all I regret doing that because a few of our mutual friends still think that I'm gayer than a tree full of parakeets, which I don't understand , because what gay guy do you is a "Culture Club" fan and likes daytime soap opera's? That's what I thought motherfucker!