There Is a Thin Between Love and Hate

I may channel a scene from Waiting to Exhale by setting the house and the car on fire. Because he’s a motherfucking liar. It didn’t help that my cell phone was off again. I’m screening calls on a landline between refreshes on my computer screen. 
I’ve been whoring on Facebook all day for likes, comments, and subscribers. This was currency like a cheap gold chain, floating on the neck of a clueless thug, likely suffering from ashy elbows, and kneecaps, plus chapped lips. But if he has tattoos and muscles, I may consider dropping to my knees. I can’t get no lower. 
When John finally called, I drank half a bottle of wine, which I paid for from the change I scrounged up from my Balenciaga clutch. Dressed in all black on the hottest day in spring, betting it all on Pinot Noir. 
This bottle had a puppy on it. Don’t ask me what kind it was? It’s black. And the wine tasted liked he pissed in it, which only pissed me off even more. 
I was in no mood to screen, “Baby so you’re saying I can’t play with the boys on Grindr anymore,” he said. 
“Um, let’s discuss this. I love you. I love you a lot. It would be heartbreaking to end things, but I don’t want my boyfriend fucking other people.”
 I just want an imperfect person that I can trust and be on my side. Was that too much to ask for? 
“Oh, I feel like you’re strong-arming me. I told you that I didn’t want anything serious,” he said. “I need to focus on my children.”
I did damage control. I channeled my inner fixer from Scandal, Olivia Pope. I needed to come off as heartfelt and human. He can go fuck other people but not while he’s fucking me. I’m 30, too old to be sucking multiple dicks a week. 
And he’s 38—although he turned that age 7 years ago—but we won’t go there. He has two weeks until his divorce. There’s a countdown on his wall, marked in red ink. 
And she is seeking child support. I don’t know if my phone will ever come back on. From my vantage point, divorce is like having a breakdown at the DMV. So, I’m trying to be considerate. He’s addicted to Grindr like it’s a good bag of coke. What happens when he discovers Jack’d? That’s where all the cute black guys are. 
But I’m not sharing my man with the neighborhood trash, putting my life at risk because he’s bored. I fucked him four to five times a week. Shouldn’t that be enough? Is he trying to sabotage us? 
“I feel like you don’t trust me,” he said. “And you’re using sex to manipulate me.”
I almost spilled my drink again. How dare you put a damper on my day with this bullshit. We talked earlier that morning about him missing me and giving me a drawer. 
I guess a wave of that mutant strain of bipolar is flaring up again. 
“If you’re bored go read a book. Or watch a video or find a job.”
“I don’t need advice, Walter,” he said. “I’m just asking you a question. But anyway, let me get off this phone. We’ll discuss this later.” 
“Hopefully in person,” I said. 
But wait. There is nothing to discuss. I already have to deal with his soon to be ex-wife. And she is finally going to be detached to him legally. But random strangers on Grindr? Fuck No. 
How are you going to be preaching on the pulpit on Sunday, while the queens in the congregation are looking at your ass and dick pics from Monday through Saturday? I must be a bout of Bipolar Disorder, or he bumped his head on the pavement. 

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But I’m not putting up with this shit. Not today. 

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Walter Reed is a writer, blogger, sexpert, sex columnist and gay dating advice guru. His work has been published in Washington Post, Huffington Post and here at Please like, comment and share.


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