This Is a Love Story But It’s a Lie

Artwork by Anthony Gonzales IG: @anthgonz1

Dear Walter,

I have a huge problem. My boyfriend does too many drugs. He says he’s going to stop but he hasn’t. I love him but I don’t like his mood swings when he’s high. I’m afraid he that he’ll love the drugs more. And If I try to change him, I think he would leave. Have you experienced something like this? I desperately need your advice.

—Eager Enabler

Dear Eager Enabler,

Oh yes, you’re his enabler. But you weren’t the only one.

Once upon a time, I too was an enabler. How did a sober night in DC lead to drugs, debauchery, and self-discovery?

I jumped in his car like a transsexual for hire. To be fair, I was on K Street, walking towards Union Station. Back in the day, drugs and prostitution overwhelmed the city. K Street used to be a hot spot for blow jobs from “t-girls” for drug money.

Those were the days like in All in the Family. And just like that, cascaded against the backdrop of the Capitol, history repeated. This was my first time getting in a car with a stranger in a while.

“Who is that? Is that your man?”

“Hell no!” I responded. “I met him at the library, and his broke ass can’t be with me.”

“Stop fakin’ you know you fucked him.”

“Honey, we just met. Now watch your disrespect.”

“Tonight’s your lucky night,” he said. “Ditch him and come with me.”

We drove off. I felt a mixture of fear and excitement. “Look at me,” he said. “Say ahh, and let me see your tongue.” Then he kissed me. His eyes were blood-shot red. He circled around my lips with his tongue. He pulled down my pants and then his.

“It’s not hard yet,” he said. “But it’s nine inches.” I’ve never felt more slutty and satisfied at the same time. “Shh,” he said as he reached for his iPhone when Sabrina’s name appeared.

“This my girl.”

“Oh.”

“I’m leaving a bad bitch at home for you.”

30 minutes later, I was ready for some dick. He pulled out a folded dollar bill instead, revealing a powder substance in it.

“Baby hold the wheel.”

He grabbed another dollar bill and rolled it up like a straw and inhaled. One hit took him to the stratosphere. He stuck his finger in my ass while he kissed me.

What Lessons Lie Beneath The Surface?

I had the predilection for getting entangled with dangerous “straight” men with destructive behavior. They came equipped with emotional baggage and I enjoyed trying to fix them. And even though I just met him, I felt this sense of responsibility.

“DL” men spun my mind. But the red flags lined up like STI’s. He was shady. We arrived back near Union Station where a transsexual awaited. He jumped out the car and talked to her for 20 minutes, waving cash like a church fan.

“Really?”

“I’m taking you home,” he said. “You ain’t trying to do anything.”

“You’re trying to replace me with that black bitch.”

“Nah, I’m wouldn’t leave you like that.”

I would never let some bitch selling her ass replace me. We drove around for three hours looking for a spot to park and play. We both were too nervous. I started to really like him. We made out and jerked off. We also showed our asses. I learned that I don’t like ass in my face.

“Baby I gotta pee,” he said.

I grabbed an empty water bottle and passed it to him. He held his penis as the urine poured in. It was hot in a weird way.

“Are you into water sports?”

“No, I’ve always wanted to try it,” I said.  “But, don’t pee on me.”

“Damn baby, you really down for me.”

“Yeah, I’m down.”

We arrived at 14th street to a bar called Trade. There was a mixed crowd of people that I enjoyed. We lasted 20 minutes.

This instant “relationship” had the shelf-life of seafood. I liken it to a hood fantasy like a gay, black Bonnie and Clyde terrorizing the streets of DC.

Three hours later, paranoia kicked in. He acted erratically. From the freeway to the highway, we headed straight for Virginia.

“That’s the police. The same cars are following us,” he said. “You got me, baby?”

“Calm down baby. Those are not cops. Relax. No one is following us.”

“You sure?”

“Yes!”

“Okay, baby.”

He finally dropped me off home at 6 am.

I’m Picking the Same Type of Men

That’s when it hit me. There was something attracting me to these kinds of men. I had a type: sexually confused black males, with high intellects and substance abuse issues. I considered these characteristics charming. My former friend, Joseph epitomized those traits. I met him in my early 20s in a Dupont Circle bar. He was a lawyer with a coke addiction.

When he was high he became aggressive, barking at people at the bar like a deranged dog. He would also flirt with me and make me feel like I’m the only person in the room. Then, he would find the nearest girl to throw himself at.

Once, we walked around Georgetown University for hours, considering he hasn’t been a student there since the Clinton administration—we were trespassing. We snuck into the dorms because he was afraid of judgment from the security guard of his apartment building. We talked for two hours about his past, dreams, and conquests. I learned then that drug addicts were selfish and stupid.

“Remove that fucking scarf.” He said one night while drunk in a straight bar. He was barred from all the gay ones on U Street.

“No, I’m keeping this scarf on. It’s Louis Vuitton.”

We enjoyed hopping in cabs, dancing in bars and getting drunk.

He also jerked off in my room, danced to house music, searched for hookers on backpage.com. Did I enable his behavior?

Yet, I was drawn to him. And I forgave him. But can you forgive when you can’t quite forget?

It culminated in him slapping me in front of an ATM. I slapped his ass back. Was I in an abusive relationship? Once again, it was no longer fun.

One day after work my coworker and I walked to Pinstripes to grab a glass of red. Joseph sat out front, trying to put his phone back together.

“Walter, the next time you fuck with me again. I’m gonna fucking kill you.”

I laughed because that’s what you do when dealing with a crazy, delusional asshole. I’ve would have died fighting.

Months later, I saw him on a 14th street, harassing a couple. I immediately crossed the street.

Lies Are Revealed in the Light

I texted Chris three hours after he dropped me off.

“Chris no longer has this phone.”

I laughed and deleted his number.

A week later, I received a text from Chris. The text message history reappeared.

“Missed the call. Who is this?”

“This is Walter”

“Who?”

“Oh, wow. Maybe you didn’t have time to remember my name. Chris, white dodge charger. We hung out all night Christmas Eve. You gave me your number twice when you dropped me off home.”

“I think I told you once before, that number doesn’t belong to that person anymore. I will respectfully ask you not to make this mistake again because you are causing my wife to look at me like I’m lying about knowing who this is. Thanks.”

“Listen, I don’t play games. And I don’t have time for whatever games you’re playing with your wife. What missed call? I never called you. I’ve already deleted this number. And again I didn’t make a mistake. You gave me your number and made sure I put it in my phone before dropping me off.  If you don’t want to communicate anymore that’s fine. I don’t deal with liars or cheaters. And this is my first time ever hearing about a wife. But good luck with that. #Boybye.”

“I don’t know who the fuck this is but I’m blocking this number and anyone like it. “

“Godspeed.”

“I found your FaceBook. It’s attached to your number.”

When someone shows you who they are, believe them. Lesson learned. No more drug addicts — just say no!

It’s disrespectful to yourself to allow these behavior invade your personal space. He didn’t give a fuck about me. And at that time I likely didn’t give a fuck about myself. And the lesson kept repeating up I eventually got.

I no longer subscribe to that desperate druggie fantasy that seemed so enticing in my youth. What will you decide? When will enough be enough? When will you stop disrespecting yourself by being with him?

We must learn to love ourselves more. That’s all we have in the end.

Love,

Walter

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