following through, pt. 1

I hate it when other people write and say, "...Ohh, that's a whole another story.  Maybe next time," and not follow up!  I too am guilty of this, so I will tell the story of why I hate the smell of latex.  And girls who flirt with my boyfriend or a friend's boyfriend.

And yes, it has to do with condoms.

A couple of years ago, I was in a long-distance relationship with someone in my hometown.  People always thought we made the oddest match ever, but I didn't really care then.  We had a lot of shallow things in common and had fun together ("OMG, like, we like the same bands!").  I cared for him immensely, because that's just how I roll--if I like you, I like you A LOT.  And you will know because I am always sucking on your face and trying to cuddle with you when you're probably up to more important things like watching basketball or playing videogames.

Shallow things and being provided company, that was enough for me then, until I started catching onto the fact that he had the biggest crush on this smart, Asian girl that every guy and girl worshipped at my high school.  Except I thought she was about as attractive as a stick insect with crossed eyes.

Oops, there I go spilling filth again.

I should've known this from the beginning, because he had a serious case of mentionitis.  "Stick Insect did this...  she did that...  and she said the funniest thing the other day..."

I would've rather wanted to know, in great detail, about some big dookie he left in his toilet that morning instead of what they talked about over lunch.

It drove me insane that I was crazy-jealous of this girl.  I thought about how people were so blind to the fact that this hypocritical Christian girl loves to talk about how she gets to be described as a c***tease when she does nothing to provoke attention.  Ha!  I was onto you, ho!

At first, I think the ex was a little flattered to find out that his girl was feeling the stings of jealousy because of SI.  He comforted me a little and let me know that they're just really close friends, blah blah, the usual schpiel.  And it worked.  I started thinking like, "Pfft, what does that stupid skank have that I don't have anyway?"  I stuck my nose in the air and flipped my hair back and stopped worrying so much.

And I think the ex got better at hiding it.  He started referring to her as "his friend," and used gender-neutral words to cover the fact that she was going to be in the group that he called, "they."  He'd say things like, "My friend and I are going to go do blah blah.  We'll be done around 11, so I'll call you then."

By the time I caught on, I decided to make a fuss about it, to ask him why he went out of his way to not call her by her name.  "Just say, 'Stick Insect,' if you're going to be with her."

"But it's with her and a bunch of other people.  Why do I have to go out of my way to let you know that she's there or not?"

"BECAUSE I'M A CRAZY BITCH THAT'S WHY!"

Okay, I wanted to say that last part, but I never did because I knew he was kind of right.  He always patched things up with me for the time being, temporarily.  Like putting a bandage on a broken bone.  We always appeared to be happy and fixed up until the next infection flared again.  This was when I went back home some time after summer break, and I saw him for the first time in a month.  The Stick Insect had gone away for college in California at the end of September.

We hugged and kissed, and talked about how much we missed each other.  Then our clothes started to come off, and within 1 minute, I think my head was in his lap with his pants around his ankles.

I mumbled something and took a sneaky sniff and realized something.

He smelled like a condom, some kind of a rubbery smell.

To this day, I don't know for sure if he had slept with Stick Insect or not, but the emotional damage it did to me is real.  And there we were, fighting over if he had slept with her or not with his pants off and with my top off.  Halfway through the argument, we figured we should get dressed and continue to talk.  As we were awkwardly dressing, he suddenly accused me of maybe cheating on him.  Like as if my vadge rubbed on his member while we were making out and that's where the mysterious rubber smell was coming from.

I couldn't prove that I did or didn't.  Or that he did or didn't sleep with Crossed Eyes.  I was mentally exhausted from crying and blubbering for so long, that I gave in.  Said my "sorries" and packed up to go home.  I just wanted the fight to be over, and I didn't want to believe that he was screwing someone else even if he was.

God, I was such a pussy then, but now I think I should've just walked out on him, because a month later, I found an e-mail that she sent to him (OMG another story for later) on my computer, and it was pretty much the most disgusting thing I've read.  (About "missing the boat" and falling for each other at the wrong time...  Gagfest.)

I know what you're thinking...  "Geez Min, get that sand out of your vagina and stop the hatin'!  The past is the past, and you've got such a dreamboat for a boyfriend now!"  I didn't realize this until later, but I hated her so much and was wary of her because I saw a lot of myself in her (and NO, I'm not trying to say people think I'm so fucking gorgeous or so fucking nice, because I think I'm actually known as, "The unfriendly roommate of S" on campus).

I'm talking about the flirting with taken guys for kicks.  Lack of self-esteem and self-confidence that I couldn't find in myself that I had to retrieve from knowing that  some guy liked me.  It was all too familiar, and I didn't like it.

[to be continued]