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xmag.com : October 2002: Hard Justice

GIRLFRIENDS COME AND GO. None of them are ever
perfect. All of them piss you off. They're a pair of panties full of trouble. They whine and cry, bitch and moan, and when you're basking in the fact they aren't there, they bleed without dying. I don't want to hear about their problems.

Do you think I'm fat?

Why do you drink so much?

Fuck you! Cook your own dinner!

Stop hitting me!

Shut up. For God's sake, I didn't sign up for this bullshit when I said I wouldn't fuck other girls. I want to hear you complain about as much as I want skin cancer...maybe less. For the record, I drink to get away from you, and those cheeseburgers aren't eating themselves. The only time I find you attractive anymore is when you cook for me, and I'll stop hitting you when your jaw stops moving. Go away, I'm trying to watch television. Go sleep in your own bed tonight, I don't want to have to talk to you in the morning. You're boring.

Women get old so fast. In the first few weeks you're happy to have one again...someone to put her arm around you at the bar, someone who needs you to protect them. They give you blow jobs. Hot, wet, sloppy blow jobs. They smile when you fuck them. They make you coffee and tread on eggshells around your explosive masculinity. They're happy to have you in their lives. They appreciate you.

Then the spontaneous blow jobs dry up. They don't have to court you anymore.
"Do you want some coffee, sweetie?" becomes: "I don't really want to fuck right now." An angel becomes a watchful eye in the clouds. You begin to feel uncomfortable, as if you can't be yourself around her. The sad fact is, you never were yourself around her. In those first weeks, you were your "new-girlfriend self." You were a sick parody; never scratching; never annoyed or crabby; always waiting to take a shit until you got back to your own house. You never took a stand in those wonderful "discussions" that new relationships stir up: politics, gender equity, TV shows, music...and even when she said something patently idiotic, you grinned and bore it.

In a couple months, that feeble-mindedness of hers grows under your skin like an abscess. A nagging, itching, vaguely painful sore. One day, you erupt. The two of you finally have a fight. You yell at her. You make it clear that you are not interested in tolerating her stupidity or retarded behavior, and everything changes. There are no more barriers. You've shown your true self. Now, when she gets out of line, you scream like a Berserker. Maybe you hit her. Maybe she calls the police. Maybe you give them three thousand dollars in cash to forget they ever saw the bruises. Maybe that's just me.

The time has come to break it off. They just aren't fun anymore. Cue the Dump. Now, to me, this is always the best part. Sure, I had fun with her; maybe she's really smart. Maybe she's a great fuck. It's nothing personal. I don't hate her; I just don't like her anymore. I shouldn't have to make excuses.

I need some time to figure things out.

I need to be alone.

I'm not ready for a relationship.

Yeah, right. Ha, ha. I'd be plenty ready for a relationship, if I could stand to be around her. What I need is a relationship with someone else. Breaking up is hard to do, but I enjoy it like a warm bath. I make them cry, and I try not to giggle. They sob and ask me what they did wrong. I say, "nothing," and they wonder what happened. They beg me to reconsider. I say, "I'm sorry, but that's the way things are." Their eyes flash with sudden realization. I'll never fuck them again. The sobbing continues. I laugh.

It's okay, you'll meet someone else.

Don't cry, you know I hate to see you cry.

Tough titty, bitch. Get your fat ass steppin'!

Shut up, or I'll hit you!

I've dumped so many girls, sometimes I get them confused. Which one threw the saucepan at me? Once, I endured a ten-hour marathon breakup scene with a girl, running though every phase of the grief cycle. First came shock: "What are you talking about? I...I don't know what to say." Then anger: broken windows, fisticuffs, and flying dishes. Denial followed: "I'm going to my room, and when I get back, everything's going to be okay." Wrong, bitch. Then grief: sobbing, sick, snotty tears and garbled apologies for anything she might have done wrong. "What did I do? Just tell me and I'll stop doing it!" I ate a sandwich on the couch as she continued babbling. I wasn't paying attention. I was thinking about the hot chick I was planning to ask out for coffee tomorrow. I pictured her riding my cock, smiling. My new ex moved on to acceptance at 7 o'clock in the morning, and I split. The hot chick was my new girlfriend inside a week.

It's much better to dump than be dumped. Of course, having a woman you actually enjoy being around is the most desirable situation, but I'm beginning to think that's only another myth perpetrated by the Hallmark people. Sooner or later, they all hit the road. Sometimes, in the first few weeks there comes that flash. A vision of her being dumped. You see in your mind's eye, her crying, her telling you how much she "really, really liked you," and how she doesn't understand why you're doing this. I saw this vision once, right in the middle of fucking the shit out of a new girlfriend. I snapped back to reality like a rubber band and started fingering her asshole. Get it while you can.

When they're gone, the pain comes. You spend your time in bars, staring down every attractive woman you see like a sick dog, wondering if she's your next victim. You sleep alone. You wonder if it was worth it. You wonder if you've made a mistake. Then, propped up by friends and family, you realize; you're free. You dance with every step, a sprite riding on fluttering wings of New Hope. The hope of the new vaginas to come. You look forward. You can see the future, of naked women, drunken fumblings, and well-thrown punches into pretty, made-up faces.

But maybe that's just me.

 

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