Tuesday, April 10, 2007
The end of laughter and soft lies
I couldn't write about it at the time, but there is a story to The Demise of Scott. It's not pretty. It's even worse because it happened the same night as The Italian. Which is why it was deemed officially- The Second Worse Night of My Life.
I left The Italian in a drunk haze in Tribeca that night. We'd had 2 bottles of wine and I should have gone home and crashed. But Scott and I had planned to meet up and after what I had just gone through with The Italian, I ached for Scott, for his arms and his lips and his ability to make me forget that there is anyone else in the world but the 2 of us.
I directed the cab to the fastest route to meet Scott at the subway station near his work. I was late and I was feeling terrible about it. The subway was all sorts of fucked up and traffic was horribly backed up on the Queensborough bridge so that by the time I finally got to him, we agreed to just cab it back to his place. Totally unrelated, but as I got out of the cab, one of my 4 inch heels caught in a pothole and I totally wiped out on the sidewalk. Hard enough that I had bruises, in a lot of places. It was hot.
We got inside his house and immediately jumped in the shower, where things definitely got hot. Very, very hot. We moved to the bedroom. It was the standard earth-shaking sex that it always is, when he stood up to switch it up a bit and while standing up- reached over and PICKED UP HIS PHONE TO CHECK HIS MISSED CALLS. I'm not even kidding.
I was FURIOUS. The last time I had been at his house, he'd ignored me for the first hour that I was there while he texted back and forth with someone. I hadn't seen him in A MONTH! So, to again come in second to his fucking phone, when I needed his undivided attention more than anything, was unbearable. He left the room for a second to do something, and by the time he came back, I was under the covers facing the wall. I would have gone home, but it would have taken hours at that time of the night.
He came over and put his hand on me, saying he knew I was mad, etc, etc when his phone beeped that he had a voice message. He left the bed to pick it up and then went into the living room and proceeded to talk for about 45 minutes. The first offense I could have worked through, but the second was unforgivable.
I didn't let him touch me the rest of the night. We never talked about it and when I left the next morning, no words were spoken.
When I got to work, I found that he had deleted me as a 'friend' on Myspace. While I was at his house, in his bed. Not unlike how the last time I stayed the night, I found a blog post the next morning that he wrote while I was at his house, asleep in his bed, about a girl, a girl that definitely wasn't me.
I re-read the the entire last year of my blog, trying to find absolution in our demise. It was frightening for me to read how from the very beginning, he had let me know exactly how badly he was going to treat me. He repeatedly made plans that he didn't follow through on, he told me stories of friends getting shot, only to have pictures of him and his ex show up on his myspace page at a party that he had gone to that night. He never introduced me to friends, he never met any of mine. Although he claimed differently, he never saw me as more than a vehicle for sex. For an entire year, he consistently made me feel like shit.
And I put up with it. For good sex. For validation. And in the hopes that someday I would be enough, never really realizing that the whole time, I was more than enough, and that it was him that wasn't.
Part of me feels like an enormous weight has been lifted from my shoulders. I will never again have to suffer through another day of wondering if he will do what he says he's going to do. He can't ever disappoint me again. He can't ever hurt me again. He can't ever lie to me again.
And another part of me just feels empty. He told me once how a girl had told him that he was a worthless excuse of a human being. I should have known then, that one day, I would want to scream these exact same words at him.
I should have run.
Today's Title from: The End by The Doors
I left The Italian in a drunk haze in Tribeca that night. We'd had 2 bottles of wine and I should have gone home and crashed. But Scott and I had planned to meet up and after what I had just gone through with The Italian, I ached for Scott, for his arms and his lips and his ability to make me forget that there is anyone else in the world but the 2 of us.
I directed the cab to the fastest route to meet Scott at the subway station near his work. I was late and I was feeling terrible about it. The subway was all sorts of fucked up and traffic was horribly backed up on the Queensborough bridge so that by the time I finally got to him, we agreed to just cab it back to his place. Totally unrelated, but as I got out of the cab, one of my 4 inch heels caught in a pothole and I totally wiped out on the sidewalk. Hard enough that I had bruises, in a lot of places. It was hot.
We got inside his house and immediately jumped in the shower, where things definitely got hot. Very, very hot. We moved to the bedroom. It was the standard earth-shaking sex that it always is, when he stood up to switch it up a bit and while standing up- reached over and PICKED UP HIS PHONE TO CHECK HIS MISSED CALLS. I'm not even kidding.
I was FURIOUS. The last time I had been at his house, he'd ignored me for the first hour that I was there while he texted back and forth with someone. I hadn't seen him in A MONTH! So, to again come in second to his fucking phone, when I needed his undivided attention more than anything, was unbearable. He left the room for a second to do something, and by the time he came back, I was under the covers facing the wall. I would have gone home, but it would have taken hours at that time of the night.
He came over and put his hand on me, saying he knew I was mad, etc, etc when his phone beeped that he had a voice message. He left the bed to pick it up and then went into the living room and proceeded to talk for about 45 minutes. The first offense I could have worked through, but the second was unforgivable.
I didn't let him touch me the rest of the night. We never talked about it and when I left the next morning, no words were spoken.
When I got to work, I found that he had deleted me as a 'friend' on Myspace. While I was at his house, in his bed. Not unlike how the last time I stayed the night, I found a blog post the next morning that he wrote while I was at his house, asleep in his bed, about a girl, a girl that definitely wasn't me.
I re-read the the entire last year of my blog, trying to find absolution in our demise. It was frightening for me to read how from the very beginning, he had let me know exactly how badly he was going to treat me. He repeatedly made plans that he didn't follow through on, he told me stories of friends getting shot, only to have pictures of him and his ex show up on his myspace page at a party that he had gone to that night. He never introduced me to friends, he never met any of mine. Although he claimed differently, he never saw me as more than a vehicle for sex. For an entire year, he consistently made me feel like shit.
And I put up with it. For good sex. For validation. And in the hopes that someday I would be enough, never really realizing that the whole time, I was more than enough, and that it was him that wasn't.
Part of me feels like an enormous weight has been lifted from my shoulders. I will never again have to suffer through another day of wondering if he will do what he says he's going to do. He can't ever disappoint me again. He can't ever hurt me again. He can't ever lie to me again.
And another part of me just feels empty. He told me once how a girl had told him that he was a worthless excuse of a human being. I should have known then, that one day, I would want to scream these exact same words at him.
I should have run.
Today's Title from: The End by The Doors
Labels: Scott
