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Sunday, July 23, 2006 

Six Tylenol Will Kill You

We were sitting on the couch before we went out just talking. Somehow he mentioned to me that when it comes to suicide, more Europeans do it with Tylenol. Apparently six to seven Tylenol at a time can kill you. I'm not sure why he told me that. Maybe he thought the information would come in handy by the time he left my house the next morning.

Jose was on time to my house. He let me know he wanted to see the sites in Lansing before we played golf. It was fun. I took him to the Capitol and to the Riverwalk downtown. We took pictures. It was very touristy. From the Capitol we got some lunch and then took a walk on MSU's campus. While we were walking, we stumbled upon a bride having her pictures taken on campus. By what we could tell, the wedding was supposed to take place in a couple hours. Jose told me some time ago that he had a son, and I'm not sure what prompted me to do so, but I asked him if he was married. "Yes." He said. Ok. For how long? "Nine years." Ok. I was really confused. Why was he here with me if he was married? I tried not to think about it too much. Maybe it was a cultural thing. Jose is from Mexico. Maybe men and women are allowed to have close relationships when they're married. Maybe I was looking for something that wasn't there. I mean, we were just going to play golf and then go to dinner. Maybe all along he thought he was just doing me a favor. I kept the fact that he was married in the back of my mind and tried to be cool. If nothing else, I could have a friend who's married (for a long time at that) and maybe he could be a good resource when I have questions about men and relationships.

We finally made it to the golf course. He was a wonderful instructor. And, I did better than I expected on my first time out. I hit some pretty nice shots and everytime I hit a good one I was given a hug. It made me uncomfortable at first, but maybe he was just being friendly. I blamed everything on cultural differences. I didn't want to appear to be uncomfortable with something that was probably just innocent. However, on a different note, on the 18th hole I pitched a shot in and ALMOST got it into the hole! We were so excited! It basically hit the lip of the hole and rolled off. It was a fantastic way to end a day of golf.

When we got back to The Dungeon I asked him about dinner. I already had a place in mind and I thought we would go after putting our clubs away and such. Well he asked to use my shower. I didn't mind. That's what my guest shower is for. I was, however, interested in the fact that he brought along things to take a shower with as well as an extra change of clothes. However, we were a bit sticky after golf. Personally I wouldn't have minded going to dinner in our condition. We weren't gross, and we were still dressed nice. However, I wanted to make sure my guest was comfortable so he took a shower and I did likewise.

We had a very nice dinner. I knew this was the time to ask him about his wife. We ordered appetizers and his direct statement to me was, "We'll talk about it later." Well apparently later meant after we ordered a bottle of wine and were halfway through it. He told me his sad sad story. About how he loved his wife but she never had sex with him. About how he loved his wife but she was a bourgeoisie and he really couldn't give her everything he wanted. How he loved his wife so much that he had two children with her simply because that's what she wanted. How he cheated on her with 2 different people. And he did it because it helped keep their marriage together. He had the sex as a physical thing. As a release.

I told him he was selfish and very lucky. I told him he was lucky to find a mistress who was as unattached to him as he was to her. I told him he was selfish. That he would pull someone into a relationship with him when he knew from the start that there would be no emotional attachment. I asked a lot of questions. Not because I cared. I had already written him off. I wanted to know why a man would stray.

By now it's 11:30. We're in my kitchen. He corners me and smells me. I know I smell good. I always smell good. I told him what he was smelling was money (I tend to wear very expensive perfume). He tried to convince me it was more than that. He kept smelling me. He tried to kiss me. I wouldn't let him. I kept thinking about the Bible the whole time. How it was just as wrong for him to smell me as it was for him to fuck me. I cried. I cried before, during, and after. He rubbed my back. Telling me that it was ok. "It's not your fault. You're the victim." I left and locked myself in my bedroom and went to sleep.

Before he left the next morning he knocked on my bedroom door. He wanted to say goodbye. He gave me a hug. "Why won't you look at me," he asked me. "Because I'm ashamed." There wasn't any argument he could make with that, so he left. But not before telling me, "We'll talk about this later."

Oh, he made you feel so bad. Please don't see him again. *sad for you*

let's track him down and cut off his balls!!! bastardo!!!! (that's in spanish! :-P)

nobody makes mamma kiki cry!!

I should kick this guys ass. Find a better man. You are better off alone than dealing with that shit.

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About me

  • I'm young, single, got a great ass, a serial dater, a sometimes drunk, addicted to the gym, liable to make fat girls cry, have a mild ED, think Notre Dame is the greatest college and Texas is the greatest state. Currently at a standstill since moving from Detroit Area, Michigan (tons of yuppies) to Mason, MI (noted KKK presence). Come be a part of my random, shocking, and exciting world.
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