The Rat Bastard – The Final Chapter
Soon after our next to the last breakup I moved in with my last roommate, a woman I will refer to as The Train Wreck. Before we were going to move in together she insisted on meeting me for drinks at Baby A’s because she had something to tell me. By that time, Rat and I hadn’t been broken up for very long, and I think this was our second breakup. We maintained a friendship. Maybe you can guess what Train just had to tell me before I moved in with her, but I did not see this coming. She told me that she wanted me to know that during our last breakup, she and Rat had slept together.
Since we were broken up at the time, he was perfectly free to have sex with whomever he wanted, and since it was a one time thing I wondered why Train didn’t just keep this news to herself. Just why was a purging of her conscience necessary? And the truth is that it wasn’t. This woman wanted to hurt me. And she was successful on that score.
I did get upset. Besides the obvious, I got upset that when we had gotten back together after that breakup, I had questioned him, in the interest of my sexual health, about whether or not he had had sex with someone while we were broken up. He told me he hadn’t, and when I called him from my cell phone at Baby A’s to chew his ass out, he insisted that the only reason that he never mentioned it was because it would have upset me for no reason. Call me cynical, but I think the reason he failed to mention it was because he didn’t want to wear condoms again for the next six months. The truth is that if he had just been upfront with me in the first place I wouldn’t have been that upset. Would I have been a teensy bit jealous? Yeah. That’s normal. But I would have gotten over it.
And even after this fiasco/soap opera scene, Rat and I did get back together one last time. It didn’t last long. Maybe two months. And during that time, he got down on bended knee and asked me to marry him. There was no ring. I didn’t need or want one, but Rat insisted that I would have one. Even right after this happened, in my state of happiness at the prospect of spending the rest of my life with the Rat Bastard I loved, I told The Train Wreck that he would never marry me. I’m psychic like that.
The end came like this. The Rat Bastard was over at Train’s and my place for an evening meal. Afterward we were sitting in the courtyard together, enjoying the autumn weather at sunset. I was sipping on a glass of white wine. He said he had something to tell me. I wondered if it was along the lines of the time that he admitted to having told me some whopper lies when we first got together. Lies like the one about the non-existent older brother who died in Vietnam or the time he spent playing minor league baseball were what I was expecting.
What he had to tell me was that he would still marry me and that he loved me, but that he was pretty sure now that he was gay. Lately, he felt almost exclusively sexually attracted to men. He had to have sex with another man. He had to have the freedom to do that. So, if I would just look the other way, he promised he would never have sex with another woman. Only men.
In truth, this should not have shocked me. Our sex life had been lacking one thing for me recently: frequency. I had bitched about it and bitched about it. I could have done it every day. More often than not, he had an excuse for why he couldn’t. He was tired. The headache cliché for us was when he started getting these whopper headaches whenever he came. That dried us up for awhile, as did the stroke he thought he nearly had once while we were fucking.
If he was exclusively sexually attracted to men, I questioned him, then just how did he manage what must have been the chore of having sex with me? Did he have to close his eyes and pretend I was someone else? He admitted to something along those lines and then when I continued to dig for more information, he said, “Why are you torturing yourself?” It was a good point. I gotta wonder. After all, the issue was his. It wasn’t mine. My only crime in this scenario was being a woman, something that in and of itself makes me desirable to approximately 90% of the male population. But to me there was something particularly hurtful about the idea of him having to imagine someone else in order to perform. To this day, I’ve never had to imagine that I was having sex with anyone other than the person with whom I was actually having sex.
I told him to get out. So, he left. He came back five minutes later because he left his wallet inside the house. Even losing the love of your life becomes a comical moment. On this week’s episode of, “Here’s Lucy,” Lucy breaks up with her gay boyfriend after he asks her to look the other way while he has anonymous public restroom sex with strangers. I didn’t say a word to him. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I never did. I sipped my white wine and read my book. Then I slipped quietly back into the house and went to sleep. A week later he was sleeping with the same ex girlfriend whose garage he had once lived in.