Mixed Messsages

Mixed Messages

I was at pool party last week, chatting with a few guys l hadn’t met before, and eventually our chatter led to our respective on again, off again love lives. Having abruptly ended one “affair” earlier this spring after three years and a dozen red flags that should have told me to pull the plug sooner, l felt like some wise sage as l heard them spin their respective, eerily familiar tales. Both were younger than me by a decade or more, but what the fuck, my lover, maybe the only true lover I’ve ever had in my shitty little life – and I call him that because he says he loves me as much as I love him – is almost thirty years my junior, so who’s counting?


The first was a horse vet, 51, who had frequent business with a pet vet who happened to own horses. Pet Vet liked playing footsie with Horse Vet as well as other parts of his anatomy but kept saying he was not into relationships. Yet Horse Vet kept hoping, wondering if all that foot play was more than just horse play. P.S.: Horse Vet had a string of young guys as playmates who he fell for but who as soon as they fell for someone closer to their age left him.


The other guy, 48, an upstate cop, was into older guys and had been having fabulous sex with a 61 year old teacher for over two years who never seemed to want to go beyond the bedroom with their relationship. Cop, however, somehow hoped things would change. Then last week Teacher, who had moved from Cleveland five years ago, suddenly announced with enthusiasm that he was returning to Cleveland where he felt “more comfortable.”


Mixed messages? Or do we only believe the message we want to hear and not the one that says the truth? That all these two guys wanted was as my old secretary who left her husband and grandchildren for our hospital CEO who did the same was “a romp in the hay with honey on it,” not Godiva chocolates on Valentine’s Day.


While I’ve toyed with the idea about having a mob buddy of mine break both his legs for using me, l had plenty of red flags that should have alerted me that the guy l saw for three years viewed me as his free standby rentboy, available when he wanted it, and had no intentions of running off to Vegas and getting married by an Elvis Presley imitator who happened to be a midget. Or even exchanging diamond studded platinum cock rings.


So what’s the lesson be learned from this trio of bad luck stories? Listen with your brain, not your dick or, worse, your heart. No matter how lovey-dovey a guy gets, if he implies or outright says he doesn’t want to get connected and nothing changes to the contrary, believe him and  instead as Joan Didion titled her novel about crazy sixties’ L.A.  “play it as it lays.”


Or as us brazen New Yorkers would put it, get the fuck out.

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