Once upon a time, a witty writer pondered his future over a plate of fabulous eggs Benedict. He had been madly in love with someone, Mr. Texas, for quite some time, even saying “yes” to a romantic marriage proposal months prior during a memorable 4th of July weekend.
Everything to his knowledge was perfect.
Then the truth started to trickle out, and the witty writer found himself falling less and less in love with his soon-to-be-husband. And so, he took off his engagement ring, slid it across the table, and told Mr. Texas the engagement was off—all before 9:30 in the morning.
That witty writer is me.
That’s right, I’m back in the saddle of singledom and ready for the next chapter of my life. Walking away from Mr. Texas was the best decision I ever made and there’s no way in hell I’m sticking around, living with him, while on the hunt for a new apartment. His ex reached out validating every little thought that festered in my relationship—the man even prostituted himself to his roommate (ew) to avoid paying rent. The man was unemployed for the longest time and couldn’t figure why it took him so long to find another job in computers. Come to find out, Mr. Texas was fired from Microsoft for drinking on the job—shit like that always follows you.
Not only is this man an alcoholic, but Mr. Texas obtains STDs on the regular. I was tested before separation and I’m in the clear. Thank you, baby Jesus! In a nutshell, I was about to marry a man I didn’t even fully know, and wouldn’t have been long before he actually cheated on me. For the record, if are in a monogamous relationship, sending pictures of your dick and commenting on photos, and sending private messages saying “I want you to cum down my throat” is still considered cheating.
No ifs, and’s, or but’s about it.
I moved out a week later leaving the apartment like he treated our one-sided relationship, messy. The hardest part about the break-up was leaving behind the 11-year-old pom/terrier mix with who we’ve mutually grown together—preferred me over him any day. And so, I have to ask, is it wrong to grieve and shed tears for a dog instead of the man itself? Is that pathetic? Possibly.
Since I found myself asking around and trying to locate a decently priced 1 bedroom, my only option was to move back in my folks, three months max, to figure out my next step. Well, my next step came quicker than anticipated and dropping $950 dollars to a lesbian who is looking to rent out two rooms in her house. Of course, I took the bigger of the two rooms which happen to be painted red [Just call me Mr. Grey.] and will be moving occupying the said red room starting the 1st of September.
What has me wide-eyed about the whole situation is I’m exactly where I was before Mr. Texas came into my life. Thirty, single, and renting out a room in a house from a much older gay man who was patiently waiting for his male order husband to arrive from the Philippines. My dumb-ass was certainly on a quest of severely need self-growth and fun, though Cupid had other plans.
Now, was this karma and life working together (after giving me a shitty relationship) and handing me a do-over? If so, thank you. The lesson of Mr. Texas has taught me I need to know my self-worth before ever venturing into another relationship, which could take many years to get to. [Currently enrolled in the Greyson Plan. Something my good friend did successfully for himself.] In turn, opportunities, such as this column, aren’t being passed up, and figure the gay community, digitally, needs a good laugh after the 2020 COVID debacle. We live in a society where Grindr is a door dashed man-menu and monogamy is on the verge of extinction, which makes me an endangered species. [Plant my face on national geographic magazine and someone get a hold of Sally Struthers.]
So, with all of that said, I plan to put myself out there again [staying unattached] and tell the truth about thirty-something life after love, the whole truth.