Red Flags (and the art of willful ignorance)Posted: July 6, 2014
You gave me so many red flags. You might as well have been shouting “Run!” You might as well have been yelling “Fire!” God knows everyone else was, am I right?
But running hurts, and I like fire.
The first time we met, we were meeting just for sex. You offered to take me to dinner on a downtown patio bar. I’m a sucker for a good patio.
Before we were supposed to meet, you asked me to come to your condo instead. This was a first meeting. You baited and switched. You didn’t care about whether I felt safe and comfortable, you just wanted to get me bent over the end of your bed as hastily as possible.
That very same day, you told me you had a submissive who fell so in love with you that you had to break up with her. You used the term “sub”, which for some reason has always rubbed me the wrong way. Perhaps because it reminds me of a sandwich. You told me you did not want to make me your “sub” because you didn’t take your subs out to dinner or shopping–“subs”, you said, “are things.”
You asked me to go on birth control because you wanted to be able to come in me. I told you safety was important. You said that we shouldn’t have to use protection because you get tested. I said I wasn’t sure. You said that if I wanted to go to orgies with you I should be on birth control, because no one uses condoms. I should check videos on the internet for confirmation of this fact.
Red. Fucking. Flag.
This is getting embarrassing, “Daddy.” Why wasn’t I running? Why didn’t I yell “fire!”?
There was the time I asked you to use a condom in my ass and you said you were hurt and made me feel guilty until I relented.
There was the time you told Yoga Girl there would be no more random women since you had her, The Girlfriend, and me, and then you immediately proceeded to set up three weekends of threesomes in a row, ALL WITH RANDOM WOMEN.
There was the way, when you told me you loved me, my first thought was “you are full of shit.”
There was the time you described your method of picking up women in bars–if one rejects you, you find a hotter one, and make sure the other girl sees you leaving together with your hand on her ass.
There was the time you told me Jailbait was just a squeeze toy that you play with for a bit and then throw away.
If only I knew I was the same. That less than a week later she’d take my place. That you would be giving me Yoga Girl’s spot in your life and edging her out, and then allowing Jailbait to do the same to me.
And that my tears at being replaced, mere days after you said “She is never going to take your place,” would lead you to call me psychotic.
There was no yelling, “Daddy.” There was no throwing of tantrums or stomping of feet or name-calling. There was a quiet retreat to the bathroom to mop up my tears. A graceful series of excuses made and hugs all around, when I realized the tears were going to continue to fall.
There was the way I wanted to run when you invited me back there in the first place, but I couldn’t, because I needed to know. I just needed to know. I needed to know if you were going to treat me the way I feared you would treat me. I needed to know if I was right about you. I needed to make sure that I did the right thing when I told you it was over.
Well, now I know. I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt.
When you showed me who you were, I should have believed you the first time. Lesson learned.
“Daddy”…you keep calling yourself that, but I don’t think it means what you think it means.