you don't know me

Post-coitus and searching for something to say that wouldn't incite conversations regarding his performance, I stumbled. I was thinking,"Get dressed and go home", but instead I told him that our mutual friend had asked me to tell him hello for her. He was feeling pretty good about himself, I guess, or is so insecure that he requires constant validation, so he asked if I told our friend that he was good in bed. A beat, then I quietly replied, "No." And when I say no, I mean, "No, why would I tell her that when you are only good for once a night and even that, I'm realizing, is woefully inadequate?" But I said no without explanation and I hoped he wouldn't ask any more questions and just get dressed and leave so I could masturbate. I don't get enough credit for my remarkable restraint.

Hoping in vain that it would suffice, instead I simply said, "No." He looked to me for elucidation, so I continued, "I don't discuss details of my sex life with her." I write about it on my blog so that total strangers, casual acquaintances and my dear friends can read sad stories about my interactions with social retards, cads, Lotharios and lamefucks.

He just left and I'm angry with myself. He thinks himself witty, urbane and suave. Not so much. I think he lacks nuance the way Hitler lacked compassion, but maybe it's just me. The last time he was over, he spilled red wine all over my sheets because he thought it would be sexy to lap it up out of an orifice or two. (Mine, not his.) I wouldn't have minded his spilling red wine on my 350-thread count Egyptian cotton duvet cover, had it been sexy. But it wasn't. It was awkward and clumsy and the antithesis of sexy. Tonight, he spilled champagne everywhere. Again, not sexy and yet again I showed remarkable restraint. I wanted to hit him upside the head with the champagne bottle, but I was afraid of spilling more champagne. If it had been an empty bottle, I would be calling Erin or Liz right about now to help move the body. But I was sure that I'd need every drop of champagne tonight, so he still walks the earth, blissfully ignorant of how close he came to his demise. I'm angry because I knew I wouldn't be sated, but there I was giving him yet another chance. Hope does spring eternal, but I think this particular well has gone dry.

I didn't always feel this way. Maybe he always came up short in bed, but for whatever reason, I either deluded myself or just let it go. Maybe I'm just bored. Six or seven years of dating someone or whatever the fuck it is we've been doing can do that. Or maybe there really is something about musicians. Am I guilty of forgiving so much of what he does (or doesn't do) offstage because of all that he is onstage? Maybe. Did I mention I don't like his music? Of his many albums, I really only like one song and that I attribute to the fact that it was a Burt Bacharach cover. I love Burt Bacharach.

Lamefuck's latest album has garnered him some of the best reviews of his career. The central theme of the album is basically, "You don't know me." I'm not normally a gambling kind of gal, but I bet he thinks he knows me.