Breaking up is, hard to do.
I wish you’d die, oh yes that is true.
Don’t stay, cuz this is the end.
Instead of making up I’m happy we are breaking up again.

Ah, a love song I’ve sung so many times before. How do I stop loving thee? Let me count the ways.

I’m bored.

I’ve over you.

I was drunk when we met.

I fucked your sister.

And all of your friends.

In the ass.

Now that I’m sober, you’re annoying.

And weird looking.

I can get someone younger.

And thinner.

And hotter.

That swallows.

Should I stop now?

Is this getting painful?

Good, then go.

Seriously, thoughts like that might run through my head but, when it comes to breaking up with people, I’m a giant pussy. It’s why I spent most of my life trapped in two long term relationships where I was horribly dissatisfied. I learned my lesson after those two though. For a long while all of my relationships had to be “casual”, meaning—

‘You can pretend we’re together when we’re together but let’s neither of us forget that I am having sex with someone else tomorrow, or maybe later tonight, or in ten minutes. And when the day comes where you ask me if I’m ever going to commit I’ll reply, “Yes, eventually I will commit. Just not to you,” and you can hate me.’

Deal or no deal?
(They always made the deal)

But I had to go through a lot of trauma to reach this point. Like Darth Vader, I wasn’t always evil. Something had to be the catalyst to draw me to the dark side. The second involved a divorce, a tiny puppy, and a copious amount of tears (over the puppy mostly). But the first breakup scarred me beyond all recognition, and involved a Jew, a Negro, and the Sunshine State (stop me if you’ve heard this one before).

Anyway, I dated this girl Courtney starting when I was eighteen. It lasted almost five years and took me from being a teenager into the early stages of manhood. She was a cute little Jewish girl who introduced me to Yom Kippur, Rosh Hashanah, and anal sex. A cultural learning experience I’ll never forget. Yarmulke does not rhyme with Marmaduke, nor is that joke considered funny in the middle of prayers. Regardless of the Jewish faiths lack of humor, Court and I lasted almost five years. Overall, it was a pretty good relationship although it probably should have ended after two years. We were young, naïve, and I was horny (albeit for everyone except Courtney). Toward the end I was very dissatisfied with our relationship and wanted out, yet I was too scared to pull the trigger and kill it. I’m not sure if I was more afraid of hurting her feelings, being alone, or that moment when you find out your recent ex-girlfriend got fucked by the guy you both said you hated at your gym. Incidentally, options one and three both sucked.

But break up I did and, in an effort to make it stick, I did the most courageous thing I could think of to hold to my decision.

I moved 1,000 miles away.

Yep, that’s right. I packed my Maryland ass up and moved to Florida. I’d been in need of a major life change so cutting loose the five year gf, cutting the apron strings (I lived with my mom at the time), and cutting out the cold weather, all suited me quite well. So shortly after new years eve, in the midst of an East Coast ice storm, I packed up my Hyundai and out the door I went. I didn’t take this trip alone, however. One of my workout partners, Marco, had been in the midst of a dysfunctional relationship himself, and felt the move would serve the same purpose for him—freedom. Shortly before we left, his soon-to-be ex, Steph, thanked me for taking him away from her. Now that’s true love.

I move to FL with the intention of getting focused on my bodybuilding pursuits, enjoying the sunshine, and relaxing. What I actually end up doing is drinking almost every night, enjoying the humidity, and well, this: Working The Rail – My Life As A Male Stripper. After a scant three months, I was ready to go back to Maryland. During my time down South, Courtney had tried to contact me a number of ways including phone calls (which I ignored), letters (which I returned unopened), and messages passed through Marco (which I declined to hear). It was the only way for a clean break. I did get some news about her through friends back home, most notably Big Kev, my best friend, who saw her at the gym every day. I was surprised that he even spoke to her much because she never liked him. She wouldn’t admit it outright, but I think she gave him partial blame for my distance throughout our relationship. He was the person I went to the gym with, went out drinking with, and went on road trips with, all of which took me away from her. Kev was my bad influence, at least in her eyes. And she was right. Although what she didn’t know was that I didn’t require an outside influence. I was my own worst influence. Binge drinking and banging sluts wasn’t exactly something that had to be forced on me. I was happy to make those choices all on my lonesome. Regardless, she claimed to hate Big Kev and I never thought twice about it.

I move back to Maryland.

Not long after my return I see Courtney at the gym. Succumbing to past feelings, human weakness, and my penis, I suggest we sit down and talk. At dinner the next evening, we catch up, make awkward apologies, and dance around any serious issues. Until suddenly I burst out with, “You’re seeing someone aren’t you?” She looks at me, embarrassed, and says yes. Suddenly it hits me like a ton of bricks.

It’s Big Kev.

MOTHERFUCKER! First of all, my ex-girlfriend, who claimed I was the love of her life, not only runs out and fucks somebody mere moments after my departure (guys are supposed to do that. Girls are supposed to cry for like six straight months and hope we come back), but it’s my best friend. And he’s BLACK! She said she’d never have sex with a black guy. She said she hated Kev. She hates him and he’s black.

What the FUCK?

How could she? How could he? I wasn’t so much upset that my best friend was fucking my girlfriend, er, ex-girlfriend, with his giant Mandingo cock (Ouch), as I was that he hadn’t told me. So, in a passive aggressive attempt at making him feel bad for sticking his anaconda in my woman, I call him up and lay the guilt trip on him. “Um, man that’s fucked up. It’s not like I care that you’re dating her. I mean, I didn’t want her. It’s just that you didn’t tell me all those times I called.” He felt guilty and apologized. Hell, he even offered to stop seeing her. That pretty much sealed the deal and got me over being upset with him at all. The truth is, I don’t have that stupid rule that friends can’t date each others exes. As if people have some sort of proprietary claim over people we used to be in a relationship with. “I don’t want you two to be happy because I am unreasonably jealous and claim ownership of someone I am no longer involved with—for life.” How fucking retarded is that? (The answer, my readers, is “very retarded”) Actually, the person who was most upset over it was Marco. On my behalf, he developed a hatred for both Big Kev and Courtney. It was a cute display of loyalty, that he would be so vehement in his disdain for those that he perceived had wronged me. So, like any good friend, I paid him back in the only way I knew how—

I started dating Steph.

PROLOGUE
While I was in Florida, not only was Courtney pursuing Kev, but she’d also developed a close friendship with Marco’s ex, Steph as they all went to the same gym. Upon my return, I started working at that very gym and Steph came in every day. We’d chat a bit and eventually she asked me out. As I’d already forgiven Big Kev for dating Courtney, I figured I wasn’t being a hypocrite by going out with Steph, in spite of the fact that she was Marco’s ex. I even asked his permission (although I’d already been out with her and banged her a number of times). Not wanting to seem like a pussy, he had to say it was okay. The interesting thing about this isn’t so much that Steph had dated a friend mine, it’s that she’s the girl of the second break up story—my divorce. Oh what a tangled web of incestuous friendships we weave.