I’ve been hoodwinked. Run amok. Bamboozled.
I met my soon-to-be-ex boyfriend last year, he was at a friend’s picnic. My friend didn’t invite him, he just kinda straggled over from someone else’s and party and became the life of ours. This Irish stallion with close-cropped dirty red hair, confident swagger and a thick New England accent had me from the words ‘eh, cooom here.’
Think a buff Ryan Gosling with Seth Rogen’s sense of humor.
I mention a buff Ryan Gosling because I think he kinda reminded me of him, as he told his life stories, sweat beading on his bulging, freckled muscles. He dropped dirty jokes softened by a radiant grin.
I took the bait.
He’s the one night stand who never obeyed the a.m. departure.
The magic is gone. That redhead tramp I brought home from the park that day is a notorious liar, he lies about things big and small and just goddamn outrageous and he does it so well that others believe him.
The most outrageous lie is his insistence that he’s a black guy.
His name is Leopold. For real, like in real life that’s his fucking name. Now I have black friends, which may seem like the most racist shit ever to divulge, but they are really my friends, and they swear he’s not black. They should know, right? Or, as one of my best friends determined, ‘I don’t think a Black mother would name her son Leopold. Leo, or Leonard, yeah, but not Leopold. Definitely not L-e-o-p-o-l-d.”
Why? I ask. “Because the other black kids would kick his ass,” she says with a glare that tells me she knows her shit.
That was in the beginning.
Now, when we’re in mixed company, he firmly establishes his blackness, bonding with my black friends over music, soul food and African American history. And those same Black friends call him Leo now, and despite not having a shred of black DNA, they have adopted his bullshit. They like him, hang out with him when I’m not around. Like I said, he’s the life of the party.
He’s a dead man in the bedroom, though. The sex is awful, and amounts to lazy, limp, tired, drunken romps that end before they really begin. And he had the audacity to cheat, and send sexy texts about his rock-solid performance to this random chick. I was this/close to texting to her: Don’t You Believe It Girlfriend! I threw away his phone instead.
The random chick must have discovered his awful performance on her own.
Now he comes here after work and crashes on my couch like a dirty puppy that’s been frolicking in other people’s yards all day. And he smells the part. I want to break up with him. I fantasize of him storming out, proclaiming to never come back again—and staying true to his word.
So I pick a fight, at least I try to: Me: “How are you black, exactly?” Him: “I just am.”
Him: “How are we still together after all this time?” Me: “We just are.”
--Claire, the Lovely Intern, 23, "prefers to read the musings of others and only blogs to vent."
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