She called and called. I’ll admit that up until the third week, everything had been going swimmingly from a certain point of view. It was about ten days since the dominatrix incident and we’d talked a couple of times. I couldn’t change the number, since the phones were designated by the university. I’d explained the situation to my roommate and he understood that I was letting everything go to voicemail. Then, I did something stupid. I decided to be a standup guy and end this in person, so I called her and asked when it would be convenient for me to come over. She said she was busy all day, but that I should drop by around nine.
I went over, and we had what I considered to be a fairly earnest conversation, and we decided that we were going to try and work it out. She promised to stop doing things that I was uncomfortable with in the bedroom, and I promised to be slightly more open minded, as long as I was given some warning beforehand. I thought it was a good discussion, but that observation may have been skewed by the beers she kept pouring me. We had make up sex and a couple more drinks, and we went to sleep.
As you have by now surmised, I awoke sputtering and gasping in an attempt to get the water out of my nose. As we’ve already covered what I consider to be the most useful section of the story (How to extricate yourself from a futon and handcuffs without really trying) I’ll skip past that part to the moment when any pretense I had held of getting out of this clusterfuck of a relationship without snapping came about. It was about noon on Saturday when I went to Conner’s.
“Conner, we need to talk,” I said.
“Yes, we do.”
“I’m going to ask you some questions. I need answers, and I want you to tell me everything you know. First of all, I’m going to need to see those scars.”
He removed the bandages and the scars were definitely of the “across the road” variety. What’s more, they were all around his wrists.
“Did you try to kill yourself Conner?” He started to cry, and admitted that he did not.
“Did you sleep with her?” nope. That was not what had happened. When Conner was checked into the hospital it was for the cuts on his wrists from the cuffs. He had gotten drunk and gone over to her apartment to visit, and while he was there he had broken down crying. He had been really miserable and he had complained that all he wanted was to be her boyfriend. She had told him that she saw threw that and knew that he only wanted the sex. She told him that he had to beg for it and maybe he’d get fucked. So she started to disrobe and told him to lie on the bed. He got fucked alright. He tried to free himself for three hours. He called for help and explained that he had gotten himself locked up and lost the key. He didn’t want to make her angry.
“Conner, did she ever get raped by the hockey team when you were in high school?” nope. “Was she ever a dominatrix?” he didn’t know. “Are the rumours about threesomes true?” yes. “Conner, is there anything else I should know?”
This was the shocker. We had only been going out for a month and a half, and she had slept with 7 different people behind my back, 4 of them female and there had been several permutations of threesomes between three or four of these people. None of them were Conner. She had made him promise not to tell anyone by promising him sex if he was good. Conner was never going to collect, but he was like a three year old playing peek-a-boo. He had been falling for the same trick for about 6 years. I’d only been in this little world for a month and a half, and I wanted out.
NFL teams may soon be lining up to bid on a man who can destroy defensive lines as thoroughly as he destroyed his own child's balls.
One roommate's art-fueled movement goes terribly wrong.
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