The next morning we both woke up at around 11am, to the sound of Stacy’s cell going off. I felt like I’d just ran a gauntlet and vowed to never humiliate myself like that just to get laid ever again. I valued my dignity more than that, I said!
In the history of people being completely wrong, I ranked at number three or four with that statement.
Over the next few weeks, Stacy and I got along famously. She kept the Rocky chatter to a minimum and for a brief moment, our relationship seemed fairly normal. I had come up with a boatload of excuses to get me out of having to go to her Saturday night cavalcade of pain. I avoided her subculture and she didn’t seem to mind too much. It only lasted so long, though, and I noticed several peculiar habits:
Her cell phone was always ringing and it was always another guy. She never did anything with me on Wednesday, Thursday or Sunday nights.
I never said anything, mostly because I wasn’t getting the “she’s cheating on me” vibe at all from her. Stacy was easygoing, fun-loving, and in her non-Rocky moments, she was considerably less fucked up, crazy and weird than the other girls I’d dated in college and I really liked her. She was sweet. Of course, it all came crashing down one Saturday night when I couldn’t think of any more excuses to get out of going to Rocky Horror. Stacy had been pressuring me to come to the show again, telling me she had expanded her role, yadda yadda. I decided to put my game face on and sit through it again.
We drove separately; she had to show up an hour beforehand and hung out with her friends before the show started anyway. I came at around 11:15, for lack of anything better to do, and I wanted to talk to Stacy about post-show plans. I figured I'd try and get out of dinner with the "crew" by planning something romantic back at my place. Upon arriving at the theater, one of the cast members smoking out front recognized me.
“Hey, Fresh Meat is here!”
“What? Are you talking to me?”
“You’re Stacy’s new favorite! Fresh Meat!”
What the fuck?
“Stacy’s new favorite?”
“Yeah, her new favorite guy. The other guys are totally jealous of you, man.”
I assumed “favorite guy” was some kind of weird slang for ‘boyfriend” or something.
This assumption rocketed me to #2 on the list of people who are completely wrong.
“So where’s she at?”
“Backstage, but I think she’s with Michael right now, so…”
He trailed off as I walked into the theater and went backstage. Some of the girls were out in the front and I could swear they snickered as I walked past. I climbed up the steps and went behind the screen. There was Stacy, hugging “Brad”, also known as Michael, who was holding a picture frame.
Simply put, if I had Johnny Manziel’s physical gifts, you better believe I would be there in the Weight Room, getting to bed early, doing whatever I had to do to be the best possible athlete I could be. I wouldn't be posting on social media about sucking titties. I wouldn't even look at a titty, buddy. I'd look at a titty and see two big footballs.
A real friend doesn't move until the middle of August, ensuring temperatures in the 90s and a humidity that turns boxers into moist balls of ruined cotton.
Expendable? You must be joking.
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