Monday, September 20, 2010

Chump Change

From my point of view, the first chink in my relationship with Conspiracy Theory appeared the first time we made love, when he tricked me into his bed. But from his perspective, the first chink in our relationship appeared months later, when, in his words, I "tried to chump him."

He was right. I did try to chump him.

But my intentions were pure. Or as pure as they can be when they are driven by fear.

You see, I was about one year into my relationship with Dollar, the abusive psychic. She had recently eloped. I sent her off to her new life in New Jersey with a hug, a greeting card and a small amount of cash. It was the closest thing she had to a bridal shower, because she literally ran away from home without her family's blessing.

As soon as she got married, her demands for money increased exponentially. Every time the phone rang, she was on the other end, asking for $200 or $300 or whatever amount she claimed was required to wash away whatever new affliction she claimed I was cursed with.

I seethed with anger. It wasn't lost on me that she was asking for more and more money, and I blamed her new husband. He must be putting her up to it.

Then, I would push those thoughts aside. She was my friend. Surely she couldn't be ripping me off. And what would happen if I didn't do as she asked? She would speak in this dire, spooky voice about how bad my life would be if the Spirits didn't get what they needed. Consequently, I would give her whatever money I had or take out a credit-card cash advance.

She wanted $500. I didn't have it, and I couldn't charge it. I can't remember what the curse was this particular time. On one occasion, the curse was that my mother would die. Another time, my darling four-year-old foster niece was in jeopardy.

"Your boyfriend has the money. Ask him for it."

Afraid of whatever dark dilemma she prophesied, I did.

Conspiracy didn't cuss me out. But he didn't give me $500, either.

I lied to him regarding what it was for, something Dollar probably coached me on beforehand.

Conspiracy wasn't having it. He was firm in his no, and he didn't make a big scene about it. But now he secretly saw me as a gold-digging predator, the same way that I secretly saw him as a liar I couldn't completely trust.

Conspiracy Diaries Part 7 of 25 (1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25)
Conspiracy Lessons Learned 1-4 (1 2 3 4)


Please "Like" Don't Be a Slut on Facebook or follow on Twitter.

Saturday, September 18, 2010

The Good, The Bad and the Ennui

Conspiracy Theory was by no means rich, but he's the closest thing I've ever had to a sugar daddy. And I always really wanted a sugar daddy.

Still do.

At least in theory.

Conspiracy was sweet to me in many ways. During final exams, when I was in the computer room at 3 a.m., sweating it out for a paper that was due at 8 a.m., suddenly he'd appear out of nowhere, swaggering into the room with a big grin and an arm full of hot chocolate and sandwiches.

He also gave me the most beautiful coat I've ever owned. The coat was a soft, brown-plaid wool with a big belt and the coolest coral-colored buttons I'd ever seen. I loved that coat. (Not everyone did. My brother called it "the ugliest coat I've ever seen, but you wear it with such panache.")

My fabulous coat (since when is my brother a fashion expert?) was one of many gifts of clothing from Conspiracy. You see, one of the local hustlers found out that Conspiracy had a new lady friend, and he'd periodically knock on the door with hot clothes at super-discount prices.

The apartment was another way Conspiracy showed his devotion to me. It was a two-bedroom apartment, and I had my own room. I paid Conspiracy rent money, but it was not a 50-50 roommate split. He subsidized my existence, in more ways than one. Moving me in caused a bit of family friction, because he had initially promised the extra room to one of his sons, then retracted the offer because he preferred the thought of living with me.

I don't think he could help it. I think he was totally smitten.

He was extremely protective of me. The apartment was around the corner from the New Haven YMCA, which at the time was Homeless and Ne'er-do-Well Central. One of the hang-out-at-the-Y guys scared me. He was short and brown-skinned with an unkempt afro and a thin, tight slash of a mouth that made him look like a demented Muppet. When I would walk by on my way to and from class, he would mutter threats and eye me like easy prey. I told Conspiracy, and he leaped into action. I don't know exactly what type of bodily harm he threatened, but I never, ever had a problem with any of the guys at the Y ever again.

Once, I slipped in the bathtub with a loud thud, and Conspiracy was in the room faster than lightning to make sure I was OK.

He really did care about me, and I also cared about him.

But that didn't stop our relationship from going from good to bad, and plain old ennui drove a lot of that deterioration. Conspiracy was hip and young for a 50-something, but he was still a 50-something. I was a 20-something, and it was inevitable that boredom would set in.

Conspiracy Diaries Part 6 of 25 (1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25)
Conspiracy Lessons Learned 1-4 (1 2 3 4)


Please "Like" Don't Be a Slut on Facebook or follow on Twitter.

Sunday, September 12, 2010

Baltimore and the Big O

I never found Conspiracy Theory all that attractive. We were roughly the same height, and when I wore heels, I was taller. He was so slim I could never squeeze my big-boned self into his jackets or sweaters, let alone his pants. And then there was the 32-year age difference. Oh yeah, that.

But despite the fact that Conspiracy never made me swoon over how fine he was, he did hold the distinction of being the first man to make me come.

It happened en route to South Carolina, where my mom and stepfather lived. I was going to visit them for the holidays, and Conspiracy offered to help me drive.

It was an interesting trip.

For one thing, I got to meet Conspiracy's elderly aunt, who lived in Baltimore. Talk about bleak. Baltimore looked even worse than New Haven and Detroit. Chinese takeouts with four-inch-thick bulletproof glass and crumbling neighborhoods filled with ladies like his aunt who were too old to leave.

If Aunt Conspiracy was shocked to see her nephew with a girl young enough to be his daughter, she didn't let on. What she couldn't hide was her sorrow at how he had turned out. She revealed it in the way she caressed an old picture of a young Conspiracy wearing an Air Force uniform. As if that picture were her real nephew, and she was still mourning his long-ago death at the hand of the middle-aged revolutionary he'd become instead.

Further south on our trip, Conspiracy and I stopped at a Waffle House in North Carolina, near where he grew up. We walked past a table of white men, and the racial hatred was so thick, it hung in the air.

I'd only experienced this kind of racism once before, when I was in high school. My dad was driving me to a gifted and talented summer camp in western Michigan, and he decided – of all places in the universe to stop – at a McDonald's in Jackson, Michigan. Home of the Jackson state prison, primarily populated with black men from Detroit. As we got our burgers and fries, the white townspeople grew dead silent and glared at us with out-and-out hatred.

And now racial hatred was back in the air, in a different small town, in a different state, with a different group of white people. Conspiracy noticed me noticing the tension and acknowledged that yes, he'd grown up here in Klan country. And he wasn't about to take any sh*t. The angry white men could see it in the way he walked with his head held high, his back straight and his stony face daring them to f*ck with him.

But the most memorable moment of the trip took place in a high-rise hotel room in some anonymous city along the I-95 freeway. It was daytime. The long, striped curtains were drawn, and we were on the bed making love. Suddenly, the room started spinning and I felt like I was floating on air, high above the bed and the baby-blue hotel-room carpet. It was my first orgasm, and it was magical.

Conspiracy Diaries Part 5 of 25 (1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25)
Conspiracy Lessons Learned 1-4 (1 2 3 4)


Please "Like" Don't Be a Slut on Facebook or follow on Twitter.