This getting older crap sucks ass. A couple days ago, I found out yet another man I once loved (OK, once fucked) died. This brings my total dead ex-boyfriend count up to three—and those are just the ones I know of.
The first one to die was Dave Insurgent (n饠Rubenstein). He was the singer of one of the seminal N.Y.C. hardcore bands, Reagan Youth. I went to see the band obsessively and had a crush on him for years before we finally hooked up. Our little romance only lasted for a couple weeks, but he was a sweet guy and I was always happy to run into him. Somewhere along the line Dave started doing a lot of dope and ended up OD'ing.
The next to go was Lou. Lou and I were forced to share an office at the stoner mag High Times. He was a lot older than me, and I thought he was the smartest man I'd ever known; he heartily agreed with this sentiment, and I eventually won his heart. For a while, anyway—we were together for six years. I thought we were going to get married and live happily ever after. He had a different plan involving the chick in the next office. About a year post-split, he developed brain cancer, and he died a year or so after that. Even though I was still really pissed off at him for breaking my little heart, I also still loved him and wanted to give him a chance to apologize for being such a shit. We hung out a few gut-wrenching times and made our peace. Since he was the curmudgeonly type, I never got a full-on apology out of him, but we did achieve that elusive closure thing.
The latest fatality is a guy I spent a very torrid weekend with many years ago. Bobby was the lead singer in a band called Genocide (OK, I was a bit of a groupie as a teen) and was about the sexiest thing I'd ever seen. He had a bagful of very nasty lingerie for me to wear, and did me slow and dirty right on top of his KISS pinball machine (I was also a lot skinnier then). When Bobby drove me home, Mom took one look at my very low-cut top and stormed off to the kitchen. I went into the bathroom and noticed that my chest and neck were covered in black, blue, and green hickeys. As Bobby and I sat demurely in the living room of my parents' home, my mother came in and dropped a big plate of bologna sandwiches on the table in front of us. "Give these to your friend," she hissed. "He looks hungry." Gulp.
The last time I heard about Bobby was a couple years ago—he'd become a crack dealer. I don't know how Bobby died, but I'm guessing it wasn't pretty.
There was something special about each of these guys, and I hope they're at peace. Having known them intimately (albeit long ago and in some cases sluttishly briefly), it's sad and freaky to realize they're gone forever. Luckily there's always mail from my dear, sweet readers to cheer me up. . . .
I bet you don't have any male friends who truly respect you. You probably think they do and they probably put up a good front. Undoubtedly you tell each of them the same bullshit story that it was they whom you cited in a recent column as the sensitive, knowledgeable, big-dicked, g-spot cartographic, clitoral-reiki- mastering Ken doll. The truth is light years from there, Miss Judy. Fact is you don't give a rat's ass about men. You continuously slam men by only printing immature men's quandaries, while you greedily save the complex issues for the women's letters. I wouldn't put it past you to switch the sex just to serve your wicked intentions. I think you practice Black Magic.
You are so much more gentle and sweet when you address women. You are the reason why the word misogyny is even needed in the dictionary.
By the way, is there a pink hotel somewhere that sends women masseuses up to ask no questions and fuck your brains out for free. You are such an ungrateful bitch.
Hmm. Now that my ex body count is up to three, maybe there is something to your accusations of "Black Magic," Brown James.
Get out your pent-up frustrations. Write Dategirl at email@example.com or c/o Seattle Weekly, 1008 Western, Ste. 300, Seattle, WA 98104.