THE DATING D I E TBAD ROMANCE
ANTHONY PAULL
Patrick has always been one of my special friends. He’s afraid of escalators. He refuses to drive 10 miles away from his house, and lately, he enjoys texting me that he’s going to kill himself on a weekly basis. “Well, sorry, but it’s the only way to get a response.” he argues. “Not that you care, you’re sooo busy with your rock-star life, I don’t even think my death wouldn’t make your Facebook page.”The sad part is he’s right. You see, lately, I’m trying to ignore him, refusing to feed his addiction of weekly drama, particularly around February, when he has a tendency to go completely out of whack. But hey, the anticipation of Valentine’s Day can get to the best of us, right? “No! This year, I have it under control,” Patrick assures me. An advertising guru, he arrives to our downtown lunch in a black Hugo Boss slim-fit suit and red skinny tie. “I plan to send myself flowers to the office. I’m not 19 anymore. I know what I like. I know what sells.” “Dear God, am I going to require a drink for the rest of this conversation?” I moan, as a waitress with an asymmetrical hairdo hands us paper menus.“I’m serious,” he attests, surrounded by sushi scenesters under red lighting in a hip Asian bistro. “Listen, men want what they can’t have. You know that. You taught me the concept.” Gloating, he marks his sushi order with a pencil, his blue eyes sparkling with delight. “And THIS year, I WANT my co-worker Tim. Hence, the flowers. Twelve, red roses. Perfect to make him jealous.” “Tim?” I question, patiently. Though please know the grinding of my teeth is quite audible. “Ugh. Are we doing this again?” “It’s ALL good,” he says. The perfect pitch-man, he attempts selling me his confidence with a grin. “What’s your problem with Tim?”Well for starters, Tim has a girlfriend, though that hasn’t stopped Patrick or Tim from flirting since they started meeting out for happy hour drinks about a year ago. Still, not too big of a deal except for small fact that Tim, the office intern, isn’t of legal drinking age. You see, Tim’s 19. Patrick’s 32.“But he’s mature for his age,” Patrick says, defending the situation.Yes, so mature that, last month, Tim ‘accidentally’ sent Patrick a picture of his penis on his cell phone, a risky act which may have been deemed a legitimate accident if the accident hadn’t occurred, hm, sixteen times. “Sorry bro! That was meant for my girlfriend,” Tim would usually remark as a follow-up. Then add. “So what do ya think?”“I think…it’s a challenge,” Patrick declares, as we wrap up lunch. “So today, I took him up on it.”“You didn’t.”“I sent him an underwear shot. Not a big deal. You REALLY have to strain to make out my hard-on. See?” he says. Displaying the photo on his cell, he lights up with excitement, sharing the image of his milky body in black briefs, spread on his bed, where he utilizes a red teddy bear as a pillow. “Oh God, I hope he doesn’t think I’m trying to cover up something. You know, like a small dick.” “Well, I’d be more concerned about looking like a pedophile with the wittle, teddy wetty bear,” I cringe. “Are you insane? I mean, really. You don’t shit where you eat. Do you know what’s going to happen if this gets out to your boss?”“Don’t worry. It’s ALL good,” he convinces himself. That is, until later that night when I receive two texts stating 1) he hates himself and 2) he’s the ugliest monster in the whole world, all because Tim blocked his number. “Well…actually his girlfriend blocked it,” Patrick admits when I call back. “She found my photo in his phone, and now she thinks I’m a weirdo. I want to die. I mean, seriously. Why should I live?”A tad dramatic, yes, but don’t we all question our existence at one point or another? The trouble with Patrick is he’s basing his life’s worth on a non-existent romance with some idiot ‘straight’ guy who’s playing mind games with him at the office. But isn’t this common? We’re all so quick, so ready to jump into disastrous relationships around Valentine’s Day just so we can get a card, then we’re ready for suicide when the writing hits the wall. Yes, then we’re willing to end it all over someone who knows little more about us than what our genitalia looks like when it pops up on their cell phone. I’m confused. What happened to the building of a relationship, to butterflies in your stomach at the beginning of liking someone, to the rush of a brief hello and the possibility of meeting for dinner? Lately, it seems that with all our I-Phone, I-Pods, I-Pads and I-Penises, we no longer know how to say I-Like-You or I-Would-Like-To-Get-To-Know-You. We haven’t the patience. Everything has to be now, now, now! Even our friendships have been reduced to the speed of life, where we gladly accept a friend request on Facebook without the consideration of what a friend is. Last I checked, a friend is more than a number, and a lover is more than a name attached to a text. Sadly, it seems Patrick learned this all too late. “You know, I have 500 friends on Facebook,” he states, moments before hanging up. “But only three that returned my text tonight. You know what, if I died this Valentine’s, I bet not one of them would show up.”“Yeah, you’re probably right,” I interrupt, in agreement. “But hey, at least, you know you’d be getting flowers.” Click here to add text.
THE PRINCESS AND THE PEE-PEE
ANTHONY PAULL
Screw me once, shame on you. Screw me twice, shame on me. Screw me three times, we’re dating! Yes, isn’t it a wonder how fast we slip into relationships? Sure, we take our sweet-ass time in so many other aspects of our convoluted lives – forever pondering the purchase of a phone, car, or house – but when it comes to acquiring a partner, a life commitment, why do we so fall so fast for a beautiful face when we know the ugly truth: relationships are never perfect, and eventually, loved ones are destined to reveal a flaw, imaginary or not.“But everything looked perfect on paper!” Drew drunkenly slurs, guzzling his third beer of the evening. Home from college for the holidays, he has his fancy, black Prada scarf wrapped coiling his neck like an anaconda – a gift from his rich, sugar-daddy boyfriend. “Well, perfect until I saw his pee-pee. For the love of God, it’s so GROSS!”Yes, meet Drew. He’s um, well, special. Yes, since he was a wee, little bitch, he’s earnestly portrayed the princess role, disturbed by even the slightest bit of an imperfection in each of his string of boyfriends. The problem is he finds the most trivial things to pick apart. For example, take his last boyfriend. Drew ended their relationship because of the poor chap’s table manners. “He brought his face to his spoon instead of his spoon to his face,” Drew attests. “You should see how he eats soup, with his nose to the bowl. How could I live with that?”“But you can’t keep sabotaging your relationships over stupid shit,” I argue, as we depart from the pub, in route to the mall for some holiday shopping. Fanning his face with his scarf, Drew silences me with a slap on the arm as we greet mid-day traffic. Grid-locked in between snowbirds and a semi-truck, he tells me, with a slight whimper, that his boyfriend’s penis looks like a bonsai tree. “You don’t understand. It’s like, all crooked, and the hair is bushy, like in clumps. And veins everywhere. Really HARD veins. Like his shaft is made of bark.”“How awful,” I callously reply, with an eye-roll. “How ever will you make it work?”“Not funny,” he cries. Feverishly fanning his face, his baby-powder scented perfume filters throughout the car. “You need to help me. What should I do?”“Turn out the lights and squeal when you feel it.”“That’s not helping,” he says, far from amused. Meanwhile, text upon text, his I-Phone is lighting up with ‘I-love-you’ from his boyfriend. “It’s serious. We’re not even having sex anymore. Well, at least, not naked.”Afraid to inquire about what that means, I remain quiet as Drew comes up with a bright idea as we head into the mall, surrounded by a sea of frantic holiday shoppers. “I got it!” he announces. “What do gays do best when presented with a problem?” Bored, I stall with a reply. “Decorate it!” he answers. “You know, make it pretty. That’s how we raise the market value of neighborhoods. We buy a horrid house, hollow it, honor it with enhancements, and reap the rewards.”“I’m not following,” I admit.“Well, maybe I can…I don’t know…manicure it,” he says, heading into Bath and Body Works, where he finds a bottle of mint exfoliating cleanser, moments after purchasing a grooming kit at JC Penny. Texting his boyfriend to check on his cats back home, he informs me, “I’ll just, you know, prune his pubes with scissors and soften his pee-pee veins with this cream.”“WHAT?! Who wants a soft dick?”“Well…,” he begins. “You’re being stupid. This is fucking stupid!” I state, losing patience.“Stupid enough to be in your column?” he bites.“Ugh! Don’t you get it?” I respond. “Everything in life can’t be perfect. Life IS ugly!”There, frozen in place, he torches me with his baby-blue eyes, deflated by a hit of reality. So to ease the pain, I remind him of beautiful things – like the gifted scarf around his neck, and the ‘I love you’ texts from a doting boyfriend who cares for his cats. And in my boggled mind I wonder if this is where the conveniences of modern time have led us? Are we so cushioned by our pretty houses, the labels on our clothes, and our designer Starbucks coffee mugs that we can’t be bothered by the shadow of something less than ideal? So your boyfriend has an ‘ugly’ dick. So what? Enlighten me; when will we evolve to the point where we realize that we’re human, and not every trivial thing needs to be fixed? Lately, it seems we’ve begun taking cues from the media, inventing problems during life’s lulls or exacerbating small ones, leading us to a world where ugliness primarily comes from within.“Fine! You’re right. You win. So what should I do? Should I still buy this?” Drew asks, clutching the exfoliating cream to his heart. “Nah, you better save your money.”“For what?” he replies, flustered.And for once, I don’t sugarcoat the ugly truth, because I know it won’t help. “Therapy.” 
