“He’s just playing her. He knows what she wants, and he gives her just a taste before pulling away.”
My best friend was recounting a conversation that she had with another downtown fucker the night before, and the topic of that conversation was my relationship with gangsta boo. As I stood there, taking in the conversation, I felt a wave of “OMG” wash over me as I processed her report back. It occurred to me that the downtown fucker who made this bold statement about my relationship (or non-relationship) with gangsta boo may or may not know what he is talking about, mostly because this downtown fucker used to be friends with gangsta boo, and maybe he still is, but the most likely scenario here is that this downtown fucker read my blog, knows gangsta boo, and was high on cocaine, making wild accusations just for the sake of attention.
I realized this as I sat next to my best friend, trying suppress the feelings of “I AM SO FUCKING OFFENDED RIGHT NOW” beneath a veneer of “Oh. Why would he say that?”
Really, I was doing some quick mathematics in my mind as I tried to add up why exactly someone would say that about me and gangsta boo. Is gangsta boo playing me? As I let that question roil around the back of my brain, it took me about three seconds to reach over for my purse and check to make sure my wallet and credit card were still there. Yes! Yes, my money is still there! What a relief! Ah, yes, gangsta boo isn’t playing me in that sense of “playing me” because I still have all my money and I am happy to report to all you feminists out there that no, I have never paid for anything for gangsta boo ever, nor will I ever in the future! Sigh of relief. Because I’m pretty sure that if gangsta boo’s intentions were to play me, then his hand would be wrapped around my credit card at this very moment, mostly because that’s how he plays people. I’ve seen him do it before, but never to me.
Then it occurred to me, maybe this downtown fucker isn’t talking about me getting played in a financial sense, but, rather, in an emotional sense. So I put my hand over my heart, just to check, and, yup, it’s okay. Everything is fine. My heart is not broken. Still in one piece, even if it is a bit rough and worn down.
Next, I checked my phone, just to make sure that none of my other lovers have dialed in to let me know that, yes, they are aware of the side fuckery with gangsta boo and now everything has been ruined. But, no – no text messages or missed calls from disgruntled lovers lobbing accusations and hurt feelings my way. Gangsta boo and I are pretty good about that. It’s a mutual side fuckery filled with discretion and compassion.
So I started to count the other ways in which I have been played. It occurred to me that fucking with gangsta boo has put me in the green in several ways. He makes me cum a lot, I don’t have to tend to his emotions daily like a boyfriend, we never dated, we never pretended like we were going to date, and no one’s feelings have been hurt apart from that one time he choked me til my eyes bled, and I felt awkward about it because I realized the next day that maybe we should have a safe word and only engage in breath play when not high on cocaine and drunk at 7 am. But I got over that within a matter of days.
The fact of the matter is, I just don’t like it that some downtown fucker is running his mouth about me and my relationships, especially if its negative. I don’t need the negative press right now, and I certainly don’t need other people talking about my relationships, mostly because there’s a lot going on there. It’s hard to keep under wraps especially if some third party is butting in and causing chaos. I realize that maybe this downtown fucker doesn’t know what he’s talking about, but even so, on the off-off-off-chance that he does, I’m going to take a bit of time away from gangsta boo just because, well, gotta tread water and stay ahead of the drama, right? Who knows what this could be a sign of.