She would always play Fleetwood Mac when she was in her bitter moods. She was into those breakup ballads. That’s all she played, really — top 80s and 90s breakup ballads. This was in 2021, I'd just made it to monetization. I was still with the psycho that was Samantha and was still making quizzes. There was no AI.

She started off gorgeous. Gave me lap dances. The way she’d light up when I’d walk into the club. She promised me she would be a “tradwife.” She ended up becoming a 1950's Nuclear test site.

She had nice tits, though. They were fat and fleshy. Her teeth were crooked. I guess that just made her all the more sexy ‘cause her breath only stank when she was talking too much, drinking a bottle of red wine. She was too modest to let me get her Prosecco.

We never sent each other nudes, but we would write trashy texts to each other. It was quite a feat to pull off, negotiating the lube and the phone and the charging cable. I like demanding women. I told her so.

One time, we spent a good portion of the hour trying to sync up our music streaming service and the karaoke app. My dong was dripping trying to press play, stop, on the count of three_ “and I see your true colors shining through _ Wait. Start it over. I wasn’t ready.” She'd coo. It was hot — our phone sex.

She was the first person that ever made me cum from a blowjob. I was 37, and uncircumcised. One time, I was watching the butt plug twitch while I was doing her doggy-style. It called to me, the butt plug, like the joystick from Mrs. Pacman, and I kind of used it. I put my thumb gently on it, resting my other thumb into one of the dimples on the small of her back, and I just gently taped it forward and backward, round and round. Very lightly. It was hot, especially when we were both lathered up in coconut oil and the space heater had made the room feel like a yoga studio. Tan lines, dusted with sand, smelling like Coppertone … she was probably looking at the sunset, horse and twitching uncontrollably … some girls you’ll never forget.

Then she moved in. I have never seen so many spectrums since the 1980s arcade days, and I’m on it! She was Space Invaders one day, and Galaga the next. You never knew with her. Either way, something’s getting blown up, and it wasn’t my dick. Not any more. I became her punching bag — like the one at the state fair.

This woman destroyed what masculinity I had as a man, no joke. She took my kindness and she stole every ounce of it and gaslit my family with repercussions that still echo today.

Her bacon always came out either too soggy or too crisp. Her bacon was never any good. A lot of times, it would trigger the fire alarm. I kept trying to tell her to turn on the fan above the oven, but she could never remember. Then she would invariably get pissy at me for mentioning it or something else. It was little things like that.

It was only later that it struck me that she had always known how to cook bacon and that she hadn’t forgotten to turn on the oven fan. No, it’s what she did when I got on her nerves just being me and she wanted to be left alone, to sleep alone — one of us would be on the couch. It was only later that it dawned on me that it was about her wanting space — her making bacon. She was a Piscatarian, so why else would she make bacon but to please me like a tradwife would.

It was little things like that. Fleertwood Mac would start up when she got bored of being alone and wanted to take a few light jabs before you existed for her again. It took a couple of days on average, then she was on the rag … fuck me!

When I was a waiter, after my shift I would drive to her place. She would say to me, “Empty your pockets. Let's see what tips you have!”

It had begun as one of our games — a preamble to our lovemaking. She’d start unbuckling my belt looking for my “tips.” And then I would finger her cooch asking if she takes quarters. And then she’d say, “No. I only take hundreds.” And then I’d give her a couple. And after that we were naked, and we’d walk around the apartment drinking a bottle of wine. We’d take it to the shower — the wine. And then we’d fuck, still tacky and wet. And it was good! Heavenly. The whole reason for my toiling — to be close to her. Inside her. That made all the bullshit make sense.

I thought it was poetic that she would spend it on weed. But, after we came back from getting the weed, and our smoking up, we were both too beat to get frisky with each other. But then she played the game of frisking me down for the cash, and get the weed by herself. She got into a huge huff when I said I was disappointed that we didn’t make love after a frisking anymore. It was little things like that.

It was then that I stood up like a man. Rose like Phoenix, any of the corny inspirational quotes you see on the internet. I threw her out. Gone. Adios.

Frankly, I wasn’t that heroic about it, but it’s technically the truth. When I think back on it, there really isn’t much in the way of nostalgia. I just am left feeling humiliated when I think about it — how naive. What a fool I was. A sucker.

I’d like to believe that to the extent that she was capable of loving someone, she did love me. It didn’t, however, cross the threshold to be considered love. It looked like love, but it was really contempt. Pure, cunning, intelligent, exacting contempt. Mutual, at the end of the day! It was a facsimile of love — one I bought hook, line and sinker. But, it may have been the closest she ever gets to what she calls love.

Last I heard, she was in Liverpool, and she’s got an OnlyFans site. I don’t know if you could ever miss a person like that. Forgive, maybe, but miss? It’s like asking someone who’s lost their forearm if they miss it. It’s a weird longing, and “to miss” her just wouldn’t quite capture it.