I’m leaning against the bar, the ice in my glass is melting, and I’m looking at the exit sign. If you want the truth about how a man prepares to vanish, you have to understand the liquidation process. You can’t launch a life-raft if it’s still tied to a sinking cruise ship.
First, I had to fire the staff. Black Pearl—or “Michigan,” as we called her in the office—had become a high-maintenance liability. It wasn’t just the sex; it was the goddamn politics. The race-relation lectures, the “elephant in the room” that she kept feeding until it crushed the bed. She’d post “look at my boobs” videos on Snapchat for the world to see, then turn around and tell me I should be “lucky” to have her.
Lucky? I’m the one creating the weather in this relationship. I’m the architect; you’re just the tenant. I got tired of the circus act, tired of the performance. I’m not a lot lizard, and I’m not a porn star. I’m a man with a flight to catch. So, I cut the cord.
Then there was the Older Mexican Lady on the East Side. Elegant, sure. Sophisticated, absolutely. But she wanted my weekends like they were her birthright. She wanted me to drive down Speedway until the pavement turned into dirt and the cell service died. She wanted a partner; I wanted a distraction. Too much drama. Too much gravity. I let her go, too.
The Entropy of Hoodwink
That left Hoodwink. My Tuesday Girl. For seven months, I watched her fall apart in slow motion. When I met her, she was a curvy little Latina. Then she gained ten pounds. Then twenty. By last Tuesday, she was a full-blown “Rollie.” Forty pounds of stress-eating and Tequila mixed with Dr. Pepper.
She lives in a tomb. Eleven adults in a house with no electricity, wading through mildew and laundry-room floods, dodge-rolling bullets from drive-bys. Her son is an arms dealer who got run over by a car; her other sons are just a revolving door for the state prison system. I’d pick her up, ravage her until the sun came up, and drop her back into that dark, lightless hell.
Last Thursday was our “departing moment.” I wanted to make it memorable, but honestly? I was just looking at the clothes she couldn’t afford to replace, fabric screaming and stretching, begging for a mercy killing. I dropped her off at the curb of her life and didn’t look back.
The Phoenix Siren
Then, the universe threw a curveball. A profile entirely in Spanish. A 50-year-old light-skinned Hispanic woman in Phoenix with eyes that could stop a heart. I had plans for my poly girl on Saturday in downtown Phoenix, but the more I chatted with this new one, the more I decided to place all my chips on her. I drove up there on a Friday, grumpy, tired, and expecting another Tucson disaster. I pulled into her complex—surrounded by industrial filth, people scattering like cockroaches in the headlights, and clusters of guys loitering in the dark.
Then she opened the car door.
I didn’t even have to speak. I just looked at her and knew this was going to be a great night. We went to The Vig. She was nervous, holding my hand like it was a holy relic. I pulled her aside before we even ordered a drink. “Let’s get this out of the way,” I said. I kissed her, and the world shifted. It wasn’t a “first date” fumble; it was an expedited surrender.
We hit the Marriott to park the truck. We hit the speakeasies. It was a connection I haven’t felt in a decade—so much public affection, so much kissing, so much touching. People were looking at us, jealous in so many ways. It wasn’t the transaction of the massage parlor or the chaos of Hoodwink. It was… nice. Dangerous.
We got back to the room. It was a slow roll, layers to reach the highest peak. Over an hour of preparation before the clothes even came off. It was like a first dance, stepping on toes at first, but she adjusted—a lovely, submissive partner. We spent hours in that room, finally escaping around noon. I remember propping her body against the windowsill, looking outward as our bodies pounded, then positioning ourselves so we could enjoy the mirror, the sight of the work we were doing.
The next day: Sedona. The brewery. We lived. We checked into our hotel—inmate love. Then wine and live music, gourmet pizza, only to return and do it again. We couldn’t keep our hands off each other. In forty-eight hours, we broke the records. Fourteen times. At a minimum of an hour each. I could see the addiction in her, but more terrifying was the addiction in me—the need to be inside her.
That isn’t love; it’s a man washing the taste of the “Avenues” and the “Low-Hanging Fruit” out of his system with a high-pressure hose. She invited me to La Paz to meet her family. She’s already bragging to her son about the white man she found.
The Christmas Con
I’m seeing her again this weekend. I told her: “Hotel room. Friday. Crackers and wine. We aren’t leaving the bed until we break new records.” She agreed. She shared with me that she wants to be “fully trained.”
She asked about Christmas. She wants La Paz. She invited me to join the whole family—the son, the mom, everyone who speaks Spanish but me. I thought about it, then I saw the $600 round-trip ticket. That takes away from the Vietnam budget. I told her “No.” Too soon. Too much “forever.”
She got worried about crossing the border alone, asking what I had planned since I wasn’t joining her. When I explained the situation, she invited herself to hang out with me for a five-day weekend.
So, we’re doing Bisbee. Wednesday through Saturday. Four days of nothing but lust, passion, and home-cooked dinners. Then New Year’s at my house. We’re going to try to break new records after new records. I’m pretty sure at that point, the physical and the emotional will come to a head. I don’t need a future for us, but for now, I’m enjoying the fact that I won’t be spending the holidays alone.
We will launch lanterns into the sky. One final long weekend to fully understand the geography of her body.
The Vanishing
And then? Then the vanishing act begins.
While she’s dreaming of January, I’m dreaming of Da Nang. I’m selling the furniture. I’m cleaning the stains off the mattress I’m currently fucking her on. I’m giving away the clothes. I’m selling the electric bike. I’m having the deep clean done so the real estate agent can walk in and see a house that looks like nobody ever lived there.
I’ll give my two-week notice one week before I leave. I’ll cash the PTO check. I’ll pack my life into one bag.
And I won’t return her calls.
I told her I was going to Vietnam in February to “avoid bad karma.” I just didn’t tell her I was never coming back. I’m not a “nice guy.” I’m not going to ghost her—I just won’t be there when she calls. For the next thirty days, I’m going to enjoy being haunted. And then, I’m going to pull the plug on the whole goddamn machine.
Watch the sky. I’m almost gone.
