I had invited 5,000 people to my Cinco de Mayo block party in front of my restaurant—yeah, a little more than I had bargained for. The Fire Marshal was threatening to shut me down, and I was already pulling people away from the door to keep the damn place from getting any more packed. That’s when I saw her.
This Amazonian blonde—South African, I later found out. There was something magnetic about her, like she was made in some lab for a guy like me. Her body—damn. A swimmer’s build, flat belly, and a chest that couldn’t fit in the shirt she was wearing without making it illegal. She was standing there like some gift from the gods, except instead of an angelic smile, she had that dangerous, predatory look, like she knew exactly what she was doing to me. God didn’t drop her down from heaven—no, this was some cosmic joke just for my misery.
Our first time was in her RV trailer he had parked downtown. She looked at me, eyes full of warning like a mad dog tied to a chain, and said, “I don’t date like a slut. I only do relationships.” Yeah, sure, whatever that meant. She was all high and mighty about it, seconds before she opened herself to me. I asked, “How many relationships have you been in?” She smirked, “Several.”
Well, that was it, I thought. A mind fuck waiting to happen. And like the idiot I am, I dove headfirst into it. There’s always that part of you that thinks you’re in control, like you’ve figured it out. The truth is, I didn’t. But it kept me off the streets, so whatever.
She had this power over me, like a magnet, pulling me in—day in, day out. We’d be in that bed, four or five times a day, both of us acting like we were making up for lost time. But honestly? It wasn’t about that. We matched. Physically and mentally. She was just as broken as I was, and we fed each other’s demons like they were the only meals we’d get.
We’d talk about business, ideas flowing between us like we were on fire, building something, a powerhouse in the making, while in the bedroom, we were beating the hell out of each other with our lust. And for a while, that worked.
But then the fun started wearing off. I don’t know when it hit me, but it came in waves, like some sick tide. She started seeing me at the restaurant, talking to the customers, and that’s when the accusations began—cheating. Yet I never cheated on the woman, but hell, you know how it is. They get in your head, she started twisting things until she believed it.
We’d get out, have some drinks, try to enjoy ourselves—dinner, wine, just breathing for a second. Then the switch would flip. It’s like one minute everything’s fine, and the next, bam, the tone of her voice that sounded like a witch comes out. I’d see it in her face—the change. The once-loving eyes would turn into the kind of eyes that could burn a hole through your soul.
I’d been married for 20 years, but nothing, I swear, nothing had prepared me for this. Watching her drink and then—poof—switching into this different person, this hateful, venomous thing, was like watching a slow-motion wreck I knew was coming but couldn’t stop. I’d tell her, “Let’s not have another one, please.”
But it didn’t matter. We were caught in the game. She would accuse me of cheating because we only had sex three times that day. Three! It was a one-sided fight about nothing. I wanted out, but she wouldn’t let me go. She’d crawl back in, whisper her apologies, and I’d be pulled back in like a dog to his vomit.
And there it was—the cycle. Every time she’d get drunk, that cruel, malicious side of her would take over, twisting everything I said. She’d deny it, gaslight the hell out of me. I told her how it went down, how we fought, what she said, and she would deny every bit of it, making me doubt my own damn sanity. I wasn’t ready for this shit, but there I was.
I needed some air. I needed to get away from the insanity. So, one night, I ended up at McMinnman’s, away from the disaster that had become my life. The fire pits were crackling, people huddled around, looking for warmth in the dead of winter. I walked up to the cigar room like I knew the place like the back of my hand. The bartender didn’t need to ask for my order; he just clipped my Romeo y Julieta, lit it, and set it in front of me.
A double Pendleton on the rocks, nice and cold. I sat there, letting the smoke fill my lungs, letting the chaos of my life disappear for a second. My new relationship? Yeah, it was on the decline. And I hated it. I wasn’t even divorced, and here I was—two women playing mind games with me.
I looked down, trying to clear the mess in my head, and that’s when I saw her. My girlfriend’s best friend. The one I’d seen before. The one with a smile that could melt glaciers and a body that made you question every bad decision you’d ever made. She was sitting there with her mother, looking up at me like she knew exactly what was going on in my head. We exchanged some half-assed small talk, but she wasn’t fooling anyone. She was married to some poor bastard who couldn’t do a damn thing for her except hand over the cash.
With her mother distracted elsewhere, she leaned in, her voice dropping low, like she knew exactly what was coming next. “So, how’s life with the drunken witch?” she asked, her tone sharp, familiar. Then, with that same wicked edge I’d heard before, she said, “Yoooou need to get your shit together. Yoooou know exactly what I’m talking about… yoooou. Yooooou.”
I froze. It was the way she said it—crooked finger, the voice. It was the same tone my girlfriend used when she’d get drunk, that manipulative, venomous tone. And then it hit me.
She knew how my girlfriend would turn into some drunken Wicked Witch of the West, her personality flipping like a goddamn light switch. One minute, sweet as sugar; the next, casting spells of accusations and cutting words. I wasn’t crazy. I wasn’t imagining things. I wasn’t gaslighting myself. It was real, and she was the living proof.
A week passed, a few more drunken escapades in the mix, and I found myself in yet another holding pattern. Before she could come crawling back to my place, ready to gaslight me again and play with my emotions, I made my move. I pulled the trigger, texted her best friend—the one from the night at the bar—and within minutes, she was at my place. I didn’t have to say much. Just like any damn woman, she knew what to do. The rest was easy. And like wildfire, the word spread—within 24 hours, it was all over town.
But I was done. Done with the gaslighting, done with the manipulation. Done with the girlfriend. .
I had a couple of good nights with her best friend before she ran off with some Spanish lover, only to return to her husband and move to Colorado. And just like that, I was left with nothing but memories—memories that still have me chasing after her, like a damn fool.
The truth is, we were all a damn hot mess. None of us should’ve been in a relationship—yet, there we were, using each other as a crutch to keep the loneliness at bay, chasing some fleeting good sex as we stumbled through a new chapter in our fucked-up lives.
Then, out of nowhere, my daughter demanded to talk to my ex-girlfriend in person after five months of separation. They had hit it off when they first met, and had a good connection. Meanwhile, my own home life was crumbling, the divorce becoming more public, my kids now being used as weapons against me. So, I found myself back with my ex-girlfriend. Not because I was smart, but because I had feelings for her, and damn it, we clicked. But of course, I set conditions—like the fool I was—that she wouldn’t drink around me. And yeah, that was about as dumb as it gets.
Then came the morning that changed everything. My birthday. Yeah, you’d think that day would be different. But no, she got a little tipsy the night before, her youngest still at home, and I’m in bed with this woman who’s not just turning me into a human chew toy with every word she spewed, but also testing the limits of how much I could take. As the sun came up, I lay there, trying to pretend I wasn’t trapped in this hell.
She was still naked, her body writhing over me, whispering that sick witch’s tone in my ear, repeating the same damn things, “Yoooou don’t love me. Yooooou don’t know how. Yooooou—yoooooou—yooooou.” It went on for hours. No breaks. No escape. And when I heard her kid moving around and closed the front door behind as she was heading out for school, I jumped out of bed, threw on my clothes, and bolted for the door.
As I made my way down the stairs, she grabbed me, yanked me back into the room by my hair, her nails digging in as she tore my shirt off my back. I could feel the scratches, blood dripping. And then, as if the universe was fucking with me, her kid opens the door and quickly stepped back in the house. There we were—me, half-naked, shirt ripped, bleeding, and her mother still standing there, stark naked, towering over me like some twisted fucking scene from a bad movie. The kid didn’t even look at us, we just froze, like time had stopped. And as she picked up her school bag she turned to leave, she casually said, “Have a happy birthday, James.” Yeah, happy birthday to me, indeed.
That was it. The end of that twisted circus. After that, she linked up with some old fling, her high school sweetheart—the one she’d been texting behind my back. Yeah, that’s why she was projecting all that crap about me cheating. He probably felt like he won the damn lottery after I was done with her. They got married and moved to New Mexico, like some small-town fairy tale. I can picture her thinking she was the prize when she latched onto him, like some sick redemption story in her head.
Meanwhile, I’m out here living a drama-free life now—just me and peace. No more crazy, no more games. But, every now and then, I’ll get one of those “I love you” texts from her, some drunken mess about how she misses our connection, how she misses the sex. It’s always while her husband’s asleep next to her, like clockwork. She sends me pictures of what I used to have, like some sick joke. A reminder of what’s been lost.
And every once in a while, she calls, drunk off her ass, with that witchy tone in her voice. Same old broken record, saying the same thing over and over again. What a lucky man her husband is…
Like grandpa used to say, they’re single for a reason. You only find out why when you’re staring at the wreckage at the end. It’s a joke. A sick, twisted joke. Here I am, looking at these so-called “high-quality” women, and somehow I end up in these fucked-up relationships, thinking, This is it? This is what I fought for after a loveless marriage, after losing everything? And then, the realization hits. Deep down, what you have with these women—it’s never about love. Not real love. It’s about filling that hollow space. That gaping hole that never quite closes. The hole that keeps you running after something, even when you know damn well it’ll never make you whole.
At the end of the day, that hole, that emptiness, gets filled with memories—empty, useless memories. And the faint smell of someone else’s sweat lingering in the sheets, a reminder of a fleeting connection that was never meant to last.
And when it’s over, when you finally walk away, you’re left with nothing but silence. You can’t blame her anymore, or him, or yourself. It’s just the way it goes. People are just puppets in a play that never ends, no matter how many times you tell yourself you’re done. You can break free, but you never really escape. The past follows you. It always does. And somewhere, deep in the dark corners, you know it’s not just her. It’s all of us. We’re all stuck in that same fucking loop. We don’t know how to stop. But we’ll keep trying until the next hit, until the next disaster.
So what do you do? You look at the pieces and walk away. You’ll never get it right. But maybe you’ll find peace in the wreckage. Because the truth is, that’s the only thing left to find.
