“What’s wrong with being single, man?” Bottomfeeder asked me, as I drowned some blues in whiskey at the Some Young Moon. “I mean, you’re good at it. REALLY good at it. I think it’s the one thing that separates you from ordinary people.”
He had a point … and that certainly didn’t make me feel any better about the situation. It’s one thing to be lonely in the world, it’s quite another to realize that were you NOT alone, you’d be altogether less interesting.
“It’s been five years!” I blurted. “Five years since that evil woman … no, nevermind … I swore I’d never talk about it again.”
“Good,” said Bottomfeeder, tossing back a shot of Jameson. “Wanna play darts?”
“OK, fine … if you really want to know what happened, I’ll tell you!” I cried. Boy, that Bottomfeeder can be SOOOO pushy sometimes!
My ex-girlfriend’s name is Tina. I haven’t seen her since 1997, and I swear, I hope I never do again. What she did made me a hard man — and NOT in the good way. She yanked out my heart, threw it on the floor, and did a “Lord of the Dance” number all over it. By the time she was through, my spirit was beaten like a junk-yard dog. A shell of the man I used to be, which — come to think of it — really was-n’t all that much of a man to begin with.
Tina and I shared what is popularly known as an “open relationship.” Ostensibly, an open relationship is one based on mutual respect for individuality and a belief in personal freedom. But all it REALLY means was that both of us were free to date whomever we pleased.
Had I been the one who decided we should have an open relationship, everything would have been dandy. I wasn’t, though, because I’m the old-fashioned type who figures if you really respect somebody in a relationship then you ought to have the decency to sneak around and keep the cheating to yourself.
“I think I’d like to keep things wide open,” Tina told me at the beginning of our doomed dalliance. And at first, I was all for it. I figured I’d be able to indulge my primal male hunter-gatherer urges guilt-free, AND still have a steady, attractive date lined up for Saturday nights. Men invented the concept of the open relationship for this very reason: To have our cake... and eat lots of other people’s cakes too!
Problem was, I quickly grew to love the cake I had with Tina. A few weeks into the arrangement, I started wondering — obsessing, actually — over who, besides me, was sampling her icing. All at once, Jealousy, Insecurity and Lame Metaphors reared their ugly heads.
And so it was that I made my way into a crowded bar one night to calm my nerves with Strong Drink, and noticed a cute couple snuggling in a booth across the way. That’s when I discovered the excruciatingly painful downside of the open relationship … “Tina, what in the name of Jiminy Cricket are you doing with my best friend?” I shrieked.
That was Tommy Barnard, a pilot I met when I was stationed in Guam with the Merchant Marines (long story — don’t ask). Tommy and I had a lot of common interests, such as going out drinking, staying in drinking, and … well, assorted … other … things … drinking.
I’d tell you more about Tommy Barnard, but then I’d be breaking yet another vow — the one about never speaking his cursed name again — and I WILL stick to my vow never to break more than two vows in a single day. And, whew, did that last sentence tire me out!
So after Tina left with that back-stabbing jerk who shall remain nameless, I launched into an aberrant mode of behavior: For the rest of the evening, when I wasn’t pounding beers at the bar, I attempted to utilize those fabricated stories, pitiable pick-up lines and sultry facial expressions I foolishly convinced myself was personality, in the desperate hope that I’d meet someone else too.
It didn’t happen. What did happen, however, was that in a relatively short period of time, I managed to make a raging ass of myself, insuring that for the rest of the evening women avoided me like a second-string junior varsity defensive back with bad skin.
Then sometime around 2 a.m. I burst into my apartment, picked up the phone and called that person I thought was my girl-friend — determined to tell her how I really felt. She wasn’t home. Probably still fore-playing with Tom, er … that GUY!
Uh-oh. In a night littered with poor decisions on my part, I made yet another dubious move: I left a message: “Where are you, Tina? Could you actually be spending the night with him? That loser with the off-the-rack wardrobe and the red Miata? Don’t you realize what a hideous mistake you’re making? Don’t you know how much cooler I am than him? HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME?!!!”
To add indignity to disaster, all of her girl-friends got to listen to my psycho-babble since it was permanently saved on her answering machine. She played it over and over again — inviting friends over, and calling social workers in Ohio long distance who made poor second-generation tapes to play on the way to work at the volunteer center.
In one vicious night, I’d lost my girl, my best bud and my dignity. Had it not been for my ole’ pal beer, well, I don’t know what I would have remembered.
Then I moved to California to start over. “Here’s what I think, Hog,” Bottomfeeder offered. “A relationship is like the inside of a jar of paste. Even with the lid securely fastened, it’s sticky and hard to handle. Leave it open, and it’ll quickly harden and become useless.”
Bottomfeeder was right, of course. (Twice in one day — no doubt a record that may never be broken.) I wanted to tell him more about Tina and me. I wanted to tell him that despite her cheatin’ ways, she was the most intriguing woman I’ve ever met. I wanted to tell him about the way she walked. And the way she wore her hair.
“Hey, man,” I said, tossing an arm around his shoulder. “Let’s play darts.”
Some things are better left unsaid. NEXT WEEK: The FunHog gets a visit from an ex-girlfriend … care to venture a guess who it might be? Hmmm? (Dan Dunn, a Santa Monica resident, writes for Warner Bros. Online. For more FunHog fun, check out www.thefunhog.com.)
Originally published in the Santa Monica Daily Press print edition on June 10, 2002. Read the original PDF.