LOVE HORRORS IV: How To Get Over a Cheating Boyfriend

This Sunday’s Love Horror comes from one of my dearest dears, Arnetta, at This May Sound Crazy, But… I truly love her blog and have been faithfully following since the beginning of time. Hmm, that’s a lie, but you know I mean it’s been a long time; pretty much as long as I’ve been using Blogger. Anyway, without further ado, here’s the story and when you’re done, go on over and visit with her for a bit:

Ever since Steffy (yes, we're on a nick-name basis like that, son!) mentioned that she wanted to feature love horror stories, I've been racking my brain, attempting to post a story that is appropriate for this blog. All of my stories, although funny and entertaining, are a little too . . . how do you say? . . . disturbing for the light-hearted blog that my dear Stephanie hosts. Now the story that I am about to tell definitely has its disturbing moments, but it's all I got so try to be entertained dammit.

About 4 years ago, I was dating a guy who was cheating on me. It was really bad and I sooo wanted to believe that he wasn't (because I was in love with him), but it was hard to ignore anymore and one day after going through his luggage helping him pack for a trip to Miami Florida to a "visit his family," I found a bunch of condoms in his bag (and by "a bunch," I mean, A LOT. Like 30 or 40) and decided to call it quits. Being the passive aggressive person that I was, I didn't confront him about it. I knew he would lie about it and I don't like to argue with people so instead, I just removed all of the condoms and drove him to the airport. From that point on, I decided that I was a free woman.

That particular night, I had to work as a field producer for a live televised event (that took place at a museum). It was the opening of a new exhibit and there was drinks being served and a bunch of rich people enjoying dinner in an extravagant ball room. Now, it is not unusual for the television folk (who don't have to operate equipment) to take part in the festivities after the broadcast is over. So, as soon as the reporter signed off, I headed for the bar in an attempt to drink my problems away. I sat and talked with one of the interns (who happened to be a very attractive young lady that I worked with on other projects). She was telling me about her cheating boyfriend (which made me even more depressed because I thought to myself, who would cheat on HER?!) We toasted our drinks and shared our tales of woe as the other guys from the crew kept the drinks flowing in our direction. It's important for you to know, that I am a light-weight. I can barely drink one glass of wine before I'm seeing double, laughing too hard and talking too loud. Despite my disability, every time I looked up another glass of wine seemed to magically appear in my hand and before you know it, I had about 3 glasses of wine and was tore up from the floor up, telling everyone about my broken heart.

Now, before you jump to any conclusions...this is not a "swinging from the chandelier" story. I didn't make out with anyone from work or make a fool out of myself in front of the Production Manager at my job...and for the record, he was drunk too, lol. I was three sheets to the wind but for some odd reason, I was able to walk with a "sober swagger." So I went with my drinking buddy "the intern" (who was doing just dandy after god-knows-how-many drinks) to the front entrance to be taken to our cars by a good friend (who was also one of the crew guys). As we waited outside in the cold, my "swagger" wore off and I descended to the curb where I sat, hunched over, leaned up against a light post. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt like I was on a whirl-o-wheel. Finally, the crew guy (let's call him "Bob") drove his car around and we hopped in. It was obvious that I would not be able to drive home so after Bob dropped off the intern, he drove me to a hotel. (I lived an hour away and he didn't know what else to do, I guess). Now, I was completely drunk at the time, so I don't remember much but I do remember him paying for the room, leading me to my door and leaving. The next day, Bob picked me up for work and we had a good laugh about the whole thing and life went on as if nothing happened.

Okay here's where the story gets interesting. Bob has a wife. A very...crazy caring wife. And while going through his bills, she noticed that he'd used his frequent flier miles to pay for a hotel room. And she did as any suspicious wife would do and questioned Bob about it. And Bob did what any scared husband would do and denied, denied and lied. I think he said that he used the hotel for himself or something to that effect. Of course, she wasn't buying it so he told her the truth. His (female) coworker got drunk at an event and he took out a room for her. Then, as the French would say...the shit hit the fan. Bob's wife came storming up to the job looking for me. The guards had to hold her back from coming inside and attempting to kick my ass talk to me. She called me a bunch of times while I was working and at one point she had me paged over the intercom (I knew it was her because she always pronounced my last name wrong, and so the secretaries repeated the same wrong pronunciation whenever they would page me). At one point, I talked to her and explained to her what happened and it seemed to appease her at the time but for months I continued to get paged.

I was the "precautionary tale" of the office, the center of all gossip and the most talked about person at my job for the next couple months. When I think back to the chain of events stemming from that night, I realize that breaking up with my ex was definitely the easy part.

The moral of the story folks . . . The quickest way to get over a cheating ex-boyfriend is to have a BIGGER and WORSTER problem to worry about. Oh, and don't drink and drive. And yes, I know "worster" is not a word.

Arnetta Green

Love Horrors III: On Second Thought...

We’ve arrived at another Wednesday and do you know what another Wednesday means? Ah, another Love Horror! Hooray

This time around it’s our girl from 20SB, Ashley, at You’re the Charlie Browniest.

Sheesh, that’s a cute blog name, right y’all? It’s about as cute as this story she’s about to share with you! And, how in the heck did she know to include a moral at the end of her story!? So, lets get ready to learn our lesson;

Replicating the Boards: A Love, Actually Mishap


When Stephanie made the call for embarrassing stories about love or unrequited love, I knew this post had to be written. And you should know, blogosphere, that you’re privileged people because I rarely tell this story to anyone. If you weren’t there to witness it, chances are you don’t know it happened. But I’m coming clean now, all for the sake of the wonderful Stephanie (whom I thank muchly for letting guest bloggers take over her space!)


So…we’ve all seen the movie Love, Actually, right? The brilliant, amazing, sweetest movie ever? Do we all remember the scene between Juliet (Keira Knightley) and Mark (Andrew Lincoln) – as pictured? For those who don’t, Juliet is married to Mark’s best friend; all the while, Mark harbors a secret love for her.


In order to get over her, Mark decides to confess his love: using poster boards. He goes to her house, gets her to the front door without her husband, and proceeds to hold up multiple poster boards declaring his love. I promise the scene is actually much better, I’m crap at re-telling movie plots. I highly recommend it.
Somehow in all my viewings of that movie, I missed that he did it in order to get over her.


Pretty early on in my first year of college, I had a core group of friends: 2 other girls and 7 boys. If I was anywhere, at least one of them would be with me. And as all things go, I eventually realized I had a slight crush on one of the boys, who I’ll call Smith. Smith’s roommate was another one part of our group, and I’ll call him Matt. Now, I was often in their room. I mean, I had a thing for Smith, of course I would want to be around him all the time.

Have I mentioned I don’t do subtle? That might come in handy for later.

So I was constantly there, always hanging out with them. They were actually my friends too, so they didn’t mind (I don’t think…). I should have known it was trouble the day I realized I didn’t care when Smith was around…I was actually always looking for Matt. Just like that, my crush switched roommates: now I was all about Matt.

One of my best memories with Matt is when we watched Love, Actually together with a few friends; of course, all the girls had seen it and none of the guys had, so we forced them to watch it. In the end, they all loved it, and it seemed to really strike a chord with Matt.

I don’t know the train of thought, but somehow three of my friends decided that before we left for winter break, I would confess my love for Matt in the same way as Mark did for Juliet.You would think I would immediately veto the suggestion, right? Any sensible woman would.

The night I decided to go through with it was a disaster.

Only Smith and the other two girls in the group knew what I was going to do, so I can’t really blame our friend Ryan when he invited Matt out to a movie that same night and didn’t return until 2am. I briefly considered doing it when they got back, but I knew Matt would be tired. So then I considered not doing it at all, but for some reason—which I most valiantly wish I knew now—I decided I’d just move it to the next day. Even though it felt all wrong, I pushed it aside as nerves.

8pm, the next day. I’m in one of the other friend’s rooms, waiting for Smith to call me to let me know Matt was back in their room. Unfortunately, he was hanging out in a different room with some friends, so I was forced to wait until whenever he returned. Around 10:30, the call came. “Ash, he’s here,” Smith whispered to me. I could hear him closing the door behind him. “You need to do it now, I think he’s tired.”

Without any thought, I left the room I was in and retrieved the necessary supplies: poster boards and Matt’s Christmas gift. I went downstairs to his room, stood outside the door, and took a deep breath.

I knocked twice…Nothing.

Knocked twice more.

Nothing.

Now the panic sets in (about two weeks too late, in retrospect).

What do I do?!

I knew they rarely locked their door, so I quietly opened it and poked my head in. Where was he? I doubt he left—Oh, there he is.

Asleep.

This is sign #4 I shouldn’t go through with this, in case you’re keeping track.

I quickly back out and call Smith. Again, any sensible person would probably give up. But no, not I or my friends—we persevere!

Smith came up with the idea that he would go in the room and start banging things around to wake up Matt, while I stayed just outside the door so I could quickly get to him while he was in a conscious state.

Brilliant.

Smith enters, I hear a few things being tossed around, muffled voices, and Smith is back out the door. “He’s up, you’re on!” he whispers, dashing down the hall.

It’s not a wonder to me that Smith sounded like he was giving stage directions, because at this point, I’m pretty positive my life is one of those horrible chick flick parody movies you wish you hadn’t snuck into. I took two deep breaths, and knocked.

“Oh, hey Ashley,” Matt says as he pulls open the door, rubbing away the sleep in his eyes, “What’s up?”

“Um, can I come in? I want to talk to you. And I have your Christmas gift.”

“Oh, sure…sorry,” he says as he yawns. “I was sleeping, but Smith woke me up.”

“Is this a bad time?”

“Kind of…but you’re here, it’s fine, don’t worry.” He smiles at me, then sees the boards in my hands. “What are those?”

“Uhhh…nothing….well…no, nothing, really…here’s your gift!” I’m not entirely sure, but I may have thrown the present at him.

I have to explain that the minute he saw those boards, I knew he knew what was going to happen. He knew, and I knew, and still, I pushed on.

What number reason are we on that I shouldn’t do this?

After he opens the gift, he smiles and thanks me…and then the awkwardness sets in. I’m sitting on his bed, he’s in his desk chair, and the boards are lying on the bed next to me. It’s now or never, Ashley, now or never.

“So…here’s the thing…I guess I should do this…I mean…yeah, I’m gonna…you know what this is, you recognize it?”

He nods silently. I take a deep breath, hold up the boards…and start.

I wish I could tell you more about the boards, like what they said or his exact reactions, but I’ve apparently repressed it because I don’t have a memory of it. The only thing I do remember is the minute I started holding up the poster boards, I realized I actually didn’t like Matt.

Do you know the weirdness that sets into your body when you’re declaring your feelings for someone in a potentially super romantic situation (because, think about it, if I had liked him, and he did return the feelings, how awesome of a story would this have been?! I know, right?! I’m fucking awesome.), and all of a sudden you know you actually don’t have those feelings? It’s very, very strange. And a bit uncomfortable.

The only thing I do remember is him smiling at me after the last board was read, saying, “Thanks for the gift, I loved it, and you’re really nice,” hugging me…and then he lay down on the bed and promptly fell asleep. Without another word.

Thankfully, only those three friends knew what I was doing, so what happened was kept quiet. Matt never told, and the rest of us swore not to, either. I never admit that was the moment I realized I, in fact, did not have those feelings for Matt anymore; I just let it slowly die, telling them that knowing he didn’t return the feelings made it gradually fade away. Even though the awkwardness level between Matt and I increased significantly, the embarrassment had thankfully stayed relatively low.

That is, until one of our other friends found the boards in my room a couple months later and proceeded to show them to the every single boy on my floor. And the six boys on the floor below. And even two on the floor above. My only saving grace was my quick lie (white lie…a small fib…even self defense, if you will) that I was merely replicating the props used in one of my favourite scenes in one of my favourite movies. No one ever knew the full, true story…until now, anyway.

I still can’t say how I just knew I didn’t like Matt at that moment, nor can I say why I didn’t stop the boards and explain myself. I don’t know why I went through with the boards, but it at least makes a good story now. If there’s anything you should learn from this, it’s this little tidbit of wisdom: replicating movie scenes may result in the same outcome that happened in the movie.

Oh, and throw away the poster boards.

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Love Horrors II: Breakfast In Bed

Yes, this post is tad lengthy, but chill, bust out those reading glasses and prepare yourself for a good cringe, followed by a hearty laugh, and a bit of sympathy! Male and female readers alike are going to love this doozy!

Saturday’s Love Horror is a little tale from our new friend @ Single Infertile Female. (She’s good!)

Okay, you got your glasses on? Relaxed? Ready? Let's go!

I’ve had a few dating mishaps and disasters (some mine, and some the blunderings of the man of the evening) in my life, but there is one that so completely and totally takes the cake that it is to this day an urban legend told by those who knew me then as a warning to men and women alike about the dangers of drinking and oral sex.

I had just fearlessly moved to Sunny San Diego with my best friend, and we were ready for our lives to begin. We had the beach. We had the bars. We had the boys. As far as we were concerned; there was nothing more in this world to hope for.

There was one bar in particular that we frequented regularly, and there was one boy in those earlier days who had earned a spot in my bed. The boy and the bar were synonymous, as he worked there and was one more reason it was so often our destination of choice. We’ll call him “The Bartender” (you know, just to keep me from getting sued). It was there (at that bar) where we often drank too much, and learned too early to ignore the regret of our decisions.

One night in particular (as the shots were flowing and the room was spinning) The Bartender confided in me that he wasn’t feeling well. Not one to allow a boy to ruin my buzz, I inquired if I would still be able to stay with him that night. My apartment was across town and cab fare was never an option I readily chose if there were other possibilities. He said of course, but that I shouldn’t be planning on much from him beyond sleeping.

The best and I stayed and helped the boys close up the bar, as was often our ritual. Those nights always included more drinks and rousing games of pool. By the time we finally left, it was well after 3AM, and the party just continued on to the home of The Bartender. As promised, he went straight to bed. I agreed to follow when I was tired, but as long as the party was raging I was not one to be left out. The boys continued to drink, and I continued my quest to “hang”. These boys admittedly had more drinking experience than I, and it was only a matter of time before their endurance surpassed my own. Still, I wanted to be a part of the cool crowd for as long as I could manage (a trait I’m sure I was supposed to have outgrown in high school, yet there I was; still trying to be the most popular girl in school).

When 6AM rolled around, the decision was made to swing by a local bar with an early morning start. There we enjoyed bloody mary’s and screw drivers and began a pool and darts tournaments. I was “one of the boys” (a position which I relished), yet I found myself missing the boy, and wondering if his bed and arms were still mine to crawl into; even in the early hours of daylight.

But when I tried to leave, I received boos and hisses and calls for “just one more game”. More drinks were ordered, and I agreed to “hang” for just a bit longer. We played, we drank, and I realized I was starving. The restaurant next door did this bar the courtesy of delivering breakfast orders. So, it was at 9AM that I ordered French toast and eggs for delivery.

I devoured my plate greedily. I had ingested nothing but booze in the last 12 hours, and the food felt “right” in my stomach. It made the haze of the alcohol temporarily start to fade, for just long enough to realize The Bartenders buddy was making a serious play… for me. Disgusted at the disloyalty of boys, I ordered myself 2 more shots (one out of indignation, and one for the road) and went on my way with a plan. I was going to wake The Bartender up, and he was going to be happy I had.

I let myself into his home and crept into his room, where that 6’4” of man was still soundly asleep. I snuck under his sheets and coyly pulled down his briefs without disrupting his slumber. I then began to perform my magic.

It is here where I must pause to say that, I am good at what I do. I have always prided myself on my head-giving abilities, and I have never received anything but rave reviews. In fact, I have dated men who have begged for more; and I am generally happy to oblige. After all, when you’re good at something, you enjoy showing off your talents.

He awoke slowly, and excitedly. He may have been sick the night before, but suddenly he was up and ready. I could tell that I was already making up for abandoning him the night before; I knew within minutes I would have re-earned my rightful place as the coolest girl he knew.

It was as he got more involved and excited though, that I found myself getting more dizzy and nauseous. I refused to believe that anything was amiss, so I continued on as planned, but I found myself coming up for air a bit more than usual. Still, I knew he was close and that this task would soon be completed with a gold star. I plunged ahead. In nearing release his excitement mounted, and that’s when he placed his hands on my head. He had started the descent into loss of control, and he was holding on for dear life; unfortunately, he was preventing me from getting the gasps of fresh air I so desperately needed to maintain balance at that moment. I felt it before I knew what exactly was happening, and then even as I realized it, I couldn’t escape. Within seconds (seconds before he was actually able to climax) The Bartender had breakfast in his lap. Full chunks of French toast and eggs (and the backwash of bloodies and screwdrivers) were there, wedged in between his nether regions.

You have never seen a look of pure horror on a man’s face until you have thrown up on his cock. Neither of us moved for a moment, both stunned into stillness. Finally, he jumped up and ran to the shower. I instinctively followed and jumped in with him (after all, I had some of this mess on me as well). I tried to assist him in cleaning; tried to ease the tension (as I stood in the shower almost fully clothed watching him claw at his own skin). “Don’t touch me” he said, icy and slow. “What do I do?” I begged, “I’m mortified.” Because, even in a drunken haze I still knew how to employ a decent vernacular.

“Get the sheets off my bed.” He said, “And then leave.” I complied. I didn’t even question it. There was nothing I wanted more than to leave. I could tell he was freaking out, and to be completely honest; I wasn’t holding it together so well myself. I found my way home and I busted into the room of my best (whose boyfriend happened to be spending the night). “I threw up on The Bartender.” I shouted, wanting her to wake immediately, “I threw up on his dick!” I stood there, unsure whether to laugh or cry. It was when the two of them started laughing hysterically that I took my cue and chose to find the humor. I laughed for a good 15 minutes with them before going off to my own bed.

When I woke from my slumber the reality of what had happened hit me though. I would have to move. There was no way I could stay in this town now. I would have to move far away and change my name. Never again could I show my face; not in our bar, and not on our beaches, and never to our boys.

I turned into a hermit over the next week, determining the best course of action. It was when I least expected it that my phone rang. It was The Bartender. He wanted me to come over. I immediately leapt at the chance. If he could forgive me, then all would be right in the world again. We talked. We ate. We talked some more. Later in the evening I found a fully drawn cartoon (done by a mutual friend of ours) that depicted the entire incident to a tee, right down to the words “I’m mortified” coming out of a bubble from the mouth of cartoon me. I should have been offended and hurt, but I had thrown up on the man.

And he had still called, just a week later, wanting to see me naked again. What can I say; I’m good at what I do.

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Love Horrors! Part I

After becoming single in late 2009, as you all know, I decided to jump into this online dating thing without reservations only to find a bunch of nonsensical messages in my inbox. Bummer.
With Valentine’s approach and having no luck in making a “love connection” of my own, I thought it would be a great, marvelous idea to hear the horrific, mortifying, and/or laugh out loud stories of others. Not only does misery love company, what use is living if you can’t get a good giggle going at your own expense? With that said…..

First up is our friend, Michelle @ Desultory Diversions!

A little background on me: I am inherently mistrustful of people, especially men on the internet. I Google the hell out of any guy I’m interested in before deciding to meet him in person, if it even gets that far!

I met a guy on a dating website a couple weeks after my ex and I broke up. At the time, I was more interested in random hookups than a relationship, but stating that brings creeps by the truckloads. One normal guy managed to slip in with the barrage of crazy in my inbox. He was nice, funny and cute so I responded... and visited my best friend, Google.

He'd put his AIM screen name in his profile, which was enough to get me started. My quick search brought up no flags, and he continued to be charming.

We decided to go out for dinner after work, which turned into him coming over for leftover sushi (yeah, I’m a cheap date). Date night: we ate, talked and fooled around.

My roommate got home just as he was leaving. Roomie and I discussed the date and reviewed his online persona together. We stumbled across a page I hadn't seen before, and a flag went up. Small flag, so I let it go... for a day.

I Re-Googled (is that a word yet?) the info I had and then Googled all the new stuff. I wound up with two subtly different sets of information. Rather than completely freak out, I asked him about it. I was totally upfront about my internet stalking and concerns it raised... which freaked him out.

Turns out he'd been seriously stalked by an ex. He'd purposely changed some of his information and deleted (or so he thought) certain profiles so she couldn't find him. My curiosity (crazy lack of trust, whatever) triggered his "run in the opposite direction quickly" instincts, while I was only trying to protect myself. He understood where I was coming from, but was still shaken (which I understood and respected). We put the breaks on the whole thing so he could sort through his shit....

I haven't heard from him since.

Moral of the story: Don't tell your dates about your Google addiction!

Ah, a socially awkward situation frightening off a memeber of the opposite sex, how familiar this is to me! Do you have a similar story? Who did you freak out? ....Please share,comment :)