It was not a discovery I was overjoyed to make. Digging through my ex-boyfriend’s sign-painting toolbox to look for something he needed, I came across a tube of medication for genital warts. Three months after he’d looked me in the eye and told me he was clean. Three months after he told me he loved me. Three months after I had started having unprotected sex with him.
But then, I should have known. A month after we started dating, a friend of his pulled me aside and warned me, “He’s not an evil person, but be careful.” Another man warned me my ex had raped his girlfriend. At the time, I foolishly brushed it off. It was only until after he had decided, whoops, he didn’t love me after all (really, he could see the gravy train he had been riding was leaving the station), that I began to take the warnings seriously. Another “friend” of his e-mailed me later, apologizing for not warning me in advance. His house of cards was crumbling.
Still, he took me for quite a ride. Declarations of love often coincided with requests for money. He borrowed several hundred dollars from me (and several hundred more from his parents) to move into a new place, only to move out a month later. To move in with me. Rent free. He spoke of his many friends, only revealing later that those “friends” only called him when they wanted either blow or free entry to the club he used to work at. I, the eternal sucker, let him drive my car (he cracked the bumper). I let him use my basement as a studio space (he paid my landlord a third of the rent he owed). I believed him, because I had no reason not to. Silly, naive little Cortney.
I ignored red flags that popped up. His fondness for giving me GHB. His refusal to ever compliment me, even as he continued to loan my money to the go-go dancers he booked. His resentment at my education and success. Sure, I was 10 years younger and made three times as much money. But he wanted to get a place with me. He wanted me to outlast his beloved cat. Until one night, when I suggested he pay for his own damn Bushmills. Two weeks later, he didn’t really love me, after all. In fact, he never wanted to speak to me again. Or pay me the money he owed me, for that matter.
I can look back now and see, like the sparrow he had tattooed on his neck, he was just singing me a sweet song. I bent over backward for him, and he never found the energy to return any favors. Part of this was his own laziness; how successful can you be when you sleep until noon every day? He had a knack for quitting while he was ahead; he quit his nightclub just as allegations of him skimming tips were starting to bubble up. He probably knew I’d finally discover him to be the bullshit artist he really was and dump his sorry ass, so he left me first.
Only, the rub is, I really loved him. And I got screwed over, royally. After months of giving, he was gone.
But now, I’m starting to recover from his pattern of lies and deceptions. After all, I’m young, well-educated, and just got a 21% raise at work. I know I’ll never be a washed-up, middle-aged, uneducated, friendless, underpaid loser, like him. And I know I’ll never be capable of lying to anyone like he did. In fact, I’d like to call him and tell him all this, but his phone is shut off.
Thank God the tests came back clean. I’d hate for to his lies to be with me forever.