It’s hard getting laid when you’re a fat-ass fag. Finding a boyfriend is harder. But breaking up with a boyfriend makes the first two look like cake walks.
You go your whole life despising fags who won’t date you because you’re not hot enough. You should be attracted to brains, not looks. It’s the inside, not the outside. So what do you do when your boyfriend’s not doing it for you? How can you break up with someone who is perfect in every department, except looks?
Answer: You make something up.
While Brian was fucking cheerleaders, I wasn’t fucking anything until Quasimodo came along. I am unsure how we met. I think Jean introduced us, but it might have been a lot more tragic. It could have been on-line or through a “Chronicle” ad. Who knows? I was high.
Anyway, we met in person for the first time on campus one day around noon. I walked to our designated meeting spot. As I walked up, I noticed a guy waiting. Height—short (perfect). Weight—a little pudgy (perfect). His ass—you could chip a tooth on it(perfect). But when he came into focus, I saw his face.
Before I could bail, he said, “Allen?”
“Cody?” (or Peter or Toby or Troy or Santiago or whatever his name was) I replied.
“Let’s go get some lunch,” he suggested, and we did.
As we waited for the waitress, I got a better look at him. While his body made me nine kinds of puffy, something was wrong with his face, very wrong. Swelling and discoloration consumed the right side of his face, but if you covered that side with—oh, I don’know—a menu, he was cute, very cute.
Even before our waitress showed up, he apologized. He had fallen during a bender in San Antonio, and his face had not yet healed. I relaxed.
I will score this boy. I will nurse his wounds. I will make him beautiful again. And then I will be rewarded. I will have gained his undying love, and all of his prettiness will be mine to show the world and to bask in and to skull fuck.
I had a 7:30 p.m. lab, so our date was cut short, but not before we went back to my place and dry humped for an hour. I had blue balls so badly that my lab instructor asked why I was walking funny. After lab, we met back at Marna’s for round two.
Marna was a hard person to like, but he liked her. More surprisingly, she liked him. When Marna broke out the pot, he partook. He was smart, charming, funny and a pot head. He was everything I ever dreamed of, and his face would heal.
We did it on Marna’s couch that night. I was so turned on by his body that I shot across the room. A fact we learned the morning when Marna turned on the TV and screamed, “Why is there something dripping down Jenny Jones’s face?”
For the next month or so, we were together twenty-four hours a day. We would spend afternoons getting high with his friends who took bong hits through a gas mask so that the pot smoke would saturate their entire faces. New people would freak out and throw up in the gas mask. If you have never seen someone throw up in a gas mask, you haven’t seen shit. We would go back to his house, and I would fuck him.
Sometimes, I would wake up and come before I realized he was sucking me off or riding my cock in my sleep. I would get up, towel off, smoke a cigarette and a joint with him, go back to bed and dream of our deformation-free future. His face would heal.
The healing wasn’t going as I had hoped. I couldn’t see any change at all, and when I would try to help heal him, he didn’t want my help or to even talk about. His face was getting more and more in the way, and I was starting to lose interest. I could pull through. It would heal.
On our way through Jack in the Box one day, he handed me his wallet to pull out the cash. As I dug for the correct bills, I noticed his Texas driver’s license in the little see-through window at the front of his wallet. I had managed to go a long time without seeing a “before” picture of him. Unfortunately, his photo had been taken after the accident. I looked at the issue date—1992. It was 1996.
My lungs emptied.
When we returned to his house, we ate, and he showered up for sex. While he was in the shower, I called his long-time friend Kelli, a newly converted Jew vegetarian whose parents couldn’t understand why she wouldn’t eat baked beans with just a little bit of bacon in them.
“Kelli, when did Cody (or Troy or whatever) injure his face?”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Kelli asked. “He was born like that.”
His face wasn’t going to heal.
When he came out of the shower with a hard-on I could see through the towel, I wasn’t in the mood. I suddenly didn’t feel well. I went home.
Here comes the hard part. I had to break up. I couldn’t wake up next to that face another day, but I couldn’t break up with him because he was ugly. I could have broken up with him for lying to me about it, but that would have been ugly too. I am sure, as I assumed he would have fallen in love with me by the time he healed, he thought I would have fallen in love with him by the time I realized he wasn’t going to heal.
I avoided him for the rest of the week, but Friday night was going to be a problem. One of his friends was having a surprise party, and we were in charge of the surprise. He invited her to meet me, his new boyfriend, on Friday night at the Hula Hut. On what she thought was the way to the restaurant, he would pretend he had left something at a friend’s house. We would drop in for a second, and surprise, a party would be going on.
Friday night came, and I hadn’t backed out yet. For once in my life, I was saved by Marna and not the other way around. Marna called from the mall. She was crying. Apparently, she was stoned when she got to the mall. When she left, she couldn’t find her car, and what’s worse, she wasn’t high anymore. She needed me to come pick her up, get her stoned and help her find her car.
I called Quasimodo and told him I couldn’t make it because Marna needed help. He was a little angry, but said he would figure something out. He gave me the address of the party and said to bring Marna by after we found her car, but we went back to my house instead. We weren’t certain there would be weed at the party.
He called me after the party, and unlike the earlier chat, he was pissed off. How could I have done this to him? Could someone else not have picked up Marna? Is she really so pathetic that she loses her car at the mall?
Half asleep, I jumped at my chance.
“How can I be with someone who places such little importance on friendship? Marna could have been hurt. I am sorry, but the safety of a friend is more important than a little party. I’m afraid it’s over.”
As he was begging for forgiveness, I hung up and took the phone off the hook.
I had done it. I was out.
A year or so later, I ran into Kelli on the bus. I asked about him. He had stopped going to classes when we first met so we could be together all the time and had failed out. When I wouldn’t return his calls, he had moved back to his small Texas hometown.
“Why did you guys break up?” she asked.
I gave her the same excuse I gave him.
“Look. You don’t have to lie,” she said. “We all know the truth, but don’t worry. We understand. Feel free to swing by the house. I’ll make some matzo balls and we’ll put on the gas mask.”