Monday, December 17, 2012

No Happy Ending I Hope

Last week I took the afternoon off work to help my ex, Joe. He told me he was having a minor outpatient procedure done and needed a ride home from Piedmont Hospital.

I assumed it was yet another one of his cosmetic things. I was there for him when he had his eyes done, and again earlier this year after his double moob-ectomy. I was shocked when he told me he was actually there for heart surgery.

Joe showed me where the cardiologist went in at his groin to snake his way to the heart. It didn't look too bad, two gauze bandages on either side of where his pubic hair used to be. Certainly not as horrifically shocking as when he dropped his sweats to show me the residual bruising and swelling from the Viagra accident of 2007.

But much less funny.

I shuddered. It wasn't just the idea of having instruments threaded through my veins, but the thought of losing my friend. I insisted on spending the night. Joe momentarily resisted then relented. He was tired and, I think, relieved to have the company.

Like my current partner, Joe is also a flight attendant. No, I don't have a thing for flight attendants. And no, I can't back up that assertion with actual data. But ask JB and he'll tell you how, on the day we met, I face palmed after he told me what he did for a living.

Why? I'm loath to generalize, but all flight attendants are whoremongering sluts. At least in my experience. Experience which, to be fair, consisted of three or four short-term relationships after three years with Joe.

So as we fixed a simple dinner, I wasn't surprised when Joe showed me iPhone pics of his "masseur" in Manila. The twenty-year-old looked cute in his baby blue jockeys, and – when I swiped left – out of them. Looking up at Joe's grin, I could tell he was hoping I'd swipe that way.

"That reminds me..." Joe said as he ducked into another room. He came back with a shopping bag from Dick's Sporting Goods. "I got him a Christmas present." It was a weight-lifting belt.

I consider myself lucky that my ex and my partner are good friends. A lot of it has to do with the fact that they work for the same airline. Now that I think about it, considering how JB gets jealously suspicious of even my Twitter friends, I'm sure that has everything to do with it. But I credit their friendship for keeping Joe involved as a daily part of my life.

Joe knows that JB has a trip to Manila this week. He asks me to ask JB to pack the weight belt. Joe's "boyfriend" will come to JB's hotel to pick it up.

I'm not sure how comfortable I am with hot young Filipino "massage artists" calling on my husband in his hotel room.

Flight attendants. I shrug and take the belt.




1 comment:

  1. Thanks for elaborating... after the "Long Story" post I was starting to make up all sorts of tales, but this one is actually believable.

    If your hubby is delivering the prezzie does that make him some sort of hustler? LOL

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