He broke up with me. Actually, he broke up with me about a month before telling me. With words, that is.
He told me as much in bed during sex one Sunday morning. He couldn’t stay hard. The first time it (didn’t) happen, my gut knew it was over. I should’ve listened to it, to the silence where once cries of ecstasy rang out. I loved him, I think, so I “lalalalala’d” over the sounds of silence and “I’m just stressed about work,” teared up, and asked where we were going together, if we were going somewhere together.
Then he said he loved me. I believed him instead of his limp dick. So remember, kiddies, a limp dick never lies.
We broke up in a Whole Foods cafe. We’d walked there from my apartment, where he entered looking better than ever. I told him so and we kissed warmly, holding each other close. Did I say this break up came out of left field? We held hands as we headed to the store together. A stranger passing on the sidewalk (a man! in DC!) said what a cute couple we made. A short time later, he stopped me, pulled me to him, and kissed me at a busy intersection.
I’d walked into a Rob Reiner movie. I lapped it up like a thirsty, giggly puppy. Within a half hour, as he graded papers, he told me, “I’m not generous or patient enough to be with someone with Rheumatoid Arthritis.” After confessing to having made weekend plans with friends–solo. Oh, and the week before fucking Valentine’s Day.
It’s taken five months for me to write about it. It’s clumsy and late, the work of a procrastinating, embarrassed, angry, relieved, getting over it, striving to be better, wannabe writer. And to quote another disabled character, “That’s all I have to say about that.”