14 missed phone calls over 70 minutes. I think it’s a new record.

Earlier that week I had five missed phone calls from a guy who was mad that I had left the bar without him. I was going to write about those five phone calls, and how desperate and abusive that seemed coming from a guy I had never fucked, but then the 14 missed phone calls over 70 minutes really took the cake.

But first, a little bit of background. Long time readers will remember the most frequent recurring character in my writing: Gangsta Boo. Yes, Gangsta Boo, my sexual white knight, my muse, my demon. He’s a complex guy who had been living not in the Bay Area with his fiancee. Despite the fact that it’s been a year and a half since we last fucked, we stayed in touch. And by “in touch” I mean: we maintained a furtive, intermittent d/s relationship over the phone. I liked it because it was a safe way to have him in my life – he was in a committed relationship, I was weathering my ten month break up, but it was always nice to be able to call him and say, “I love you, I miss you, I can’t live without you” and then dress up like a dog and send him masturbation videos where I barked like a dog when I came. It was a tender and intimate relationship that didn’t take much to maintain. I don’t know what I thought would happen long term with Gangsta Boo – I figured he’d eventually get married, we’d grow apart but then come back together, he’d be successful in whatever it is that he was doing not in the Bay, and I’d excel in my pursuits, but we’d always have our secret d/s phone sex with potential for irl fuck trysts to fall back on. I wasn’t even sure if I’d ever see him again in person, but my relationship with him was a pivotal moment in my life, and he’s important to me, so I wanted to honor that by staying in touch.

I hadn’t spoken to him in a while when my dad died. This was another facet of our relationship: he had always been there for me during the tough times. The suicide attempt, the break ups, the abortion. He had always been one of the first people I called when things went haywire, and he was remarkably reliable throughout those situations. I know that some people think that Gangsta Boo is a bad person, and he is. You can search for him on my old blog and read all about it if you’re interested. I probably shouldn’t have spent so much time with someone who I knew was capable of those types of things, but for some reason that never happened with us. It was like a tacit agreement – there were very few boundaries, but so long as he didn’t beat or rob me, we were gucci.

When I told him my dad was dying, he was kind to me. But the very next day, he told me that he was newly single and coming back to the Bay. I was excited, but I knew what that meant: time for me to clear my calendar, cancel my relationships and pay my health insurance premium because chaos was coming. I already knew that it was going to be a rough reunion – break ups are rough for everybody, but Gangsta Boo is a pretty sensitive guy who doesn’t handle rejection very well, so I knew what was going to happen. That d/s relationship was going to morph into his sado-sexual release through which he could work out the pain of his newly ended relationship. Or, to put it more simply, he was going to hurt me. I knew this going in. Regardless, I was still happy to see him because that’s what love is sometimes. Sometimes love is just pain.

But then it got weird. He asked me for money which is one of our tacit boundaries – he knows I don’t play that shit. Then he said some other shit that I don’t even want to repeat on the Internet because it pissed me off so badly. Then he tried to get me to drive to Union City to suck his dick in a park by his auntie’s house. Then the 14 missed phone calls between 4:20 am and 5:30 am. That’s when I knew: this post break up bender is actually just a meth binge, isn’t it?

Because 14 missed phone calls is extremely uncharacteristic. This is a man with whom I maintained an analog relationship for several months because we were trying to be discreet and not have phone evidence of our affair. This is a man who pulls the most, best pussy in the East Bay – he’s not the type of person who calls fourteen times in a row. He’s the type of person who texts “wyd” to six different women at last call and follows the path of least resistance.

The fourteen missed phone calls was not a good sign. The possible implications included the chance that I might be…that it might be only me left. Which is, again, not a part of our deal. I work great as a side piece, not as the main course. I can’t handle being the main even during normal periods in his life, let alone now.

I had to ask myself: given all this boundary breaking, am I prepared to let this happen to me right now? To be completely honest, this guy scares the shit out of me sometimes. The idea of him on a post break up drug binge didn’t sound like a smart idea for either of us – I could already tell just from the fourteen missed phone calls that it was going to be…bad. As in, I called my friends and told them that if I go missing he’s to blame. That kind of bad. Not because he’s malicious with me but he’s clearly being reckless, and recklessness and BDSM don’t really go hand in hand.

But I feel bad. Because I fucking love him! I feel like I’m not holding up my end of the bargain, but then again, he isn’t either. I don’t want this to be happening to him because I don’t want him to be like this because he’s better than this, right? Having known him for a long time, I know: if I refuse to see him, it’s only a matter of time before the suicide attempt. It’s happened before, and if it’s going to happen again it’s probably now. Fuck. I hate this. Because clearly this is a “him or me” situation now.

I choose me.

Neither of us want me to see him like this. It would ruin the fantasy. It would ruin our entire relationship.

Or, no…I mean, fuck, this is ripping me to shreds on the inside. Because I know he needs me. And it’s not that I don’t love him, it’s that… Fuck. I don’t know. I’m afraid. I’m just very, very afraid.

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