Are You His Boyfriend?

I don’t consider myself a crier. I’m not one of those people who sits down and has a good cry. Not to say that I’m a stone—I get a little teary-eyed while watching sad movies, Grey’s Anatomy, and sometimes CNN. As far as my dating life goes, I choose not to let rivers run down my cheeks from the (in)actions men in my life do. While frustration may make my eyes glassy, a drop will not pass my lash. Almost uncontrollably, I sorely disappointed myself last week by breaking this cardinal rule.

Adorable mixed sports-lover and I have started to become friends. He’s so extra all the time, but I truly enjoy his company and find his heart to be as big as his tongue is sharp. Truly becoming friends with him will be a challenge because I have to tame the inner rage of the jealous Latin man that can toss all the reason either the cynical man in his rocking chair or the love-struck teenage girl writing hearts in her notebook can provide. The effects of jealous Latin man on a friendship with adorable mixed sports-lover remain to be seen. I have seen his compassion very clearly. He came over for drinks and told me some valuable information. I didn’t like what I had to hear, but what I heard more was his challenge in telling me. He saw the disappointment in my face. He didn’t see the trust that I built in my heart for him. Yes, he would be a good—and necessary—friend.

Since we were both off the week between Christmas and New Year’s, adorable mixed sports-lover and I went out almost every night. I knew that he had no use for the nuances of subtlety, but knowing this could not prepare me from experiencing it. We met on the first car of the 1 train at my stop. The fact that I made the same train as him sent him into overjoyed rapture. His nearly empty bottle of Svedka-charged seltzer explained his excitement; he passed drunk when the train pulled away from the station.

I spent most of the train ride and walk to the club warning strangers not to make eye contact. Adorable mixed sports-lover was ripe and ready to engage some unsuspecting New Yorker in some raunchy conversation. His sense of direction found company with his soberness, causing us to walk around the block of the club despite my clarity of where to go. Obviously, we could not get into the club. He could hardly stand, let alone get his driver’s license out at the door. In an attempt to sober up, I tried walking him to the diner. “I have to piss!” he shouted to a stranger walking down 6th Avenue.

Urging him to wait until we got to the diner did not stop him; his id had already conquered all actions. Perhaps watching him whip his manhood out on a Jeep Wrangler would have sent some people running, head hanging in shame. Not me! He needed help buttoning his very tight pants up. I honestly need to learn to check my bleeding heart with my coat when I go out. He acknowledged that I did not need to help him the morning after, but I would have been guilt-ridden, wondering if he was laying dead in an alley when the sun rose.

With his pants back on, my ward ran down 6th Avenue, eager to harass a stranger. Luckily, he was not belligerent. So when I slammed him against a wall and told him he was going in a cab, he woozily threw his arms around my neck, bobbled his head, and slurred, “Will you take me home?” My heart sunk.

I hailed a cab that he could not climb into, held him while he drooled and snored in the backseat, caught him before he ate a rod-iron fence, opened his door, and carried him up three flights of stairs to his apartment. I couldn’t find his key to open his apartment door. Growing frustrated at having to open the door and babysit him as he wobbled at the top of the stairs, I banged on the door and his roommate thankfully opened the door. My friend bum rushed the floor of his apartment, his jacket in my hands from a failed attempt at catching him. His roommate greeted me with “Wow! He’s drunk!” and, before asking my name, wondered aloud, “Are you his boyfriend?” I responded with a clear and prompt “No!” and perfunctorily cried.

Let Nature Run Its Course

Two weeks, three hook ups, and four family parties after birthday boy left me stranded on my hooky day, he made a repeat offense. This time, I can’t tell if his actions are more or less egregious. Truth: we had no real commitment. Truth: I knew he wouldn’t come see me. Lie: I stopped caring. He was off all day. I was off all day. I texted him twice. He didn’t responded once.

Through all his sob stories, I couldn’t help but find a way to be on his side. Perhaps this is my nature. If I believe that teaching is a personality type, then wouldn’t my demeanor at work bleed into my personal life as well? I teach because I feel like I can help people who aren’t quite sure which move to make to better themselves. The words of a renowned innovator in urban education float through my mind as I write this, “You don’t teach children to offer blessings, you teach to receive them.” Then I realize that there is a give and take with my students. I give them guidance and they give me blessings. They make me laugh, they make me wonder, they challenge me. My students teach me how I can be a better person. My relationship with my students are like any other relationship, be it platonic, familial, or romantic. People seek the give and take between each other. When the give and take ceases to occur, that’s when a relationship—even an underdeveloped one—dies.

Luckily, I had a date with my two best friends from high school to take me away from the impending death of the faux-relationship with birthday boy. We laughed and joked, occupied ourselves with each other, with our lives, mostly independent of romance. When we sat down for a well-deserved fancy lunch, I thought of bringing up birthday boy. I decided that stories about him were not worth our collective time together. One of them lives out in Reno and I wouldn’t want to bore her with the same problems she talked me through two weeks ago. My other best friend lives here in New York and happily took me out for some comforting food and words when birthday boy didn’t show last time.

The choice not to speak about birthday boy came from a frustration with having nothing new to say. I could no longer pretend that we still had a give and take. I gave and he took. A cheapness comes from being used for sex; an emptiness comes from being used for emotional support. I, willingly, acted as his emotional crutch when he told me about his poor luck. The teacher in me lent my time to help, the desperation in me let him lead me on.

Without having anything to contribute, I have to let nature run its course. The length of phone conversations dwindled down to voice messages, hours stretched between texts, checks of Facebook statuses ended. I make no expectations of any possible forthcoming excursions with him, but I do realize that trying to find the difference between a man who is in the shit and a man who is shit is pointless. No matter which he happens to be, you’re still stuck with shit.