There's This Dick...

Sorry I haven’t written. I had a problem with this dick.

It’s early March. I’m at 7-Eleven microwaving a burrito. This guy enters. Amazing. Confident. Sexy. Beautiful blue eyes. He’s eyeing the burritos. I’m eyeing his ass. The bell dings. I pull out my burrito. He asks what I like. I smile. Like shooting fish in a barrel...

We go back to my place and fuck. He ends up spending the night.

And the next day. He spends Sunday night as well.

He comes back Monday night. And Tuesday.

The connection is fantastic. The sex more so. He’ a little older than I am. He has his shit together. Smart. Charming. Hung. Built. Fucks for hours.

I can’t understand why this perfect man is single. I snatch him up. He moves in three weeks after we meet. Do I hear warning bells? Yeah. Do I ignore them? I’d answer that question, but he’s fucking me into ecstasy.

By mid-April I am head-over-heels in love. I am also heels-over-ass getting fucked. Every night. The guy is insatiable. I stop fucking my regulars and semi-regulars. He’s taking my time.

Ring all you want warning bell, I’m ignoring you.

Occasionally, we have friends over. His friends. He wants us to fuck with other guys. I don’t. Not that I’m not into other guys. I’m not into his friends. There is something not right about them. I can’t place it. They don’t smell, but they don’t look clean. We fuck in front of each other. His friends bareback.

May 1 Derek asks to bareback. I say no. We fight. He walks out. Comes back four hours later and apologizes.

We make up. We kiss. He smells like another man. I ask him if he was with someone else. It doesn’t bother me, I’m just curious who else he’s fucking. He says no. Asks why I don't trust him? I tell him I do. He calls me jealous. I tell him it doesn’t matter. He says I’m controlling.

We fight again. I tell him to sleep downstairs.

I call a buddy. Tell him everything. “He sounds guilty.”

Shit. I’m thinking the same thing.

Later, I can’t sleep. I go downstairs to talk. He’s on the couch. He’s watching porn and jerking off. Damn. He’s a fucking sex addict.

Next morning. We talk. He’s calm. Lucid. Sweet. I tell him I don’t care if he fucks around, but be careful. He says he doesn’t fuck around. Derek tells me he hasn’t been with anyone else since we met.

I find that hard to believe. He blurts out that he wants to fuck this morning. He wants to bareback. Now. “I want you to go to work with my sperm in you.”

I tell him we need to get tested. Another fucking fight. Another fucking alarm.

Intermittent periods of unbridled sexual joy and emotional misery over the next month. No matter what, the sex is awesome. We’re always safe. However, he is starting to wear me down.

May 10 I leave for a business trip. I call home. Only once do I get an answer. I don’t know the voice. I hang up.

For the first time in years, I break down and cry. I can’t ignore the warnings. It's not that he's fucking around, but he's lying about it. If he's lying about it, he's doing something wrong. I'm assuming barebacking. Who knows what else?

May 15, I’m back. I walk in. The house is in order, but feels dirty. There are stains on the dining room chairs. The carpet is filthy. The house smells funny.

Derek comes home. I ask him who answered the phone. He calls me crazy. Tells me the house is exactly as I left it. Calls me Jealous. Suspicious. Insane. The only one I feel he’s correct on is the last.

He tells me to sleep in the guest room. It’s my fucking house and I’m sleeping in the guest room. I start to crawl in the bed. There are stains on the sheets. I pull the sheets off. A pair of underwear are there. Neither of our sizes. I push the bed out to flip the mattress. Something catches my eye.

A digital camera is next to the nightstand. I turn it on.

I. Am. Not. Insane.

I now understand how every stain got in my house. I don’t think any condoms were used. Clear pictures of Derek fucking other guys and being fucked by at least Eight that I can count.

I try and figure out what I should do. I download the pics and send them to a friend. I’m imagining a divorce hearing. I’m tired. This relationship feels like it’s been going for years.

I wake Derek up and tell him to get out of my bed and out of my house. He starts telling me I’m crazy. I show him the camera. He stares blankly for about 20 long seconds.

“That’s not me.”

I haven’t even shown him the pictures.

I tell him he needs to leave. He uses all his tricks, but I’m clenching the phone in my hand to remind me. I send him to the guest room and I try to sleep. At some point, I drift off.

I wake to find my cellphone, along with a bunch of electronic equipment, and wallet are missing. The computer is anchored under the desk because it contains work files, so it’s safe.

The police fill out reports. While they are here his car is found. Two blocks from my house. I’m panicked for a moment that he’s coming back. Then I check the garage. He took my truck, too.

They still haven’t found him, but according to a cop friend they think he’s heading home to family in Utah. Yeah, fucking Utah.

And get this: his name isn’t Derek. It’s Richard, also known as Dick.

The hotel I’m staying at is fantastic. Room service cannot be underestimated. My home has been scrubbed. It’s now being painted. New furniture has been ordered. In a better housing market I might have been tempted to move. Pay attention to those warning bells, kids. And get tested, I just did (so far, so good).

I gotta get my “sea legs” back, but I promise to post more.

As I said, sorry I’ve been gone for a while. I had a problem with this Dick.