To the Last Man I Slept with and All the Jerks Just Like Him (6 page)

He’s a bus driver.

Your best friend says, “He’s a bus driver. God, please don’t tell me you’re gonna get all crazy over a bus driver. Why can’t you pick somebody decent for once? Or, better yet, why can’t you just be by yourself for a while? Just sit back and wait. You only find love when you’re least suspecting it. Don’t be desperate. Desperation shows. Just be happy and self-confident and the right man will come along.”

She doesn’t really say all that, but you can tell by her face that she’s thinking it. Again.

“I gotta go. Me and Julio have to look at halls for our reception.”

Maybe he’s not just a bus driver. Maybe he’s secretly an artist. And you’re not desperate, either. You’re just. . .

Your mother says, “He probably has a pregnant girlfriend at home. He probably deals drugs. He probably picks up old ladies at bars, gives them the best sex of their lives, then steals their purses. You always pick men like that—men like your goddamned father.”

(No, she didn’t say that. Your mother’s dead, remember?)

He doesn’t
have
to do those things. Or, if he does do those things, it’s probably only because no one ever loved him. If you had the chance, you’d . . .

Your father says, “He probably just wants to use you for your money. Don’t let him, honey. Hey, do you mind running down to the store? We ran out of beer.”

He’s drunk. What does he know?

Maybe you don’t mind buying a few lunches, a few dinners, even a few shirts or gallons of gasoline, to be with a man this handsome who’s starving for your love. Money is something you can spare on love. Maybe he’s secretly a musician and you can snuggle on the couch as you watch your favorite movies and he can write songs for you and you can help him get a better job . . .

The face on the magazine says, “Yeah, sure he likes you. If he has a fetish for fat asses. Not to mention your acne and chin hair. Why don’t you whiten your teeth before you get carried away imagining that a man would find you attractive?”

It’s airbrushed. Don’t listen.

Maybe he doesn’t mind your fat. Or maybe he actually likes the way you look. Maybe he sees your inner beauty. Maybe he sees that you’re secretly an artist . . .

The devil says, “He’s watching you. He thinks about you every night. He wants to squeeze your fat ass in his hands and laugh in your face while you come. And it’s gonna be the best fucking sex of your life. Go get him. All it takes is a six pack. A bottle of tequila. A bag of weed. Just show him the money. Hell, show him your panties. He’ll know what to do. Sure, he’ll treat you bad, but you can treat him bad, too. When’s the last time you felt good mixed with bad, instead of just bad? Do it. Do it now. Do it all night. Call in sick tomorrow. Quit your job. Drive to Mexico. Fuck everybody. Drink. Come. Laugh. Don’t comb your hair. Kill somebody. Who cares what you do? Nobody cares about you. Do whatever you want.”

No . . . no . . . There’s a rosary at home, in your dresser drawer. Don’t listen to the devil.

You twist and sweat, alone in your bed. Maybe . . . maybe . . . maybe . . .

Your high heels click down the street. Don’t listen, don’t listen, their rhythm says. Don’t think, don’t think, they say when you walk faster.

The bus door opens. Don’t look, don’t look.

The bus driver says, “Hi.”

What do you say?

You say, “Hi. I love you. I know you don’t love me yet, but please say you’ll come with me and let me love you. I know no one else sees the good in you, but I see it, and I know that you’ll be able to see the good in me. I’ve been dreaming about you for weeks. I’ve been carrying around this love, these dreams, this sickly sweet baby-talking affection in my chest. Nobody’s ever appreciated it before and it wells up inside me, just waiting for the right man. Let me love you. I know I can make us happy. I’ll do everything. All I need is for you to look at me and say that you believe it. I love you. Let me make you happy.”

The bus driver looks straight ahead. He pulls the crank that closes the door and drives his bus down the street. He’s not looking at you anymore.

He doesn’t hear you.

But I hear you. And I know exactly what you mean.

To the Last Man I Slept with and All the Jerks Just like Him (For Real this Time)

I
thought you were supposed to be the brave one.

I thought you were the brave one, motherfucker. You keep on telling me how you fought in the war, how you fight in the bars, how you fight in your mind every Saturday night after you’ve had your beer. You make the big bucks. You swing the tools. You’ve got the upper body strength. You’re not a pussy, because pussies are weak, right?

Am I supposed to admire you because you hit people to make a point? Am I supposed to be afraid of you because you hurt people, because you’re afraid that if you don’t, one of your kind will call you a faggot or, worse, a
woman?

I’m braver than you will ever be. The difference between you and me is that I have the guts to say that I’m afraid. I’m not so scared of what others think that I have to hide it when I get hurt. I don’t have to get drunk to have an excuse to cry. When I hurt, I cry out loud. I call all my friends on the phone and say, “Ow. I am hurting.” I rip off my bodice and go bleed in the middle of the street so everyone can see my wounds while I go to pick up my laundry. I BUY MY SANITARY NAPKINS AT THE DRUG STORE AND I DON’T CARE WHO KNOWS IT.

I hurt, I cry, I bleed, and then I pick myself up and move on. I don’t take it out on someone smaller than me. I don’t numb myself with chemicals and then cry and hug my buddies and then form a gang with them so we can beat up another gang of crying drunk guys at a bar. I don’t make up elaborate games so I can hug my buddies and touch their asses and then throw a football and go break the bones of a team of other guys who hug each other and touch each others’ asses.

I tell my friend, “You look pretty.” If we feel like it, we cry. I don’t call my buddies and say, “Hey, let’s form a special club for men only where we can wear special uniforms or make secret rules and then gang-rape women and beat the shit out of faggots and then lie for each other so it’ll last forever.” I know you do all that just so you can get drunk enough to play one of those games involving our penises (that aren’t homo because you say so.) Then, late at night, right before you slip into a drunken stupor with blood on your fists, you can finally look down at my buddy and think, just for a split second, “You are pretty.” Or whatever it is that you guys do. I don’t understand it. All I know is that it isn’t brave.

My
pussy
is braver than you. I let you fuck me and then my pussy will push out one of your kind (and, yeah, it hurts— you know it does) and, as long as you stay out of my way, I’ll make him a better man than you even know how to be.

You wanna know the bravest thing about me? It’s that even though I
know
how you are—how all your type is— how you, in the name of bravery, will hit me, rape me, degrade me, clitorectomize me, and make sure I get paid less than you. . . . Even though I know all that, I’m
still
brave enough to go outside. I’m so brave, I go out every day and talk to you, listen to you, buy from you, date you, work with you, dance with you, marry you, care for you, defend you, and put up with your bullshit.