On my run this morning it occurred to me that I’m dating too many men. Then, under an oak tree atop a picnic table I tried to name them all:
David is still in the picture, the Bad Texter, The Lawyer, Remington, Mr. Nerdy, the guy tonight, the guy tomorrow, another dude — no, two dudes who’ve been out of town, the guy who texted me that crazy shit the other night when Ann was here, another guy, another guy.
The other night I had to write down who and when this week and I still had 6 left over in the sidebar with no time to give.
Nameless, most of them, as I probably am to them.
I had a dream about The Neighbor two nights ago. His giant, turgid cock was all mine. My hunt was over and he was going to be with me forever. I was going to feel his fuzzy, muscular body jam into mine and I was going to die of bliss.
It was all a fantasy, even in the dream. He slipped through my fingers when he realized I was still in love with him. I denied it, but had no proof. “But look!” I’d shouted into space. “Look at all the other men I’m fucking!”
He could t believe me and so he faded away.
I awoke tortured and throbbing and then cried.
I’m dating too many men and not the right one.