Sunday, May 9, 2010

All My Exes Live In Texas (except for that one in California, who isn't really an ex anyway, but that's not how the song goes)

Recently through an absurd and completely unrelated series of events I've gotten in touch with a number of my ex boyfriends/crushes/booty calls/etc. So I figured what better way to celebrate this randomness than to share with others my impeccable taste in men.

Tri-guy was the start of this trip down memory lane. He was a guy I used to work out with and occasionally go dancing with in college and who I once asked on an only slightly awkward date. Tri-guy was awesome: incredibly sweet, hella smart, and ridiculously good looking to boot. I got the friend spiel after that one date but we actually did remain friends for a while after that until we both graduated and went different places. Last weekend I was registering for a softball tournament that was being held back in my college town when I look up and there's Tri-guy! Still as gorgeous as ever and from our brief reunion, evidently still an all around great guy. Just one problem though... I play in an LGBT softball league, this was an LGBT tournament, and tri-guy was wearing the shortest shorts since Reno 911 and a rainbow flag tank top. Whatever, I was still totally justified in my crush.

George is the next old flame up to bat, a guy so awesome I named my succession of mint plants after him and who left me a hilarious drunk dial voice mail just a few nights ago. He was another person I knew from college and it was all I could do to keep from hooking up with George while I was still with The One Who Got Away (coming up later). Unfortunately, George came around when I was trying to reconcile my waxing sexuality with my not-yet-waning Catholicism, so he had to deal with damaged grog. However, he made clear what his interest was and then stepped back. He never once pushed me to do anything I wasn't sure about or ready for. And if it wasn't for him I wouldn't have the awesome story about a hot make out session on the hood of someone else's car which is a lot better story than the time another college crush of mine passed out on the hood of my car and while I tried for an hour to get him up and back into the house, another person sat there and played the free games on my phone. George has promised to keep me in the loop for the next time he makes it back to Texas and I've promised to start scoping out car hoods.

Next up in the parade involves tales that aren't mine to share so instead I'll leave this warning to any future exes of mine:
If you want to tell stories after we break up that make me out to be an unreasonable bitch, chances are I can give you enough actual material to work with. You don't have to make shit up. Because if you do, you'll just wind up looking like a dumb ass and a douche bag when I talk with your current girlfriend and we compare stories about the different things you told each of us. And I will talk with your girlfriend, because evidently my superpower is the ability to become friends with the subsequent paramours of my exes.

Finally we have Cuba, The One Who Got Away (actually last up is another high school boyfriend who my mom just informed me is married and expecting a kid but that's all there is to that story so we'll just ignore him). Cuba's brief resurgence in my life came this morning when I went to get some coffee and one of the baristas there was a dead ringer for a slightly younger and shorter version of Cuba. So naturally I have to share this with him even though I wasn't able to send him photographic proof and we spent the next hour or so catching up. In actuality, Cuba didn't get away so much as different things in life: we wanted them. But I still care for him deeply and I'm glad we're still friends even if we only catch up a couple times a year and occasionally drunkenly make out when I go back to visit my home town. But Cuba, babe, if you ever want to join the poly circle you got my number. Rawr.

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