The Breakup

I have been with the same person for about two years now. I have spoken about him on this website, mostly in a terrible context. He REFUSES to read my writing, but I think it is more likely that he actually does not know how to read. Friends asked several times while we were together why we stayed together, and I really couldn’t come up with an answer and didn’t see that I had to justify it. It was constantly explained to me that he was an unintelligent buffoon and I was on some completely different level of intellectualism than him. (HA, that’s funny saying to this audience.) Part of that could be believed, but everyone, including me, knows that I’m a total tard and am not ashamed of it. I embrace it. But Precious, which is how I will refer to him, was some “slick photographer dude” from New York City. A few weeks after he met me, he took me to Cancun, and being the type of gal that considers Red Lobster the highest echelon of dining, and after just getting out of a five-year relationship with a man who had become a morbidly obese hourly crack smoker since we had started dating (I know, morbidly obese and crack smoker doesn’t go together, but apparently my presence has weird effects on men), and after dropping that one-hopping from bar to bar opening my legs for just about any drooling plug who could shove me in a car, poor more booze down my throat, and get me naked before I passed out, and do the deed whether or not I was conscious, Precious was a way to get out of this and to start a new life.

I must digress from this for a second. I want to say that in this, and many columns I write, I am not writing out of self-pity. I am all the better for everything and tend to have a sense of humor about all of this seemingly terrible stuff. Please, I want no “take care of yourself” messages after this. I do not want pity. That’s all. Now back to the story.

Precious was great at first. He had money. He was a big-time photographer and making money flying back and forth from New York photographing big-time models. A little more than a year after dating me he is now homeless, jobless, and literally cannot ride the bus because he does not have a dollar...literally. I can’t really blame this on myself. He consciously made every choice that he made.

There is a secret that he does not want me to reveal. In fact, he has never revealed it to me, but I know. He is a flaming faggot. It is evident in several facets of his life. He is one of those guys who HATES gay men SOOO much that he can’t be within 50 feet of one. Any man who acts like that craves cock—it’s a fact of life. I remember I brought home these trannie magazines from work one day, and he flipped his fucking gourd. He said it was sick and demanded that I remove them from the house at once. I immediately started to wallpaper my house with them—because this was MY house—just to turn him on. He acted very angry, but believe me, when we were surrounded by photos of trannies, the sex was never better. I know he always craved that I had something extra between my legs.

I think I was a bit old for him, though, because Precious tended to lean toward boys in their teens instead of women in their twenties. When we were making the move out of the horrible apartment that he had made for us, he found a nubile, hairless, androgynous little boy to help him move. Now Precious (30) would NEVER share his weed with ANYONE. But little houseboy (15) got as much weed as he wanted. And often I’d come home to find his “office” door locked, and then Precious and Little Twinkie would walk out together later. What could have been going on in there???? I warn you, ladies and worms - if your partner has an OFFICE...and if the OFFICE door locks...there’s a 98% chance they perform the most sordid sex acts in there. Just go in there one day when they’re not home and check. They will hide them well, but I guarantee you’ll find butt plugs, double-sided dildos, strap-ons, sissy panties, diapers, used tampons, or whatever your partner is keeping as their special secret.

What ultimately ended the relationship was his inability to keep up his side of the rent, a vicious case of domestic abuse (on both sides), and the fact that after our brawl, we got evicted from our slum of an apartment. We had a fight and I kicked out the middle window of the apartment, and we had a police raid. This was funny, because it was literally the first time the police were EVER nice to me, and even though I completely told the truth that it was ME that kicked out the window, they would not believe me and thought I was covering for Precious and they wanted to cart him away. As angry as I was, I refused to lie about anything. So they just agreed to make him leave, and I didn’t press charges. It was ironic because this was one of the few times he had not hit me or almost hit me during an argument. I think I threw something at him and kicked out a window, but he got in trouble. Trust me, there was good reason for this. There was a slew of verbal belittling and threats against my life and all kinds of stuff. We’re both at fault for all the domestic violence.

I guess I must add here that he is an absolutely useless piece of shit. He has the brain of a retarded ape, and his boner generates every “idea” he’s ever had. Being from NYC, he does this INSANELY obnoxious thing where he gets this “New York Attitude” and starts talking himself up and all the models he’s shot and how he is the best…and really it is a cover-up for what a small little fucking wiener he is inside. He would not even be able to perform in the Special Olympics. He’s WAY too far-gone. Too fucking brain-dead. Too sick and worthless and depressing for that pity parade. The man is a walking big bag of douche. I remember a South Park episode when I think of him. It is the one where they declare John “Crossing Over” Edward the Biggest Douche in the Universe. I promise you, John Edward is indeed a douche, but he has nothing on Precious. I should fill him up with water and stick his head up my vagina and make him spit up there. That is what he may be good for. No, he would fail at that, too. He fails at everything. All of it.

I want to talk about the breakup, though, and the highlight of the best breakup I think I have ever had with anyone I have dated, ever. At the end of it all, we had been evicted from our last apartment and decided that the living-together thing was just not working. I moved in with my amazing Canadian landlords into the first and only place that I’ve ever lived in by myself. At one point, I made him an offer to live there, but he said no and that he had a place to go. Truth was, he didn’t. He said he had places to stay and that he would start making tons of money getting back into photographing models in Chicago. I think maybe he forgot that Chicago has virtually no fashion industry, and it is extremely hard to photograph models here unless it is for porn or you are willing to photograph couches for catalogues. He had his heart set on Ford and Wilhelmina girls, the types he had been shooting in New York. In Chicago, he just got shot down. He ended up for a while getting a really comical job taking stock photos at the Navy pier of all of the fat-asses and retards that got off of some boat. It was funny how degraded he was at that job. Here he was, Mr. Slick NYC “Chloe Sevigny sucks MY cock at NYC Model Parties” doing Kmart photography for minimum wage. Whenever he angered me, I remembered that he was doing that job, and I just chuckled to myself, took a Xanax, and my anger usually went away.

So Precious was a no-money hunny-bunny, and me and my unemployment and welfare were FAR surpassing ANYTHING he was getting. I moved into my one-bedroom apartment with my Canadian landlords in the heart of the ghetto, and even though Precious had SO many places to stay, he seemed to be spending an immense amount of time at my abode. I mean, I know I am a blast to be around, but I started to suspect that poor Precious had no other place to go. I didn’t want to ask him or upset him until he started to annoy the neighbors. I was, of course, savvy to his buffoonery, having dealt with it for about a year, but the Canadians were not used to his “New York ’tude.” When he got drunk while staying here and I was not here to occupy his time, he would trap my neighbors by talking to them incessantly and eventually annoying them to the brink of insanity with his mindless dribble, and they (being relatively nice folks who knew how to deal with tards) would try to nicely get him to leave, but it usually came down to having one of the dogs attack him in order to do the trick.

I didn’t mind him being there every once in a while, or a couple of days a week, but it started to happen that he had NO other place to go. It slowly, without me really knowing, became his home. He had moved his stuff in so slickly and took about three months doing it that I barely knew that he completely lived here…until the final fight happened.

I had always been involved in sex work in one way or another, but it was never my main job like it is now. He was staunchly opposed to me working in this “fetish dungeon” and told me I was not “allowed” to do it. I wondered up and down and asked him if this opposition was a matter of the fact that he felt the need to protect me and was worried about me, or if it was a matter of control or jealousy, and that he wanted me for himself. He, of course, said it was because he was worried about my well-being, but I knew that I was dealing with a real jealous motherfucker when if I, for example, made a comment about how Heath Ledger was hot as a homo cowboy, or that I had recently interviewed Crispin Glover and was going to masturbate with the water bottle I took from him, he would get very angry. Jealousy, folks. Control issues.

I got the dungeon job that I have had for a couple of months now and at first he called it quits for good. But then I think he realized that if he did, he would be S.O.L. on his whole life, so we made an agreement that I would do this fetish job, but NEVER EVER tell him about it or what went on while I was there. It was a rather bizarre way of dealing with things on his part by completely denying everything that was going on, but I thought this denial “phase” might pass. He would then eventually loosen up and we would be able to come to some other sort of agreement. I could also tell that my job secretly turned him on because he started to do things like refer to me as ma’am, which I would ALWAYS discourage, because it made me feel old and gross. Plus in our sex life I wanted to be dominated. I did not want the roles to switch and for him to want me to have to tie him up at home. That was for him to do to me.

When I started the job, I was very desperate for money and I did not need someone living in my house, consuming everything that I had in that house including me and my brain, and then degrading me about my job. At this point, he would talk about all this work he had, but he would never have a dime and I had to feed him food, cigarettes, booze, housing, sex, and then deal with his depression about not being able to be employed. I may sound callous, but he continued to blame me for the fact that he was living in Chicago and unemployed, but whenever I brought the idea of him moving back to New York to go back to his old life, he was strictly opposed. So I was basically his scapegoat for why his life sucked here, and as a result I had to support him in every way.

He made me happy, and the domestic violence stopped. We still fought from time to time, but his crazy denial of what I was doing, and my trying NEVER to talk about work to him seemed to be working. I would use his computer to write these graphic articles about my work and save them on his desktop. He knew that they were all on CJ, but he would NEVER look. It was all a bit curious to me. I mean if the roles were switched, I'd LOVE to hear EVERYTHING he was doing. But I was his little delicate flower, and to him I was not pissing on people, I was not changing diapers, I was not wrestling with naked men, I was not even getting spanked or spanking anyone else. I really have NO idea what he thought I was getting paid for, but he NEVER asked.

One day, extremely frustrated by my current job, I decided I wanted to do a small experiment and I wrote an ad up about how I was experienced in fetish work and in the ad I gave a few examples of some fetishes that would be interesting and the I definitely put in there that I wanted people to SEND me their sexual fantasies and I would try to work with them. I then took this ad and posted it on and posted it on a popular website about how I was experienced in fetish work and I put a few fairly common fetish scenarios as examples, but what I wanted was people to respond with their bizarro shit so my pervy invasive nosy ass could read it and get ideas from it. And then if someone was to offer me some money to do an easy scenario or a fun one, I was thinking I might try branching out on my own, but that was very secondary, and only in a possibility stage.

Now when I wrote this ad, I made no effort to hide it from Precious. I had used his computer to write it and even saved a copy of it on his desktop. The following day I go to my job where I cannot receive or make any personal phone calls. While I am at work putting some 70 year old congressmen in a diaper, Precious is at my home trying to check his email and this ad pops up on his computer because I didn't log out. Like I said, I didn't think to ever hide it from him. But he sees this and goes absolutely apeshit. He immediately drinks all the liquor in the house which, if I estimate, would be about a fifth or more of vodka, and probably snuck in some of my pills as well. He gets COMPLETELY wasted out of his skull, and then storms downstairs to where my friend and LANDLORD lives, and holds him hostage there with his sob story of the fact that he has "suddenly discovered" that the love of his life (me) is a dirty hooker and is prostituting herself out to fuck guys over the internet.

Little did I know that when I was putting a horse bit into my coworker's mouth, that Precious was drunkenly trying to get me kicked out of my wonderful little apartment because of his jealousy over an ad which was very innocent in nature and without talking to me, he had no idea what was really going on. I leave work and call Precious as I usually do and I cannot understand him. He is crying and slurring and I have no idea what is going on. He starts to barf out words like whore, and internet and landlord and prostitution and ads and the website I posted the ad on and then he starts slurring about how he's packing his bags and leaving and we'll never see each other again and blah blah blah and suddenly everything starts coming together. My first and main reaction was that of extreme anger that he chose to jump to all of these conclusions and then go down and vindictively tell my LANDLORD about some "secret" he discovered that I never even tried to keep from him in the first place.

I then drive home and meet this disheveled broken retard to talk. Arguments and explanations ensue which I could talk about forever. There is one amazing highlight to the argument that is very much worth mentioning here. At one point, after crying and yelling, Precious gets very somber. He starts to tell me, slowly, about something that he heard when he was seven years old, and that these words that he had heard have stuck with him his entire life, and that he can't get the words out of his head right now. He is completely serious. I am thinking that he is going to tell me some moving words that his father had told him, or when he found God, or just something mildly profound. It was profound. He then quoted an NWA song. In a very serious way. He started to talk about how Eazy E said "a ho is a ho" and "you can't turn a ho into a housewife" and then he actually went into about two verses of an nwa song about ho's. And he does this all completely seriously. To him, NWA was the voice of reason in his young life, and he is now living the songs. I realize I am in the midst of a very serious situation with someone who I care a lot about, but I could not help but burst out laughing. I couldn't stop either. I had to ask if he was serious. Not only did he say he was serious, but he almost started crying and saying that I didn't give a shit. I reminded him that he had just seriously quoted an NWA and applied it to our lives. He still did not find it amusing.

He did end up leaving that night. I locked myself in my bedroom and wouldn't let him go until he sobered up and he got a friend to pick him up and he is currently living with him. Precious is out of my house and I have to admit despite the fact that I had to feed him, keep him good and drunk and marijuane'd and nicotined and he was draining my finances greatly and consistently acting like a complete buffoon wherever we went and ruining the elegant reputation I have made for myself up until now, I still miss him a little. A LITTLE. Precious is a buffoon. I was so scared to face my landlord or any of my neighbors/friends for a great many days and just wanted to keep myself locked in little room of ill repute I had made for myself.
But I had a run in with the landlord and he basically said that Precious was insane and he tried to tell him anything that he could possibly think of that would make Precious leave him the fuck alone in the least amount of time.

My reputation as a fetish ho but not a real ho (is there a difference?) is back. I guess the difference is the fact that I could be thrown in jail for one, and jail is almost never a fun time. Although I am discovering that there are many men out there who will pay big money to be treated as if they were prisoners in a third-world jail, but I guess there is some appeal to this given the fact that they get to leave the situation after a few hours. As far as Precious, I don't know if it's the end. I mean he quoted Eazy E in an argument, that's pretty fucking awesome. But he can be such an ape at times.

A rather interesting update to the story is that since Precious has been away from me for a week he got accepted to not one but two high class waiter jobs, and even though he is a photographer in the mean time , he needs money. It just took a mere week away from my house to give him drive. I don't know what happens to these psychos, am I the only sane one in this world?