Accusation

We went down to the family room for an early dinner. When we leaned together to kiss, I was shocked to smell pussy, and so I said, "You totally smell like pussy." He said maybe it was his armpits; he hadn't showered yet. Come on -- BO doesn't smell like 'down there' plus it was his face I was next to, not his pits. It couldn't have been the chicken, could it? And remember the other day when I saw hair comb in his van? Do I ask him if he's been cheating on me? And then do I believe him if he says no? An accusation of infidelity is the same as a judgment of guilty. I believe he would, if it were easy. And so many girls make it easy.

Oh look, he's calling. I've already decided I won't pick up. There, he didn't leave a message. That's probably the last time he'll call. He's not one to grovel.

Pictures are running through my head -- his face between her legs; her sitting in the passenger seat laughing. She wants the same thing I want -- connection.

Shania Twain's "Whose Bed Have Your Boots Been Under?" is helping me 'cause it asks the questions I'm thinking without being maudlin and sad. "Whose bed have your boots been under, and whose heart did you steal I wonder? This time did it feel like thunder, baby. Who do you run to? Whose lips have you been kissing, and whose ear did you make a wish in? Is she the one that you've been missing, baby.

He called again. And then again. I picked up on the third time. "Are you mad at me?" he asked. "Is it because of American Gladiators?" So I asked if he had another girl on the side, and we talked about it. He said no. He said he couldn't believe I'd think that. Then he said he'd love to cuddle with American Gladiator's Helga. So that wasn't much of a help. No 'I love only you forever.'

I hate wanting him so much; I hate needing him so much. I want to take a break. I'd rather break up than ask him to be different.