My mother and I never talked about my love life. We maintained a silently agreed upon don’t ask don’t tell policy, which meant I ran off every time the subject of love and sex appeared on the horizon.
Guy #113 would go down in history as the only Guy I ever told my mother about:
“Mom, I may have met someone who I guess you could maybe call my boyfriend,” I said one day, after which my mother gave me a nice warm hug and told me she was very happy for me. She looked relieved, possibly because the last time she saw her son find love was when I was dating Girl #1, some six years prior.
A few days after informing my mother of the wonderful news, Guy #113 broke up with me. I never told my mother. Rather I stopped mentioning my boyfriend, until she quietly understood he was not to be brought up in conversation ever again.
Guy #113 had been a nice surprise. We dated each other for a few weeks during the 2012 holiday season. Our first date consisted of a conversation that lasted twice as long as it felt. On our second date we just got high and ended up in bed together.
The two of us had a lot in common, our sense of humor, the way we looked at things and people and the fact we both agreed Annafrid was the better ABBA singer.
Yet even though our personalities matched, our lives didn’t. Guy #113 had a successful career, a nice Amsterdam apartment and his life was in order. I on the other hand was a struggling telemarketer that lived with his mother, incapable of planning more than a few days ahead.
Having never had a serious relationship with someone I never gave much thought to the concept. To me relationships were like Ebola: It only happened to other people. I had heard some Oprahesque clichés about getting your own stuff in order before committing to anyone or anything, but I had been so busy exploring my sexuality I neglected Oprah for the glory of my libido. I never even thought of committing myself to Guy #113. It was just good fun to experience true intimacy with someone for a change, to experience a relationship that didn’t end by putting my clothes back on.
What I considered a relationship probably was more of an escape. When I was with Guy #113 I didn’t have to think about telemarketing, what to do with my life or how to deal with my mother’s baldness. What I did focus on was how nice it was to wake up next to someone who’d make me breakfast in exchange for oral. Commitmentwise, that was as close as I’d ever gotten with someone.
Guy #113 had goals based on life. I had goals based on a lack thereof. A few weeks into our relationship he sat me down and told me things would not be working out between us. It hurt a little, but mostly because I knew my libido had to search for breakfast elsewhere. When Guy #113 broke up with me, I couldn’t help but agree with him. In fact, my primary concern was that I had just told my mother about him.
The word relationship can have many definitions. To me Guy #113 became a relationship the moment my mother learned of his existence. I suppose it´s safe to say Guy #113 didn’t use his mother as a measure of intimacy.
Of course Guy #113 agreed to remain friends and of course this friendship bled out faster than you can say Grindr.
I guess love, much like my mother´s cancer, struck a few years ahead of its time.