Moses should have given us an 11th commandment:
Thou shalt not pitysex.
I never cheated, I never killed someone, I never coveted my neighbor’s donkey, I only broke a very small number of hearts, but I did commit pitysex many, many times.
I guess that says something about me. I’m the type of person that bends over too quickly. If you’d browse this site, you’ll find that pitysex is a recurring cast member in my love life. Somehow I can feel so sorry for people I do them the favor of surrendering my entire sexuality to their every desire.
Not to pad myself on the shoulder, but people actually tell me I’m too good. Perhaps they’re right. I pity a reject and then proceed to have sex with it. Not even Mother Theresa took generosity to that level.
Of course, it’s not really generosity. It’s just a deeply rooted insecurity that I rationalize as being generous so I don’t have to cry myself to sleep.
If I had sex out of generosity, I would feel good about it afterward. Instead, when I pitysex someone, I always end up loathing myself. And then I move on to loathing the ugly duckling I’ve just given it to. Generosity has very little to do with any of that.
Guy #88 was such an ugly duckling, a duckling who turned out to be ten years older than what it said on his dating profile.
That wasn’t the worst thing about Guy #88.
He was a closet case. Living in a closet makes you secretive and reclusive as you become a bearer of secrets. The closet had turned Guy #88 into a sneaky weasel. Everything about him was an act. I could not catch him on any authenticity whatsoever.
His most blatant lie was his body pic. He had managed to land at my kitchen table based on someone else’s body. He didn’t mention it and I was being too ‘generous’ to burst his bubble. He just sat there, knowing he had lied his way into my house, knowing it was only a small step from my kitchen to my bedroom. So instead of apologizing for his saggy body he started a rant about the closet being so lonely.
I could tell his melancholy was part of his act, but still I felt pity, mixed with increasing amounts of self loathing. For some reason my act of having sex with Guy #88 seemed more logical than just saying No, I don’t want you, you’re fat and you lie about everything, get out of my kitchen.
Guy #88 acted lonely. I acted generous. Together we were as sad as Kim Jong-un jerking off to a box of Pringles.
Between Guy #88 and me, I took the role of Pringles. It’s difficult to feel pride after such an ordeal.
All of this took place in Suriname, South America.
I had recently moved (back) to this country and Guy #88 had been my first date there. It’s a small country, where homosexuality is sort of just okay, a country with only one gay nightclub, a place where those few that were out of the closet gathered once a week.
That’s where I spotted Guy #88 a few weeks later, and again, again and again. He even tried to hit on me, again and again.
The bastard wasn’t even in the closet. He was just a sneaky weasel that happened to be gay.