my girlfriend

I spent Christmas morning cleaning vomit off my white comforter. 

The night before — my 32nd birthday — I’d thrown up while deep-throating Bubs. I’d done it on purpose, but the mess was more intense than I’d anticipated. He was utterly unfazed, but I immediately told him we needed to get in the shower. 

Then, drunk off tequila, we decided to abandon my soiled bedspread altogether and go to his place to continue our night.

Hours earlier Bubs had sent me a text: “Let’s go drink.”

It was Christmas Eve and Los Angeles was a ghost town, as most people had left the city for the holiday. We went to a bar called Mama Shelter, where the scene was a gathering of Xmas outcasts — the outliers who weren’t home celebrating with family.

We were on the rooftop, situated on a daybed with our second round of drinks, when Bubs casually slipped into our random conversation about Jennifer Garner’s tendency to look masculine: “...That’s what my girlfriend always says.”

I digested the jarring words with a straight face, but inside I was activated. The thing I’d been trying to get him to say — to admit — escaped his mouth as easily as his drink order had twenty minutes earlier. 

Weeks prior, during pillow talk after sex, I asked him flat out, “Do you have a girlfriend?”

“I don’t care, obviously,” I insisted as I reached over him to ash my joint in the tray on my nightstand. His little pink lips stretched into a sly smile, but he said nothing. I guess he didn’t need to; it was written on his face. But without verbal confirmation I was left to wonder. Maybe his relationship status was “complicated,” versus an unequivocal “taken.”

At the time, I truly meant it when I said I didn’t care. I had nothing invested in our connection. It was my first time seeing him in months; I barely knew him. Plus, I was about to go out of town for weeks and didn’t know when or if I’d see him again. 

But by the time we were on the rooftop, things between us had evolved. Now I cared. “So you’re in a long-distance relationship?” I asked, circling back a few minutes later.

I’d kind of known all along that he had a girlfriend. I’d used my tool box of resources — intel, instinct, and the internet — to connect the dots. But there was still a slither of uncertainty because I hadn’t heard it straight from him.

Hearing Bubs confirm it in his own words shifted the dynamic. It was like I was okay with it as long as I didn’t know for sure. As long as there was a gray area. But after his admission his status became clear, with no room for interpretation.

I should’ve gone home alone that night. Instead I spent it with the thought of Bubs’s girlfriend on the back of my mind as we had anal sex for the first time. 

When we woke up the next morning the thought was still there. The situation reminded me so much of my past scenario with Blake. I had to say something. I needed to be assertive this time around. So I mustered up the courage to say, “I feel weird that you have a girlfriend.”

Bubs was dismissive at first. “Now you feel weird? I don’t believe you,” he said lightheartedly as he wrapped his arms around me, burying my head in his chest. 

I wasn’t sure what time frame he was comparing to “now.” Was it “now” as opposed to last night, after I’d generously gifted him all three holes? Or was it “now” as opposed to weeks earlier when I’d said I didn’t care about his then-unconfirmed partner?

Bubs didn’t bother asking what I was feeling, so I voluntarily gave him a condensed version of how I’d been emotionally scarred by Blake. I explained how, like him, Blake had also been in an LDR while we were hooking up. I explained how he’d gotten me pregnant and then vanished months after my abortion. I summed it up, “...So this is kind of triggering.”

Bubs changed his tone slightly. “I get it,” he told me. “I’m not tryna put you in a weird situation. I just like spending time with you.” 

Then he kissed me. Again, and again, and again. I could barely bring myself to kiss him back. But I also couldn’t resist him.

We had sex. I decided it would be the last time. 

Normally I would have been vocal - moaning and calling him “babe” as I melted underneath him. But not this time. He wasn’t my baby; he belonged to someone else. I was muted and sad as I wondered how I’d found myself in this position again, catching feelings for someone who was emotionally unavailable.

Afterward, as I was slipping on my sweatpants, Bubs said, “Come back over later if you’re free.” 

I knew I wouldn’t go back. How could I? I gave him one last glance before I walked out the door, intending to never see him again.