I've been writing this Confessions of a Fuckboy column for a month now. Thank you to all who have tuned in, reached out or cursed my name. I think we're getting to know each other pretty well, all things considered.
You can probably agree that I am a fuckboy, no matter who you are, because of both the things I've written about and the liquid definition of that word to begin with. Whatever your interpretation of a fuckboy is, you've truly made me feel like yours. Thank you for that.
I feel I haven't totally lived up to my side of the bargain, though. I haven't really given you a confession. I haven't really yanked any skeletons out of my closet; I've just really gone in there for black T-shirts and jeans.
So that's what this post will be. Not some diatribe or condescending rant. No preaching. Just me getting something off my chest.
Mitch, I fucked your girlfriend. I fucked her so much, dude.
I fucked her on your sofa. I fucked her on your balcony and on the hood of my car in your driveway, one night when you were on assignment and the streetlights were out and we were getting bored.
She legit texted me saying, "Come fuck me in the driveway." I said, "What are you, crazy?" She said, "I want him to see us. I want him to see me loving it, what he's missing. I want him to be reminded and I want you to make me remember it, what it feels like to be wanted."
That night, when you got home, she texted me in emojis. Pointer finger + taco shell = thumbs up.
She didn't make me do it, but she made it hard for me not to.
You treated her like such shit. Kind of like the way you treated me: all welcoming when I first arrived, helpful, gregarious, showing me how things are done in this office and how to do them right. Then came the glib remarks, the backhanded compliments, the slow, steady barrage of public belittlements.
She initiated the whole thing. It all started that night downtown when you were honored for … what was it? Associate of the year? When you posed for photos with her at your side and spent the afterparty pouring Coors Light on her shoulders so she'd squeal.
You're such a gentleman. Did you notice that I was the one who dried her off?
The scary part is I don't even know if you realized you'd lost her. She sensed a connection between us. We were doing it for about a year, sneaking around to hotels and driveways and dark roads down the shore. Sometimes, she would sneak into our office at lunch and have me fondle her in the restroom. Then I would slink up to your desk and ask to borrow a pen.
I'm sorry, man, but this isn't an apology. It's a confession. I didn't feel bad. But it was a bit unnerving to have something so sweet come packaged with such sting.
I was at a point in my life when all my Tinder matches looked like their fathers had worked in radiation plants, and you were pouring beer on her shoulders, and she reached out to me with those eyes, and I wanted to help her. She looked so lost.
She made me tacos. We drank rum. She brought her guitar over and played this Band of Horses cover she said you hated. And after she walked out the door, I spent every damn hour trying to un-hum that tune from my head.
We're running a blender in a lightning storm, disguised as a blessing I'm sure/knowing up here, there comes a fork in the road/pants have gotta go, we're on an Island on the fourth of July/it looks like the tide is going home...
I loved her, eventually. I kept telling her to leave you, knowing full well that was the one thing I could do to make sure she never did.
This is why you and I aren't friends anymore. This is why I left the office. Not because you got that account or that promotion, and not because you took her and left for San Antonio. It's because my mind wanders every time I pull into the damn driveway.
You won and you don't even know it. I just want you to know things could have been different.
Oh, and by the way, congratulations. I heard you're going to be a dad. You might want to check the kid's eye color.