She Keeps Telling Me That I Don't Understand

In Bed: The Kiss by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec 1892

Timmy was nearly my height, though slightly shorter and far thinner. He looked like one of those hipster children you find wondering the streets at night smoking clove cigarettes and trying to sound far more interesting then they really wore. Only unlike those kids Timmy hated cloves and preferred to chain smoke menthol camels as he paced and talked his way through life. On a cold night like tonight it made him look like a human steam engine barreling along without a track or hope. "She keeps telling me that I don't understand what she's gone through," he was saying this night, "like it's impossible for me to know what it's like to have shitty parents or to watch someone die and you can't do anything about it."

I watched him hit the end of the sidewalk and turn back as I sipped whiskey directly from the bottle. Have you considered that she might mean something more than just her terrible life story?

"You make her sound like she's a character in a play."

We're all characters in a play, Tim. Always have been.

He stopped pacing, "How much have you had to drink."

Drink? I'm a teetotaler and your suggestion that I might be imbibing the devil's brew highly offends my delicate sensibilities, I said as I took another sip. Go on with you diatribe before I rise up from this bench and address your uncouth manners with pistols at dawn.

He smiled, "She doesn't believe that I can understand what it's like to have people use you for what's between your legs."

That's a rather unkind assessment of what you're packing. 

"I know, right? I told her that I'm a highly sought after male specimen and that there were women throwing themselves at me on a daily basis."

So you lied to her in the hopes that she wouldn't remember how desperate you were to get her pants off?

"Well yeah."

Did she fall for it?

"No," he said with mock outrage as he lit another cigarette. "Instead she just roller her eyes, took off her pants, and laid down on the back seat of the car."

That one has a giving soul.

"She does at that," he said with a laugh, "I only wish that laying with her was worth the time and effort."

Rather an uncharitable characterization of the only woman who's allowed you to pull that disgusting thing out of your pants without laughing at you. 

"I know, but you just don't know what it's like to constantly be told that you don't understand. I understand plenty - more than she's likely to ever encounter."

Don't be a fool. He stared at me with a bit of shock in his face. You're talking about a woman that's going into the army and we're at war. She's going to see more terribleness in the coming months than you've ever dreamed of - no matter how many opium dens and crack houses you explore. 

He attempted a half-hearted waving me off and said, "I know. I know. I tried to get her to stay. I told her that she didn't have to go off into the deserts all the way across the world to kill people when her leaving was killing me here."

I handed him the bottle as I said, What did she say to that?

"The only thing you're killing is my vibe."

Bitch don't kill my vibe, I sang.

"This isn't funny. My heart is breaking and I don't know what to do."

Hearts break, I said as he handed me back the bottle. It's an inevitable side effect of being alive and human. You find a woman who'll let you do all the horrible things you've been reading about in the Penthouse forum for the last decade and then she has to go and let you develop feelings for her. 

"A damned, dirty trick."

It is at that. 

Now you start thinking about taking her home and asking her to stay for longer than the night. Only she'd rather be climbing into the arms of some Fabio impersonator who has about as much personality as he has chest hair because his arms are muscular and his steroid shriveled cock is hidden behind those tight leather pants. 

"Are we still talking about me?"

I'm sharing too much again, aren't I?