File Under: Will She Never Learn?

An unmitigated disaster.

Decided to take MK up on his offer to see his new apartment. That's code for "Have Sex," people. Met him at Sin w/Z, whose girl came out as well.

Had a couple of beers there, then on to a sushi restaurant at the corner of E 4th and 1st Ave. I can't for the life of me remember what it is called.

Ate a lot of sushi, with hot sake. Mistake #1: Sake on top of beer.

Made our way to MK's new digs, which are actually quite cute and probably the steal of the century in the East Village at $1500 a month. But still a bachelor pad -- computer sitting on upturned crate, TV on floor in doorway of bedroom. A real candidate for a Queer Eye makeover.

But -- he did have a good bottle of wine AND weed. Mistake #2: Marijuana and wine on top of sake on top of beer. I had one hit off his bowl -- harsh weed, set me choking. that was enough for me. Meanwhile, I watched in fascination as he smoked, and smoked and smoked.

Oh my god, my ex boyfriend has become a pothead. This was a man who I saw drunk maybe a half dozen times the entire time we were dating. He was the original Have One Drink and Nurse the Second All Night guy. And here he had gone drink for drink with me AND was firing up again and again.

And then he started to tell me a story. About his current girlfriend, how he believes she cheated on him, she denies it, but he has evidence, blah-de-blah-de-blah. He was pacing and angry and there was so much dark energy coming off of him that I didn't recognize him. Time had changed him

The realization came over me slowly. (I'm a slow learner). This wasn't a sweet reunion of two old lovers who would make love one last time, then part with all of our happy memories intact. This wasn't a misty tale of love lost and found and lost again that I would write about for the Sunday Times "Modern Love" column.

This was a Revenge Fuck.

I began to cry. And I couldn't stop. I put my hands over my eyes like a small child and began to sob. MK appeared shocked, scared. He never did know what to do with my tears. No one ever does. I do such a good job of faking people out with my "I'm impervious to pain" facade, that when I cry people become frightened. I got up and pulled on my boots.

"I have to go right now."

"Why are you crying?" He tried to comfort me -- had his arms around me.

"I used to be your number one girl!" I wailed. It was the only coherent sentence I could form. "I'm not going to be number two!"

Keep in mind -- and Thank Fucking God -- there had been no nakedness up to this point.

He walked me downstairs to get a cab.

I ran away from him up first avenue. Z, I thought, Z will help me, he will talk to me, he will calm me down, he will give me mellower weed to soften all this. Phone calls to Z -- unanswered (it was late after all). I'm on 5th Street, now, and I go into Fish Bar, looking for Z, after making swipes at my tears to try to be more presentable. By the way, that's a sad, scary crowd of drunks and losers that sits there night after night.

Maybe EVG is around with a bowl for me to smoke. Text him but no reply.

Back onto 2nd Avenue, into a cab. Using my "Mad 20" to get home. Doubled over in the back of the cab, sobbing.

Get home, feed cats. Sit on floor of bedroom, sobbing some more.

Peel off clothing and crawl naked into bed.

Horrible, horrible night. Because, apparently, my capacity for humiliation and abasement is limitless.

Delete EVG from my cell phone -- AGAIN.

Resolved: Give EVG's level, which he left at my house, to Z to give back to him. I can't won't mustn't be around people who are dangerous to me.

Resolved: Stay out of the East Village after dark. It's fucking 'Salem's Lot over there, with vampires who take the blood I am willingly and foolishly opening veins for. (Not you, Z, you know that, but let's stick to brunches for a while, umkay?)