My Abortion Story
Last year I got knocked up by a dating coach. I can’t claim naivety since I knew what his profession was and had even sat in on a conference call while he attempted to guide a group of men from around the world into the skirts of their local drunk girls. However, while I was repulsed, I was also intrigued.
We met at a 12-step meeting. He was well spoken and short but handsome. We began a three-month Skype courtship while traveling around different parts of the world—me in San Francisco, him in Rio, me in Austin, him in Trinidad. I learned that he had two kids he didn’t exactly show up for, with a woman he verbally disrespected. He loathed his mother, and told me how he encouraged his first girlfriend to have sex with multiple men in front of him in order to help her “process” a gang-rape she went through years prior. Though he recounted this story with a sense of shame, I still should have taken it as a cue to bow out.
In a week of us sleeping together I did that thing that I hate that I do—I checked his phone. I know it’s a violation of privacy. I know it’s horrible. I know it’s dishonest and shitty. But I did it anyway. What I found was an email from his long-distance girlfriend that read, “I know something is wrong. Something feels off. I can’t lose you. If you want me to lose weight I will. Please don’t leave me. Without you I have nothing to live for.” I felt waves of nausea wash over me. I didn’t want to tell him what I’d done, so how could I get him to somehow tell me. A while later, when he was cooking us dinner her name popped up on his cell phone and he rejected the call. I carried on that night like everything was normal until, in the middle of sex, I just couldn’t stop myself from talking.
“I can’t get serious about you.” I said, continuing to ride him with a slow rhythm.
“You know I’m falling for you.”  He looked up at me.
“You already have a girlfriend.”  I said.
“You say that with such conviction.”  
 “I have to tell you something. You’re going to be mad.”
“What is it?”
“I checked your phone. And read your emails. I know you have a girlfriend.”
“How do you feel about that?” He grabbed my hips starting to slowly thrust into me again. This is so fucked up, I thought.
“I can’t date you if you have a girlfriend.” I said.
“I wasn’t afraid of you knowing. I was afraid to tell you.”
“I still can’t date you.” He pushed me off and got on top.
“I understand that.” He leaned down and kissed me.
What the fuck am I doing?
Continue

My Abortion Story

Last year I got knocked up by a dating coach. I can’t claim naivety since I knew what his profession was and had even sat in on a conference call while he attempted to guide a group of men from around the world into the skirts of their local drunk girls. However, while I was repulsed, I was also intrigued.

We met at a 12-step meeting. He was well spoken and short but handsome. We began a three-month Skype courtship while traveling around different parts of the world—me in San Francisco, him in Rio, me in Austin, him in Trinidad. I learned that he had two kids he didn’t exactly show up for, with a woman he verbally disrespected. He loathed his mother, and told me how he encouraged his first girlfriend to have sex with multiple men in front of him in order to help her “process” a gang-rape she went through years prior. Though he recounted this story with a sense of shame, I still should have taken it as a cue to bow out.

In a week of us sleeping together I did that thing that I hate that I do—I checked his phone. I know it’s a violation of privacy. I know it’s horrible. I know it’s dishonest and shitty. But I did it anyway. What I found was an email from his long-distance girlfriend that read, “I know something is wrong. Something feels off. I can’t lose you. If you want me to lose weight I will. Please don’t leave me. Without you I have nothing to live for.” I felt waves of nausea wash over me. I didn’t want to tell him what I’d done, so how could I get him to somehow tell me. A while later, when he was cooking us dinner her name popped up on his cell phone and he rejected the call. I carried on that night like everything was normal until, in the middle of sex, I just couldn’t stop myself from talking.

“I can’t get serious about you.” I said, continuing to ride him with a slow rhythm.

“You know I’m falling for you.”  He looked up at me.

“You already have a girlfriend.”  I said.

“You say that with such conviction.”  

 “I have to tell you something. You’re going to be mad.”

“What is it?”

“I checked your phone. And read your emails. I know you have a girlfriend.”

“How do you feel about that?” He grabbed my hips starting to slowly thrust into me again. This is so fucked up, I thought.

“I can’t date you if you have a girlfriend.” I said.

“I wasn’t afraid of you knowing. I was afraid to tell you.”

“I still can’t date you.” He pushed me off and got on top.

“I understand that.” He leaned down and kissed me.

What the fuck am I doing?

Continue

Notes:

  1. mizochelle reblogged this from cottonteeeth
  2. lieutenant-names reblogged this from vicemag
  3. tookcutieforarideinmydeathcab reblogged this from vicemag
  4. thesleepybeeper reblogged this from ataraxia-unbounded and added:
    My whole fucking heart…..I don’t know if ill ever be able to talk about this part of my life. Blurb.
  5. bettertoburnoutthantorust reblogged this from vicemag and added:
    Ok this story is crazy.
  6. operationaleshamarieguy reblogged this from vicemag
  7. halved reblogged this from vicemag
  8. ataraxia-unbounded reblogged this from kaylask
  9. zumainthyfuture reblogged this from kingjaffejoffer
  10. brutaux reblogged this from destinedreign
  11. rainstartstopour reblogged this from vicemag
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  13. kjude0908 reblogged this from theblackhippie and added:
    oh wow.
  14. babysandoval reblogged this from vicemag
  15. curleedee reblogged this from kingjaffejoffer and added:
    this, like pretty much everything on vice, is 100% true and not the juvenile scratchings of a creative writing major