Stephen (the guy I was seeing; the one I so foolishly thought I was going to marry) ended things this morning. Over the phone. While he was driving to his eighth straight day at work.
I've been robbed of the dignity I would've had by ending things first. We've had many problems in our very short time together. From early on, I found it difficult to adjust to his unpredictable and erratic behaviour. On our second date, he said "I already know how I'm going to propose to you." On our third date, he (jokingly) said "I know it's early, but will you marry me?" I laughed it off, but later that evening, I did tell him that I loved him. He responded with "I think I love you too."
He had a business trip to the UK after our third date. He called me daily. One evening (while drunk), he said "I do love you, you know that... right?"
He was honest from the beginning about his shortcomings: he smoked too much pot, he was terrible with money, he had a bad history with infidelity... I took these things in stride, knowing that no one's perfect.
The high point was reached on my birthday (January 30th). He took me out for an amazing dinner, and told me repeatedly "you're the best thing that's ever happened to me."
The bloom was off the rose in early February. Stephen had a doctor's appointment, and I met him afterward for lunch. His doctor had noticed a mark on his hand and decided a syphilis test was in order. "Don't worry babe," he told me. "If I have syphilis, it would be like the immaculate conception. I had almost no sex last year." He started to pull away from me after that point. Two weeks later, he called and told me that the test was positive. I couldn't get an appointment with my GP, so off to the free clinic I went. After enduring that humiliation — and post-exposure prophylaxis for syphilis — Stephen called and dropped another bomb on me: he was sure he contracted it in the UK.
Monogamy is tricky at best in the human mammal; it's almost non-existent among gay men. But it was way too soon for this problem to pop up on the radar.
While I write this, I'm fighting the urge to put my feelings down on paper, tuck it into the shoebox full of his stuff (including souvenirs from England and the first season of BSG), and drop it off at his house. I want to be the bigger person, and not act out of spite. I want him to realize that he let a quality, husband-material guy slip out of his hands.
Stephen introduced me to BSG, but I will never be able to watch it again. I will always associate it with him. The sombre, haunting intro music goes through me like a knife. I can't take the darkness, the death, the fear...