Private Magazine

Month: November, 2015

All Dogs Go to Heaven, All Cats Go to Hell


Be my victim


Monogamy bores me. I prefer to keep it casual. My “official relationships” last anywhere from three to five months. After that, I can’t take it anymore. I resort to the quick n’ easy break up – via phone, text, or just out of nowhere one day. This doesn’t make me a bad person –  I just don’t have time for broken down bozos.

A few weeks ago, I broke up with Drew through text message. I figured we could be friends or something. We’d only dated three months. I couldn’t deal with his erratic behavior. I have my whole life to live. Something told me, “run away.”

Turns out, Drew is prone to psycho behavior more than I even knew. I heard my story Dick Fuzz got back to him, so he dressed up as a cat and posted a “Revenge Selfie.” Yes, we are talking about a full-length cat suit and fuzzy hat- that I didn’t know he even owned.  Is that not disturbing or what?

I’m going to tell you a story. It’s about trust issues, jealousy, and the time Drew looked through my phone.


My friend Maurice, a total social butterfly, and I are inside Just Vino. We are sampling some pinots and cabs, nothing major.  It’s just one of those kinds of nights when the world seems at your fingertips – late September, crisp and stimulating. The kind of night where anything could happen, especially on the corner of Main and Virginia.

“It’s Gypsy Parlor karaoke tonight,” says Maurice.

“No way,” I say. It’s been my short-term goal to perform “Whiskey in a Jar.”

“Yeah, it’s Thursday,” he says.

“Well let’s go,” I say.

I get into Maurice’s petite Toyota, and we jet off in the direction of Gypsy. I’m buzzed, and just now beginning to realize it.

“I’m going to have to sleep at Drew’s,” I say, “if I continue drinking wine like I’ve been drinking it.”

“Yeah, ok, why not invite Drew?” Maurice says.

“He is at some arts and crafts party,” I say. “I think. It’s at his friend’s house, this guy who’s randomly a millionaire.”

“Really?” says Maurice.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s right over here actually, on Linwood,” I say.  Maurice does a U-turn on West Ferry, so that we’re heading towards Linwood. “Should we just pick his ass up? We can go get Drew, and maybe have a drink there.”

Maurice and I pull behind Drew’s friend’s stately mansion. I mean, how sketchy is that, some random mansion? Anyway, Maurice and I knock on the back door. The middle-aged guests are all exiting through it, even though it’s barely ten. I peek into the kitchen. It appears all the booze is gone.

“Drew?” I say, walking through the kitchen. “Drew?”

Drew emerges, rosy-cheeked and presumably, two beers deep. He has a low alcohol threshold.

“Is there any vodka here?” I say.

“Actually, we should go to Gypsy,” Maurice says. “It looks as though the party is over.”

“Damn,” I say. “Oh well, want to go to karaoke with us?” I say.

“Yeah, sure,” says Drew.

Drew jams himself in the back seat of the petite Toyota, and once again, we jet off to Gypsy. He pulls out a brown paper gift bag packed with green tissue paper.

“Here you go,” Drew says.

I reach down into the bag, wondering what the fuck this could be. I pull out a crown, one that someone has made.

“It’s from the party,” Drew says.  “I had to buy something from Desiree.”

I look at Maurice, my fashion consultant, after putting the crown on my head. His mouth becomes a toad-esque frown of disapproval. The crown has three glittery white stalagmites jutting out, with a plastic lion’s head in the middle.

“Thanks Drew,” I say. “I’ll wear it to a Christmas party.”

Maurice, Drew, and I pour into Gypsy. A man is onstage singing “It’s All Coming Back to Me Now” by Celine Dion. There were things we’d never do again, but then they’d always seemed right. Drew sits in the corner. Maurice and I stand next to him.

“You got this?” Drew says, slouching against the wall.

“No, I don’t,” I say. I look at him like he’s crazy.

“I’ll get you a drink,” says Maurice.

Drew sits there, unflinched.

“Thanks Maurice,” I say.

I leave to put my name on the list to perform “Whiskey in a Jar”. Once I’m back at the bar, I end up talking mainly with Maurice. Drew hasn’t said much. Some metalhead-looking dude is staring me down from four feet away.  Maurice and I are having fun, like we were at Just Vino. Maybe I shouldn’t have brought Drew along.

Forty minutes later, I check with the emcee about my position on the karaoke list. He tells me that I’m next.

“Wow! Thanks,” I say.

I rush over to Maurice and Drew.

“i’m next!” I say, “Let’s do whiskey shots! Maker’s Mark!”

“I don’t want a shot,” Drew says.

“Ok fine, two then,” Maurice says.

“Why is he being a buzz kill?” I whisper to Maurice.

The emcee in a bowler hat calls out that it’s my turn. I rush up to the stage and seize the microphone. The resounding intro of “Whiskey in a Jar” begins.

“I took all of his money, and it was a pretty penny,”  I sing in my most deep-throated voice.  I kneel on the ground and fall back. “Yeah, and I brought it home to Molly.”

During the instrumental interlude, I walk down to floor-level.

“How are you doing tonight, sir?” i say, raising my microphone towards a middle-aged chubby guy. Before he says anything, I turn and strut away.

Before I know it, the song is over. There’s a brief smatter of applause.

“Thank you dear, what a beautiful mess you are, that was really something,”  the emcee says.

I take that as a compliment, as I was channeling Courtney Love.


Back at Drew’s apartment, he puts on Aliens (his choice again, obviously) and I pass out on the couch. I don’t know how much time has passed when I’m woken up, the living room light still on, and my heels and vintage Dooney shoulder bag being thrown in my direction.

“Get out,” Drew’s at the end of the hallway. “I looked through your phone.”

“You what?” I say, in a sobered-up, half asleep slur. “That’s an invasion of privacy.”

“Ok, so who’s Jared Newton?”

Drew looks stricken, overemotional, and vengeful.

“A guy I was texting, obviously,” I say. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“Who is he then?”

“None your business, but someone I met last year,” I say. “He texted me first. What’s the big deal?”

“What about that metalhead guy at Gypsy Parlor, huh?” Drew shrieks like a banshee.  “You were all flirting with him, buying him drinks -”

Drew starts stuttering and stammering.

“You are not making any sense,” I say. “I didn’t buy drinks for anybody, not even myself.”

“You were talking to everyone there but me,” Drew says. “And now I find you’re texting with this Jared Newton, and other men -”

“Hey!” I yell. “I don’t believe you had a search warrant for my phone, or my purse, you dick.”

Drew continues to stutter and stammer.

“The next time you touch my stuff, and if you throw anything at me again,” I say, leaning into Drew’s face. “I’ll smack the shit out of you.”

I collect every one of my belongings from his room, and go back to the couch.


That’s just one of the reasons I broke up with Drew. He has issues – more issues than a newsstand, yo. More baggage than Charles de Gaulle. There’s not much that can be done for him this late in his life. I’d categorize him as a lost cause.

Like every horror movie come to life, his considerable baggage is a ticking time bomb waiting to detonate and destroy the entire female population. He’s single now and already casting shadows upon the Buffalo dating scene. Be careful out there. This confession is a cautionary tale.

Great Expectations


This weekend, my maniacally reclusive BFF/fellow writer/ex-boyfriend, Eddie, is setting me up on a blind date.

Eddie gets me. We’ve shared many treasured moments. We used to have this thing where we’d get drunk at Hutch’s. We consumed their entire Fall/Winter 2013 cocktail menu. One time Eddie wore overalls there. Not really sure why, but I’m going to let him set me up on a date.

The man Eddie’s setting me up with is Kevin. Kevin’s the brother of a married man I know – one that I would have a scandalous affair with, given the opportunity.  In lieu of that, I guess his brother could suffice. The married guy never sealed the deal.

Eddie told me that Kevin is in desperate need of a woman. He’s allegedly “handsome” and a “talented musician.” Kevin is ten years younger than his married brother, aka in his forties.

Eddie arranged it so I’m supposed to show up at Kevin’s house this Friday night. I just got out of a strenuous three month relationship – it’s time to let my wild side back out.


Friday rears it’s head, like the Lockness Monster ready to party. I scroll through Kevin’s Facebook photos again. He seems fuckable. I apply scandalous perfume, Elizabeth & James Black, which has a similar effect on men as Calvin Klein Euphoria did in 2009. Men love that shit.

Then I realize something. I can’t show up at Kevin’s empty handed. I mean, I wasn’t planning to get tipsy at a stranger’s house. But bringing a bottle of wine is the polite thing to do. Luckily my favorite store, Liquors, is on the way.

It’s seven on the dot when I pull up to Kevin’s crib. He lives on Englewood. I think this is his house, anyway, or near it at least. It’s hard to see numbers this time of night. A tall, lean-bordering-on-skeletal figure is walking towards me. He’s coming from the driveway next door. Whoever it is, they’re concealed by shadows.

“Hey!” I say. “Kevin? I brought this, um, wine.”

The presence gets closer, until he’s standing next to me. Kevin has skinny legs clad in black denim. Thin, straight locks of hair brush against his sharp jaw. I zoom in on the outline of his lips parting through the night air.

“That’s great,” he says. “Well, let’s go inside”.

Kevin leads the way towards a house that’s kind of Frank-Lloyd-Wright at below-sea-level. He pushes the screen door wide. There are two lit stairways. One is ascending towards light, and the second is basement-bound.

We descend the basement steps. A thin veil of light slowly envelops us. I was told (warned?) by Eddie that Kevin lives in a basement.  It’s ok, though, because he owns the house and rents it out.

The basement is bare, not the cozy Man Cave I was expecting. There’s no couch. It doesn’t smell like weed. There’s not even a poster of Chris Cornell on the wall. My fantasy totally implodes. Kevin awkwardly pats at his midsection, like he’s broken out in a rash. Maybe female DNA hasn’t yet been introduced to this domicile.

There’s a mattress on the floor, computer desk, and tiny makeshift kitchen. Kevin heads towards an open bottle of Barefoot Refresh, sitting on the counter. I hear something…. the flaccid, jingling sounds of a song I haven’t heard since college. It can’t be. Is that the fucking Shins on the stereo?

I’m confused. Eddie told me that Kevin is “aggressive.” But Barefoot Refresh and The Shins are telling me otherwise. I pour myself a glass of the real shit I brought.

“So!” I say, “What did you want to do tonight?”

“Stay here I guess,” Kevin says. He sits at the computer desk. There is a guitar on the floor.

“Hey, play me a song! What kind of music do you like? Wait – is this Elliott Smith?” I pause. “A Fond Farewell” is on.

“Yes, yes it is,” he says.

“I’m a fan,” I say, “Do you think he was murdered?”

“I’m actually very into that idea,” Kevin says. “Yes, yes I do.”

I sit across from him in a shabby chic armchair with a hand-dyed tapestry flung across it. I have to say, Kevin could be sexy. He just needs self confidence. There could be a makeout session on tonight’s horizon. Especially since, let’s be honest, I’ll probably drink all of this wine.

My phone rings. It’s my friend Maurice. He’s a total social butterfly. I’m sure he knows what’s going on tonight.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Maurice says.

“I’m not sure. I’m on this date,” I say, sitting on Kevin’s lap. This surprises him.

“Ya, I’m not sure where I’m going, but I know I will be doing some dancing,” Maurice says, “There is a show at Dreamland, maybe Nietzsche’s.”

I put my hand over the receiver and ask Kevin, “Do you want to go out? To Dreamland?”

“Uh, I’ve never been there. Been wanting to, but haven’t,” he says.

I get back on the line with Maurice, stand up, pace around the basement in my black velour peep-toe pumps with metallic silver heel.

“I’m not sure what we are going to do, but if we venture out, I’ll call you,” I say to Maurice. “Ta-ta.”

Ciao,” says Maurice.

Spinning around, I see Kevin making himself cozy in the chair. I have a feeling we won’t be going out.

“I mean, we don’t have to go out,” I say. “We can watch a movie.”

“Yeah, uh, sure,” Kevin says.

Suddenly, he stands up and just kisses me out of nowhere. With his teeth. It lasts approximately seven seconds. His kissing style could be described as “Iguana-esque.”

“Oh, wow, ok,” I say.

He puts a movie on, “The Machinist” starring Christian Bale. We are watching on his laptop. The last time I watched a movie on a laptop with a guy was in my room at Hendrix Dorm. Who knew I could get nostalgic for my college days while hanging with a middle-aged dude?

Watching the movie is awkward because we are sitting in two different chairs. It’s not cozy. No couch, remember? The credits begin streaming down the laptop screen. I’ve had like four glasses of wine, and decide to teach this guy how to make out. Eddie’s words flash in my mind – “I think you could bring out his aggressive side.”

After forty minutes of intense, one-on-one makeout coaching, I consider him a lost cause, and pass out in his bed.


The next day, I send Eddie a Facebook message depicting my date. I’ll have to wait another day for his reply, since he’s not back from Portland yet. He was there hanging with one of his Craigslist sugar mommas.

“I really don’t know, I’m confused,” Eddie says.

I tell Eddie about taking my shirt off and passing out in Kevin’s bed. I tell him how Saturday and Sunday have passed, but Kevin hasn’t called me. I tell Eddie that I feel like I’ve made a lackluster impression. But why?

“I was tipsy,” I say, “I couldn’t drive home. But I’m proud of myself for only being mildly-drunk-in-high school slutty. Not full-blown, hit-it-and quit it-on a-first date-slutty. I left him wanting more.”

“Well ok, dear,” Eddie says. “I’m sure you did. I’ll email Kevin and find out what he thought.”

I just have the gut feeling that I scared Kevin away. But how?


“Kevin told me that he doesn’t want ANY type of relationship at all,” Eddie says. “Not sure what that means. He said you’re pretty and cool, but thought you were going to have sex with him. That’s why he thought you went over there, and why he can’t talk to you anymore.”

“He doesn’t want to talk to me…because I didn’t have sex with him the day I met him?” I say.

“Yeah, I guess so, dear,” Eddie says. “He is a lost cause.”

“Yeah, I’ll say.”

I learned a valuable lesson from my date with Kevin – the answer to the age-old question of “Is there such a thing as hittin’ it too soon”? The answer is yes, obviously, but the conundrum doesn’t end there.

Whatever energy I project to the male species, I yield the equal and opposite reaction.  I wanted a noncommittal makeout session. Kevin seemed like a good possibility for someone I could go out with casually from time to time. Who knew a socially-awkward, romantically-inept basement dweller would diss me? For not having sex with him two hours after meeting him? Maybe humanity really is fucked.

It was silly of me to try and make Kevin a stand-in for his married brother, anyway. Now the married brother probably found out an exaggerated version of the story, and is all jealous and annoyed. But maybe he has no clue. I think I’ll just stick to that pursuit for now.

new new new!


Dick Fuzz


There comes a time in every girl’s life when she must break a man’s heart. What the fuck is the point of monogamy? I mean, every time I find myself in a “Monogamous Situation,” I have to deal with some pigsty of an apartment. I’m starting to think some guys go out of their way to make their dwellings completely disgusting. How else can one explain the sinks, the tubs, the diseased sheets that I’ve seen? Ugh!  I once saw an episode of Hoarders where a family of possums were discovered in a man’s home. There was also an actual tree growing in his living room. Despite this glamorization in the media, men’s apartments IRL can be like that. The discoveries are endless…and they can be rather gruesome. At least, I’ve endured some gnarly experiences AND I KNOW I CAN’T BE ALONE!

All the men I dated with clean, well-appointed residences didn’t venture into Monogamous Situations. The sloppy niggas got monogamous right away- probably because all they wanted was a maid!

This is my list of the Signs Your Man Lives in Filth. (Note: all characteristics described do not refer to specific people ).

The only bowl in bed should be one full of weed.

The only bowl in bed should be one full of weed.

Pets You Smell Before You See

“Baby, you lack focus when it comes to BJ’s” he said, with cat hair stuck to his dick. “I don’t know why you can’t pay more attention to me.” Wah wah wah.

“It’s because your dick is fuzzy – that’s why!” I said.

Yes, the dick fuzz was the beginning of the end for one relationship. It came from hair left not by one, not by two, not three , but four -yes, four – cats. One of them was literally plucked off the street like a prostitute with Catmydia. It’s pupils were always dilated. The thing would jump out in front of me so I tripped down the stairs, almost to my death.  Another one of the cats barfed right next to me, right when I was starting to let down my guard. Plus they were so damn hairy.  It got everywhere. All surfaces were covered with cat fuzz balls. Faux fur IS in this season, but whatthefuck.

This dude’s apartment smelled like a zoo, so I bid him adieu.

He Doesn’t Own a Trash Can

If there’s no trash can, his place will become a trash can. One’s home reflects one’s sense of self. When his place is literally overflowing with trash, it could mean he has no self-respect. It doesn’t bode well for success in relationships, or in fact, anything.

Used Dishes Where They Don’t Belong

With one ex, I’d have to pick up and move empty food containers if I wanted to sit on the couch. If you are sitting on the couch, eating out of containers, why do you lack the energy to throw out the remains? (Oh, wait, you don’t own a trash can). Don’t act surprised when I tell you that you’ll never be my Baby Daddy. I had to be careful at one man’s house. Lounging around in the nude is all well and  good. That is, until  you discover a wrapper stuck to your ass. If there’s wrappers in bed (instead of rappers; that would be OK), your sex life will suffer. Trust me.

American Horror Story Bathtub

Pulling back the shower curtain in my former lover’s toilette revealed a tub so caked with grime, it probably caused Billy Mays’ heart attack. No amount of fucking Kaboom! would ever cut through the filth. How long it took to get that way must’ve been significant. The only thing in there was a bar of soap.

My personal stash of 90s Playboys

He Owns a Bitchin Porn Stash – But Not a Single Book

This is more common than you want to believe, and is an AUTOMATIC DEAL BREAKER in my world.


I love men, their smells, and the way they make me feel inside. There are great guys out there who are intellectual, generous, and handsome. There are some men strutting around with pierced ding a lings, and  I love that. Many have suffered heartbreak just like us. Many are in touch with themselves and are comfortable with their emotions. I’ve met gentlemen with style, manners, and elegance. Most men are lovely – yeah, I’m just feeling that type of way tonight!

There’s a percentage of men, however, who are serial monogamists. I’m talking about the ones jumping into relationships in order to be “fixed” or “validated.” These are usually the ones whose homes should be condemned by the City. My theory – some go looking for love in order to heal from other things they never dealt with. The men who inspired the aforementioned examples didn’t have their shit together, despite their pseudo-readiness to jump into a Monogamous Situation. Relationships are work – a lot more work than doing dishes or cleaning a bathroom. If those areas are in disrepair, well, it’s only a matter of time before your romance goes to shit.