On my way home a few weeks ago, I ran into Soothed. He invited me in to catch up. I told him briefly about a guy I was interested in and he told me about his dating life. He went to his computer to show pictures of them. I felt that it was weird that he wanted to show me photos but I went along with it. I was curious anyway. Also, a part of me felt that he did it out of jealously because of the new guy or to one up me.
I assumed that the photos would come from a dating or social networking site but boy was I wrong! He had a special folder on his computer dedicated to these women—about 60 of them. I asked if he slept with all them and he claimed that he only been with about 60% of them. He gave a brief description, pointed out their character flaws and the reason(s) why they no longer dated. It was a bit TMI but curiosity killed the cat. I was used to his ramblings. The women he met online were from different walks of life and nationalities. Some were fully clothed, in lingerie, or naked.
I spotted a folder with my name on it. I asked him to open it. In this folder, in all their glory, were nude pics I sent him 2-3 years ago. I was shocked that he still had these photos. Thank goodness they were faceless! I asked him to delete the photos in a jokingly manner but a part of me knew that he’d probably dig them out the recycle bin or had backups elsewhere.
He went through a folder of someone that he dated sometime in 2010. He said that it didn’t work with her because, “It was a sexual thing for me. I didn’t have romantic feelings with her—just like with you.” I was shocked. I wasn’t shocked because he didn’t have romantic feelings for me. I already knew that. It was how nonchalant the statement rolled off his tongue. Why did he feel the need to remind me that he never wanted to be with me.
“You didn’t have to say that,” I irritatingly replied.
“I was just saying. I wasn’t trying to be rude.”
“You didn’t have to say that,” I repeated.
His statement and the redundancy of the folders began to irritate me . I wanted to leave but didn’t want to do it so abruptly. I was too proud to show that he got under my skin. He opened another folder by mistake and backed out of it quickly What I saw couldn’t be unseen. It was a picture of a cross-dresser.
“Was that a tranny?” I asked as nicely as I possibly could. “Is there something that you want to tell me? I won’t judge.” I lied. I was judging. Judging harshly.
“Yeah. It’s a tranny,” he said as he reopened the file, “Nothing ever happened. It was just photos.”
Just photos? A part of me didn’t believe him. What straight man has pics of a cross-dresser in a red teddy and matching boa? What skeleton just landed out his closet and unto my lap? What was I suppose to do with these bones?