DWT Part 1-7 Kurt

Over the next couple months we saw each other almost every day, dinners out, social parties, movies, museums, I believe we must've seen every stage play in Chicago during that time. It was all good quality stuff and I got more wrapped up in Kurt each day.

Tina was all for it, but Art was skeptical of our undying love. His wife, always the romantic, told him to keep his opinions to himself.

Kurt had enthusiasm like a little boy, and in the beginning, all the enthusiasm was in an upbeat manner about positive things. When excited, his voice would raise in pitch while the words tumbled out at a quick pace, hands flailing all over, not once had I seen anything negative.

Our Wednesday night pattern set itself in stone right away. Dinner at a diner near my place, (Me, cook? No way, I didn't get that gay gene,) then a walk two blocks to the bowling alley, where he was on a gay league. Afterwards, he'd usually call to brag how great a game he bowled, he was one of the best players on the team, according to him.

Proud of him, it didn't bother me in the least he went out afterward with the team. Why the hell would it? There were times in past relationships I was scared to even mention I was going out, for fear of disapproval, which usually came in the form of a look, or a "Why did you wait until now to tell me?" comment. Being joined at the hip with a partner wasn't realistic to me anymore.

Kurt seemed to feel same, or at least, said he did, "I don't care if you go out with your friends. You need your own life and we don't have to spend all our time together."

Such a relief to hear that, no more fear of the person feeling left out, chewing me out, or smothering me, simply no more fear to have fun. Matthew hadn't been domineering, but my other relationships had been. My first relationship, for example, while in my early twenties, lasted three or four years, but toward the end, turned into "Gays of Our Lives."

 

My first partner was a mouthy little pit bull when drunk, although he could be kind hearted when sober. One August, in the early 90s, my car was in the shop, so I borrowed my mom's to get around. My boyfriend and I decided to go out on a Saturday night, and while socializing at the bar, he proceeded to get drunk and very belligerent with me. Another friend of mine, Tom, was also pretty tight, so rather than let Tom drive home, I took him back to his place in the car, dropped him off and headed back to the bar to find my boyfriend.

Out he came from that bar, foaming at the mouth, literally beet red with anger. "Where the fuck have you been?!" he demanded. I reminded him I'd taken Tom home since he'd been too drunk to drive.

"Shut the fuck up!" he screamed, "I've been sitting in that damn bar for a half hour waiting for you! We're leaving, now! Get out of the fucking driver's seat, I'm driving home!"

"But you can't, you're drunk, it's my mom's car and if anything happens…"

He interrupted, "I said, get out of the fucking car…now!"

Scared, yes, but I was also weak. Giving in, I moved to the passenger seat while he kept ranting and raving, as we drove the five blocks to the interstate on our way home.

The closer we got to the interstate the more fearful I became, not so much of him anymore, but of us killing someone else, or ourselves in a drunken accident. He was swerving all over the road and I knew once he got up to high speeds, it could be dangerous. Two blocks from the on ramp, I told him, "Please let me drive, you'll wreck the car!"

"Shut the fuck up!" he screamed back.

"Please…please…stop the car, I'll drive, I'm sober, you'll wreck my mom's car…," I pleaded.

"No! I'm gonna drive this fucking car all the way home and you can keep your damn mouth shut…"

Just then, what little sense I had returned, knowing a decision had to be made, and that I'd been stupid to be so timid before. Now, it wasn't just about us, there was a real possibility he was going to hurt somebody else on the road.

After one more pleading, and one more "Fuck you!" I grabbed the steering wheel, flinging my left leg over the area dividing the driver from the passenger seat.

"No! You'll kill someone like this!"

He started screaming, hitting me, the blows raining down on my head one after the other, but I didn't notice them. All I could think of was, I had to get the car away from him.

Putting my left foot on the brake as he punched me in the jaw, the vehicle came to a sudden stop. His body lurched toward the steering wheel, which I held with my right hand, as the left hand tried to shield myself from the blows. Luckily, he was so drunk he wasn't very agile, so I managed to reach in front of him, quickly open the driver's side door, and yell, "Get out of the car! I can't let you drive this car!"

He kept hitting me as I managed to push him out of the driver's seat, onto the pavement. Since the car was now stopped, he managed to raise himself up, rather than fall, all the while pulling at my arm, trying to force me out. I managed to move over to the driver's seat, foot still on the brake, as he took my left arm, just below the bicep, sinking his teeth into it. Although painful, and his teeth cut the skin, I managed to push him completely out of the car, slam the door shut, put it in drive, and speed off towards the nearest lot so I could park.

As I kicked the car into drive, he grabbed the side of the trunk, then the bumper, and the momentum of the vehicle pulled him down to the pavement, dragging him a good ten feet before he finally let go. In the rear view mirror I could see him rising from the pavement, his face covered in blood. Driving another two blocks, I saw a lot on my left, pulled in, put the car in park and locked it, throwing the keys in my pocket where he hopefully wouldn't try to get them.

While I was intending to go back for him, it wasn't necessary, since he came stumbling up the lots entrance within seconds. Weaving back and forth, out of breath, he'd obviously been running the whole way after me. The right side of his face was so banged up and swollen from the fall I could hardly recognize him. The shock of the accident must've sobered him up, now he was crying, no longer screaming at me or angry. He was now scared.

Just then, a police car pulled into the parking lot. They must've seen him careening down the street and for having been such a lunatic before, he now calmed down considerably, telling the police there was nothing wrong, he'd just fallen down. It was obvious to them this was a domestic dispute after talking to both of us. I was worried about him getting arrested and about myself getting in trouble, too. I never told them what really happened, but they did ask if I was okay to drive home. When I replied yes, I was telling the truth, I hadn't drunk much that night and was fine.

"You need to get him to the hospital," they told me. "He's in bad shape."

By now, my boyfriend was sitting on the passenger side of the car, slowly going into shock. He stopped crying once he saw the cops, but now looked like he was going to pass out.

"Are you okay?" they asked, and I still remember how concerned and nice they were to me. Obviously shaken up, I tried to handle the police in a calm way, containing my emotion, but I must've seemed a scared little boy.

"Your arm is bleeding," one of them said, and I looked down to see a large open wound on my lower bicep, not gushing with blood, but certainly a mess.

To this day, I don't know why the police didn't press this matter further. They probably didn't want to get involved and I seemed on the level. I said I'd take him to the hospital, so they asked if I wanted them to follow us. I replied, "Yes, could you please follow me all the way, please…" I didn't trust my boyfriend, even though he seemed too scared and worn out to do anything more. The police must've sensed my fear because they assured me it would be okay and they'd stay right behind us.

As I climbed into the car and shut the door, he started to cry again, almost pleading, "Don't leave me, I know you're gonna leave me...please don't."

Keeping my head on this time, now I was the one with the power. I lied, telling him, "I'm not going to leave you. We're going to the hospital emergency room." For the rest of the ride he drunkenly leaned against the door, every once and awhile sniffling away the tears.

Thankfully, the police did follow us to the emergency room and I got my boyfriend inside, where the staff immediately took him in. He was in awful shape and needed stitches on the side of his face. When he fell and got drug by the car, the pavement and gravel cut extremely close to one of his eyes. If he'd held on longer he probably would've lost one.

Washing my arm in the hospital restroom, I then waited two hours in the waiting area before the nurse told me to go home and come back in a few hours, my boyfriend was sedated, there was nothing I could do. Why nobody said anything about my arm, I don't know, and I also don't remember why I didn't say anything about it either.

Once home, I took a shower, then put alcohol and iodine on the bite mark, a fairly serious cut, about an inch long. I couldn't sleep at all, making up my mind I was going to leave this son of a bitch, perhaps even right now. Should I pack some things and just get the hell out of there? A friend of mine came over to talk and said not to be rash, I was too keyed up to make a realistic decision, "How about waiting until the morning?" he suggested.

Four hours later, I was back at the hospital and my boyfriend was in his room. Calm by now, he was also ashamed of himself, telling me he was sorry, it wouldn't happen again, he was just drunk, he didn't mean any of it, he never wanted to hurt me. His face was still a mess, although cleaned up with no more blood, the left side was swollen like a grapefruit and his black eye completely shut. As he started to cry, salt from his tears made the abrasions sting even more.

"I'm sorry I tried to hurt you," he told me, as I sat on the bed, looking at this man I sometimes hated, sometimes needed just because I wanted somebody, anybody, by my side.

I seriously thought to myself, "But I'm the one who actually hurt you." I didn't say it out loud, but he was the one in the hospital bed, he was the one who'd probably need plastic surgery, he had almost lost his eye. I was the one who walked out of there, returning a few hours later with only a deep bite mark and some bruises on my face where his fists made contact. I can't leave him right now, I thought. I can't just walk out on him while he's pleading with me, apologizing. I did this to him, I can't leave him.

I know now, and actually knew then, deep down, it wasn't my fault, it was his fault. But still, the little boy in me felt very guilty that morning on a hospital bed, looking at the broken man I'd been with for over three years, most of them unhappily.

Staying with him another three months, all my codependency came back after feeling sorry for him, but it didn't last long. Two months later, after he healed a little, the screaming started once more, and my self-loathing for remaining in this relationship began again.

And what did I do? What did that co-dependent young idiot, always afraid there was "no tomorrow," do?

I had an affair, this time simply as a way to get the hell out of this awful mess on my own emotional terms. If I left my boyfriend when someone else cared about me, I wouldn't be alone at all now, would I? Someone would still be there for me and therefore, I wouldn't be crying half the time because I was unhappy.

We had one more incredibly huge blow up, this time without fists and cars, but still, enough to make me backtrack on those first feelings of pity on a hospital bed. Alcohol was once again involved and he got belligerent, this time throwing in my face, "I'm probably fucking scarred for life because of you!"

Enough. I stayed with my best friend that night, returning to the apartment the next morning, without a word. When he awkwardly apologized, I went about my business and didn't answer.

"You're leaving me, aren't you?" he calmly asked.

"Yes I am."

"I'm sorry, please don't go, we can work this out…"

"No, we can't, and I don't want to work it out. I'm sorry, but it's over."

Tears in his eyes, he told me he'd leave and that I could keep the apartment. He'd stay at his brother's house.

"I love you very much," he said, and walked out the door.

Due to the violent way things had always worked out with him, I was surprised it ended so quickly and calmly on his part. Two days later, when I came home from work, I discovered my little dog, Kiri, gone. A sweet little blonde mutt who loved me unconditionally, my boyfriend had gotten angry again, come into the apartment while I was gone, and taken her.

Great, more drama, only this time he'd really gotten back at me, hitting me right where it hurt. I called, asking for the dog back, but by now he was in his "sly and coy" mode, as if he were holding all the cards, thinking he still had power over me. He'd only taken Kiri out of spite, and admitted so, very much gloating over it on the phone.

"I'll think about giving her back. Maybe I will and maybe I won't."

I never saw that little dog again.

The reason he was so mad this time? He found out about my affair since I told him point blank. To him, he now had a reason to be vengeful.

I'm not proud of this story, but it happened and there's nothing I can do about it now. The only reason I was able to leave that man was I had another waiting for me, all that drama, with me not taking one ounce of responsibility.

The guy I left my boyfriend for was simply a means to an end, I must have known it at the time. That next relationship only lasted three months before I ended it, this time a little more like an adult. The second guy was not even close to what I wanted in a partner, but it got me out of that previous dysfunction, so it must've served a purpose.

And to this very day, I have a scar on my lower bicep. You can still make out the curve of teeth in it, about an inch long. I would've preferred a photograph as a reminder, but in a way, every time I look at it I know I'll never, ever go through such a violent thing again.

 

So…you can see why I didn't believe in being joined at the hip anymore, go out and have your fun, I'll go out and have mine, but leave the controlling drama of alcoholism at the door.

Walking to the bowling alley, Kurt suddenly blurted out, "I know where I met you!"

"Where?" I asked, "Side Track, Roscoe's, Cocktail?"

"The bathhouse…we slept together," then there was a slight, awkward pause. I imagine he was gauging me to see how well I'd take it.

"You gotta be kidding?" I replied, "The bathhouse? I remember people after I've had sex with them, I'm not that bad," with the way I jumped the gate being attracted to Kurt, I very much doubted I'd forget such a thing.

"No, it was the bathhouse. I'm sure of it," he insisted.

Rolling my eyes, I joked, "Well…okay, if you say so, but you must not have made much of an impression, because I sure don't remember it."

He gave a sharp look, brow furrowed, narrowing his eyes. The little cloud soon passed, though, and a smile broadened his face, he realized I was telling the truth. I didn't remember it, but perhaps he was right, no big deal to me.