“You’re Not a Man”

A toxic relationship finally examined

We’ve all been there.

High hopes for a relationship that goes bad.

On the other hand, the only ex-girlfriend I consider crazy might have been onto something. I hate her for a laundry list of reasons detailed later.

The headline above refers to what she yelled after catching me lounging on the couch wearing a white cotton gauze dress.

Startled by her unexpected return, I became the proverbial deer in headlights. Embarrassment quickly was replaced by cathartic relief.

The crazy-ex — who I refer to as “She” here on in — pulled off a classic bait-and-switch, duping me with an avalanche of dishonesty.

We met through online dating, which I had done for about a year, following a 13-year marriage, as I hit 50. Our first date was not your typical Starbucks coffee rendezvous. The actress I was seeing at the time — we weren’t exclusive — cancelled the last minute on a Broadway play (Hedda Gabler starring Mary-Louise Parker), called out of town for a dinner theater job.

We went ice skating on Date #2, during which she seemed aloof. I wondered if there was a future, or whether She was just playing hard to get. She wasn’t overly flirtatious until Date #3, an after-midnight visit to the 24-hour Apple Computer store on Fifth Avenue. She asked me to divulge something quirky about myself. I figured this was a come-clean opportunity. “Well, sometimes I like to wear women’s clothing.”

I can’t remember what She shared about herself, but it clearly wasn’t as personal.

Non-plussed, She smiled. “You’re so coming home with me tonight.”

Despite not having sex for the last three years of a long marriage, I wouldn’t hop into bed with anyone, but made an exception this night. Usually not one to kiss and tell, I had sex with a few. They weren’t one-night stands.

Artsy Woman

I was looking for a true partner, someone who shared similar interests and values. I wasn’t familiar with the term at the time, but “demisexual” — someone who feels sexual attraction after forming a strong emotional bond — fit me perfectly.

A divorced male actor friend told me in 2007 about Nerve, which he promised offered a better selection of “artsy women” in NYC than more popular competitors.

I suppose my objective for online dating was different from most guys, who apparently are only interested in getting laid, at least that was what I heard from most of my dates.

In an early message exchange, I told her I liked her profile pic. She wanted to know specifically why, and I said I liked her red lipstick. She said her last boyfriend didn’t, and I called him an “idiot.”

Two years younger than me, She never married, nor had children. I knew firsthand how complicated a divorce could be, so having an age-appropriate girlfriend without a kid had its advantages.

Her mother advised her to start dating divorced men because they were “broken in” (i.e., already domesticated).

Employed with a steady job as an insurance examiner, She used to be a registered nurse, delivering other women’s babies for a few years. She gave up nursing because She hated the polyester clothes and thought her peers were unattractive. She wanted to dress like they did on Private Practice. Her favorite TV show was Grey’s Anatomy, both new to me.

She supplemented her income with side gigs helping people with nutrition and career advice. She also earned a master’s degree in fine arts, and still occasionally had art shows at galleries. She was easy on the eyes, although I hadn’t pictured myself with a woman so petite.

We traded stories about past relationships, and I learned about her two long-time boyfriends, neither who planned to tie the knot.

I Could Change, I Swear

Unlike my ex-wife, who was sloppy like me, She was a neat freak. I did my best to keep up with her Feng Shui lifestyle.

Besides teaching me how to cook a few dishes, no doubt the best thing I learned from her was women’s anatomy. In fact, She bought me a hardcover edition of She Comes First, and I needed to put it into practice. None of my other sexual partners were much into receiving or giving oral sex, which was new to me. She rarely reciprocated.

We once spent practically 24 hours in bed, romp after romp, to the extent that my closest friend at the time almost reported me to the police as a missing person.

Only a few weeks into the relationship, She told me “I love you,” which I thought was a bit premature since we had only recently met, but I believed her.

I was unhappily married for so long. Here was someone sexy who found me attractive and appeared interested in my interests as a widely published writer, music business consultant, and entrepreneur.

I booked tickets for us to go to London which was partly focused on me publicizing my recently self-published book. Then literally the next day I found out I won a free trip for two to London from British Airways, so we were in Britain twice within a month. But a weird thing happened at the international terminal before we were about to take off. She was detained by security, who took her alone into a room for 45 minutes.

After being released and allowed to go on the trip, She sheepishly admitted to me the snag harked back to an altercation She had with a former boyfriend that resulted her being placed on a no-fly list. We never discussed it again.

Cohabitation Anyway

My kids eventually became used to us as a couple.

When the time seemed right, She started sleeping over at my place with them present. My teenage son might have had a crush on her. At 13, he strutted around the apartment without a shirt as if to show off his buff body.

We all cooked together. She occasionally took my 10-year-old daughter to school, and stayed with them overnight when I needed to be in Washington, DC, for an early TV appearance.

She once shared a video of a drag trio who mimed to “Put On A Ring On It.” I wondered if it was her way of alluding to my Date #3 disclosure, but now realize it was rather a literal invitation to live up to Beyonce’s lyrics.

My dad once asked me, “You’re not planning to marry her, right?” I told him, well no, and he was relieved.

It seemed strange that She didn’t have friends, and disliked most of mine. One joined us at a cafe, and thought there was something off about her. I didn’t listen.

After losing her full-time job, She ended up milking unemployment at $500 a week for two years, not even applying for work.

She then invited me to move in with her, which seemed like a good idea at the time. Reducing my own rent from $2,000 a month to $900 made lots of sense, since heavy child support was draining my own finances.

But the invitation came with strings attached: Purge the wardrobe that initially intrigued her, or so I thought.

More Red Flags

The kids didn’t handle well our news of me moving into her place. She called them “hostile,” despite previously pretending she welcomed my offspring into her life.

She forgot who was the adult.

We went to a few couples counseling sessions, at her insistence. Guess, who paid? But the worse part of it was the therapist’s unreasonable advice for me to maintain separate relationships with her and the kids, who I shouldn’t mention around her.

That wasn’t what I signed up for, and I should have walked out on the relationship then. All parties continued to be unhappy.

The only time She would let me use her car was to run errands, such as pick up her dry cleaning.

She bizarrely went to my ex-wife’s hairdresser, and refused to pay after not approving of the outcome, causing an incident. She then enrolled into a free film school program available to those unemployed after finding out my ex-wife wrote an award-winning screenplay with her then boyfriend.

I realized her ulterior motive for us being together was coming up with the million-dollar idea that would make us both rich. We kicked around some ideas, and met with a few people She thought could help us get off the ground. None of the plans came into fruition. She became more moody than usual, rarely cooking for us at home and instead insisted on eating at restaurants often or delivery.

A true lack of values would occasionally emerge, such as how She once had a large apartment She couldn’t afford and jacked up the rent on two roommates so that her share was minimal.

I knew the end was near when She showed absolutely no empathy after telling her how my mother apparently was suffering from dementia. Meanwhile, I helped her mother several times. (Her parents divorced when She was 13, remaining pissed at her father.)

I told her I would moving out a month later at the end of the year.

She refused for several weeks to return my iPad, which I lent her.

Already mostly packed, 48 hours before moving day, She sent me a text message that was clearly meant for her mother. It stated that She was planning to “trick me” into paying an extra month of rent. A second later, She called to explain. “Enough I said,” and hung up. I stayed with friends.

The End, Finally

The next day I gathered boxes from a local supermarket for the last odds and ends, I told a local police officer what was going on. I was concerned She might change the locks before I was able to get all my stuff. He said he encountered such “domestic disputes all the time,” suggesting I remain calm while trying to retrieve holiday gifts for my kids and computer cord. The cop also suggested pressing charges if I could prove the iPad was mine if she refused to return it.

A few minutes later at the apartment the chain was on the door. She yelled, “I’m calling the police.”

Opened enough to see me dialing the number on my phone, I called her bluff. “No, I’m calling the police, if you don’t let me to get a few things. I’ll be gone in less than a minute.” She opened the door.

The next day, I arrived with the movers, who sensed the tension. She handed over the iPad.

Yes, that gotcha moment on the couch hammered the last nail in a three-year relationship, half of which we lived together. Look back at this period, I take solace in knowing we all make mistakes in matters of the heart.

That was over a dozen years ago. Okay, maybe She was onto something about me not being a man.

Two years ago I came out as non-binary, and I’m coming to grips with being somewhere on the asexual spectrum.

Still somewhat scarred by this toxic relationship, I remain skittish to jump into another intimate relationship even if it means going at life alone.

I leave you with my favorite breakup song, “Late Night Conversation,” courtesy of the singer-songwriter Josh Rouse, who’s obviously been there.

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