My best friend caught her husband cheating.
She arrived home a tad too early from work and found him canoodling with the UPS delivery lady. Yes, the UPS delivery lady. I am not making this up. She screamed and ran out the front door and down the block. When she stopped, she was saddened to discover herself alone on the street. She didn’t know what hurt more, the cheating or the fact that he didn’t chase after her.
That night, she rang me up for some hag to fag counseling; and she reminded me that I once caught my boyfriend cheating.
It was yet another one of those sleazy nights at the Cock bar. I had a friend in town, so I sent my boyfriend out on his own – big mistake. Sensitive Pisces that he was, he felt abandoned and went looking for love in the backroom of the Cock. He had no idea that I would make an appearance at 4 am liquored up on vodka/cokes. As the ugly closing lights came on, I caught him coming out of the backroom with his shirt untucked and his pants undone. Ever the drama queen, I screamed bloody murder and ran from the bar in tears. He chased me across Avenue A begging for forgiveness and pleading that he was only “looking.” Yeah, we all “look” with our shirts open and our pants undone.
I knew that the Cock bar made good boys bad, so I forgave him. I mean, after all, he did have the decency to chase me down the street.