I’m not who you think I am, and I can’t live this lie anymore. You have to understand: when I said I was bi, I meant bipolar.
When I saw in your profile that you were looking for hot bi guys, I got really excited. You asked me if I really went both ways and I said yes. I thought you were talking about my rapid cycling between manic and depressive states of being. I thought I had finally found someone who loved me for my sexy, mercurial mind… I was wrong.
Things were going great, until that night you brought your friend Marco into the bedroom because you wanted to try a devil’s threesome. It was only then that I realized you weren’t really looking for a hot single with a seductively unstable mood disorder.
I should have seen the signs. Your huge collection of yaoi manga. That time you got really intense when you asked me which version of Bowie I wanted to make out with. Or how you never got aroused when I showed you my medicine cabinet full of mood stabilizers.
I remember when you found me sobbing in our living room after I blew my 401(k) on laserdiscs. I sat there, hoping that you would rip off your clothes and ride me like a Valkyrie. But the only wet thing in our apartment was my cheeks, as you held me and asked if I’d feel better if Jackson from the Anvil Cafe came over to “help out.”
I tried to tell you how I felt, but it was no use. All you wanted to do was put on your Tom Selleck mustache and peg me while we watched From Justin To Kelly.
I love you, but I need to be with a woman who wants me for me. A woman who sees me as the needy, chemically unbalanced fuck machine that I know I can be. I need to be free to find that person, and you need to be free to receive the sensual spit-roasting that your heart desires.