WE'RE IN VENICE, ITALY, CAN'T WE JUST EAT AND FUCK?
After Jacob, I had a short stint with a nightclub owner. He loved that I was a stripper. I was his first, and he acted like he’d won the jackpot. It was a refreshing change. We had a lot of fun together. He visited me at the club a couple of times. It was exciting to perform for him and we even had sex in one of the Private Booths. Unfortunately, he was one of those, loves-to-be-in-love types and the affair was short-lived. We broke up in Venice, Italy of all places. I wouldn’t recommend it. We were a casual couple—our understanding was that we could sleep with other people as long as we used condoms. After being in Rome and Florence together, he told me over a romantic dinner in Venice that he’d started sleeping with a girl back home and was pretty into her. I was vexed and irritated. Why was he telling me this? I didn’t want to hear about this while we were in one of the most romantic cities in the world. My feelings for him ran a little deeper than I would have liked and although I didn’t want to admit it, this news hurt. Also, why couldn’t he have told me over the phone or after our fucking trip! I just wanted to laugh, eat, see Italy, and screw. It put such a damper on things so we cut our vacation short, took a train to Milan, and flew home. We kept it civil but were distant with each other for the lengthy travel back to San Francisco. It sucked. To this day, I don’t understand why he chose that moment to bring it up. Timing is a motherfucker.