My last really serious relationship ended in February, 2007.
Since then, I’ve dated upwards of 100 men.
(Okay, that’s a guess, but I bet it’s not far off.)
Since then, I have had unsubstantial relationships with three, maybe four men. Some of them meant something to me and some of them haven’t. I rarely think about The Architect or Mr. Orange. Jon—who was important enough to have a real name—and I still talk. We occasionally go back over what went wrong, which is stupid, considering I’ve moved on and he has been in a serious relationship since we called it quits.
But mostly I’ve dated. There was the Deviled Egg, my best friend’s boss, the Vice Guy, the Owner, the kosher friend-of-a-friend, the coworker, another coworker, plenty of coworkers, the Asshole, the college friend, the Not Fat Cat guy, the Craigslist Killer, the Williamsburg Waiter, and now, for now, there’s the Writer.
I’ve been, give or take, single since February 2007. I’m coming up on three years of mostly meaningless sex.
And since then, since February 2007, he just jumps from deep love to deep love, a serial monogamist—by comparison—in need of a serious serial killing.