Chapter 7: Patrick the Man Child

This guy named Patrick and I got engaged in our mid-20s, a little while after Kevin. We’d known each other since high school, back when he was dating my best friend Tonya. Here’s the highlights of our back story: Everyone knew Patrick was too good for Tonya. He was a jock, and she was a nerd. Not a sexy nerd, either. I’m judgmental, but I hope you appreciate my honesty. Anyway, they dated well into college for some reason. In fact, I roomed with her my freshmen year and caught them having sex at least twice. Over time, Tonya became a mess. Her grades fell, and she dropped out of college. It happens.

Sometime during sophomore year, Patrick finally got tired of Tonya’s bullshit and dumped her. I didn’t hear much from him for a few years after that. We ran into each other a couple of times. Honestly, I didn’t care much for him at first. He was hot, but he was too happy, and a little sheltered. I could never tolerate anyone that normal. Except I did. What a huge mistake. My advice to you? Don’t ever date a normal person. Date strange people. Normal people are always hiding something you won’t like.

One afternoon, Patrick just happened into a café where I was typing away on my laptop. He invited me to dinner. I said yes. We had decent conversation, and agreed to see each other again.

We wound up hanging out for a few weeks, both afraid to kiss. Why? It felt sleazy. I didn’t want to kiss my old roommate’s ex-boyfriend. That seemed like a buildup to an episode of Jerry Springer. But my hormones overtook my judgment. Guys aren’t the only people who think with their genitals. So, Patrick and I saw a jazz band and drank martinis. The kissing started at my place, on the couch, and moved to the bedroom faster than I could predict. I hesitated a little at the idea of delving into a light version of my fembot routine, since it might scare him away.

I pulled him on top of me and chewed his lips. As my hands roamed his torso, a memory flashed in my head, of Tonya bragging about Patrick’s body one night in college. She’d described his exercise schedule, his six-pack, his nice round shoulders. That old description of Patrick’s body made me curious as I peeled down my dress and then went after his shirt.

Patrick arched my back, and I pulled his head toward my breasts. His tongue was softer than I imagined, and he gave them a good cleaning.

As my passion emerged, I decided to see what he would do if I fell limp in the middle of our make out session. My arms dropped to the bed, and I lay beneath him with a dull stare, mouth agape.

He turned my head side to side, saying, “Jessica? Are you okay?”

All of my practice with ventriloquism paid off that night as I faked a Siri-like voice that said, “This unit’s battery level is at 1 percent. Please plug in to recharge.”

I studied Patrick’s face, twisted by confusion. His surprise was turning me on even more. I repeated myself, lips barely moving. “This unit’s battery level is at 1 percent. Please plug in to recharge.”

He sat up, massaging his neck. “Is this some kind of sex game?”

A quick study, Patrick was. To seal our understanding, I repeated one last time, “Please plug in to recharge…This is a Jessica NeXus-7 test model, property of FemTech Robotics. If you have found this unit in a powered down state, please follow these instructions: Search the Jessica unit’s purse or handbag for a USB cable.”

Patrick hesitated a moment. “I’m not sure where this is going, but all right.”

He pulled a tangled cable from my bag and dangled it on my stomach. “Now what?”

I maintained a flat, instructional tone, feeling myself grow just a little moist. “This unit’s power unit is located at the base of its spinal column. Please move it to any nearby power outlet and connect its charging port.”

Patrick’s hands scooped under me, and I rolled onto my side. I licked the back of my teeth as he intuited to slip the cable’s end under the elastic band of my panties.

The metal sent a slight chill through me, and I shivered. He plugged me in and said, “So, is that it?”

“Please fold the unit’s limbs into a suitable position and steady it against a stable surface, such as a wall or corner.”

Although he seemed slightly irritated, Patrick did as asked and I breathed heavy, pleasure-filled breaths as his hands groped and tugged at my legs and arms.

He sat Indian-style next to me and asked for some much-needed context, and I suspended our role-play to detail my fetish. “I just thought I’d give you a little test,” I said, “because I’m someone who loves games and role-play.”

He held my hand in his lap, caressing my fingers with his. “I’ll try my best,” he promised. “You’ll have to teach me.”

I kissed him on the cheek and assured him I was an excellent, patient teacher.

The sex would prove lovely, but warning signs appeared immediately. For starters, most guys in their 20s with a college degree don’t have a curfew. Patrick did. He actually left around 1 am. “I don’t want my parents to worry about me,” he said, donning his shirt.

I lay on the bed, enjoying the view of his toned legs. “Why can’t you just stay here?”

Patrick stepped into his shoes. “I can’t. My mom would find out we were dating, and I hate lying to her.”

I sat up on one elbow. “Why wouldn’t she want us to date?”

He rolled his eyes. “Let’s not worry about that for now, all right?”

And with that I brushed my hair back into place, stepped into my heels, and walked him to his car. We kissed for a little while against the driver’s side door. Of course, I wanted to call Patrick out for being timid with his parents. At the time, the feeling of his firm hands on my buttocks seemed far more important.

The next morning, Patrick left a message saying “We need to talk!” When I called him back, he let a tidal wave of apologies out about the previous night.

At first, I thought he was apologizing for not spending the night with me. Oh, but it was far more interesting than that. He didn’t want me to think he was a man slut.

Correct, a man slut. I supposed I should hear him out. All kinds of theoretical concepts existed: black holes, other universes…

“I’ve never just…done that with a girl so soon,” she said. “I don’t know why I did that.”

“It was nice,” I said. “You’re, like, 24. You don’t think I’m a slut because I’ve had sex with guys, do you?”

There was a pause. The shakiness fell out of his voice. “I have to confess something to you.”

“What?”

“Promise you won’t get weird.”

“It’s far too late for that, Patrick.” And when he didn’t laugh, I added, “That was me trying to be funny.” Seriously, there’s nothing worse than a hot guy with no sense of humor. I should’ve dumped him right then.

Patrick took a deep breath. “Well, when I first saw you back in high school….I kind of wanted to dump Tonya and start dating you. But you never gave me any hint that you were interested, so I just kept it to myself. I’ve felt guilty about that ever since.”

“Patrick, that’s completely irrelevant now. We’re both single. We happen to know each other from high school. So why don’t we just focus on the present. Okay?”

And that’s exactly how a robot reasons through moral dilemmas, ladies and gentlemen.

At least that problem came to a quick resolution. Alas, the issue with his parents only got worse. For two entire years, we managed to keep our relationship secret from Patrick’s mom. Because Patrick’s parents thought he was single, they actively encouraged him to date other girls — daughters of friends and coworkers. I had to endure knowledge of him going on a “date” with someone to appease his parents. Patrick took a perverse pleasure in narrating these dates — the wonderful meal at a Mediterranean place we should try, a movie he wouldn’t mind seeing again.

One night, Patrick and I were spooning in bed when he told me he was going on another one of these fake dates the next night. He cupped my breasts, as if this conversation was leading anywhere remotely erotic, and I said, “Do you just want me to call your mom and tell her we’re dating?”

He swept his foot along my calf. “No, she’s a high school friend.”

He let go of my breasts and lay on his back, hands crossed behind his head.

After a moment of careful deliberation, I said calmly, “What the fuck?” I closed my eyes and sat up Indian style, wrapping the bedsheet around me like a towel.

He started picking his nails. “I mean, it’s not a DATE-date. There’s a movie she wants to see. It’s not even very good.”

“So why go?” I stared at the gray ceiling.

He tried to tickle me. “Don’t worry. She promised it would be just as friends. I told her I’m not interested in her.”

I pushed him off. “Be honest with me, Patrick. Did she ask you out?”

“Well, yeah.” Patrick shrugged. “But I’ve known her since high school. It’s fine.” He paused, then added with a slight nod. “And you’re being a little unreasonable.”

I reached down to feel for something — anything — to throw. It happened to be a paperback copy of A Hundred Years of Solitude. “Why don’t you go home and sleep with your fucking mom? I think that’s what she really wants. Anyway, I’m done with all this.”

Patrick dressed while I lay with my hands over my eyes, trying to block out all the light. A few minutes later, I heard him shuffling toward the door. I went straight to sleep. Around 2 in the morning, I heard someone knocking. I padded to the door, half-awake, and stuck my eye against the peephole. Yes, the prodigal boyfriend. When I opened the door, he practically bear hugged me. “I’m so sorry,” he confessed. “You hate me. I can tell, but I canceled the date. Are you still mad?”

He held my chin, the one move I had no defense for. I melted into him. “No, I’m not angry with you anymore.”

Patrick turned me around and started massaging my neck, shoulders, scalp. His finger walked down my spine toward my hips, exciting me. We leaned into a corner and started kissing.

Could we have it all tonight, I wondered? I kissed him hard on his top lip and sighed, “I’m not angry with you anymore.”

He placed his hand on my cheek, rubbing the bone with his thumb. “I’m glad.”

I kissed him again and smiled as if we were dreams, folding my arms across his shoulders. “I’m not angry with you anymore.”

I loved these surprise role-playing moments for all their verisimilitude. Patrick squinted at me, wondering if I was having a stroke or something. He waved his hand back and forth and snapped his fingers, which was just perfect, and he didn’t even know what was happening.

I sighed, giving a love-filled gaze toward the back wall. “I’m not angry with you anymore. I’m your girlfriend. How could I be angry with you? I’m your girlfriend…your girlfriend…your girlfriend…”

If my innocent Patrick wasn’t the best fantasy partner quite yet, I was going to train him with trickery.

A few dazed moments passed before he caught on. I added a couple of head jerks and twitchy winks with my right eye for fun. He knelt down and slid his arm behind my back, his other at the slight bend in my knees. I sank into his hold and he carried me to the couch, all the while repeating, “I’m your girlfriend…I could never be angry with you…I’m your girlfriend…I could never be angry with you…angry with you…angry with you.”

Patrick impressed me with what he did next. Apparently he’d been visiting the websites I told him about. He pulled out his phone and pretended to dial a number. “Hi, Nexus Robotics? This is Patrick Black. I’m having a problem. I started dating this girl, and she just sort of went…I don’t know…haywire. I found this number tattooed on her neck.”

While Patrick got going, I sat in his lap with a serene smile on my face. “Angry with you,” I said. “Angry with you…angry with you…angry with you.”

Repeating phrases over and over like this had always calmed me down, the rhythmic calm, the predictability, the peace it brought my ordinarily frantic mind. I could have chanted at him well into morning.

He asked, “How do I get her to stop talking? Yeah, she’s saying the same thing over and over again. Inside the ear, you said? Okay.”

I grinned inwardly as my Patrick telegraphed his next move. He turned my head to one side, so one ear was facing the ceiling. Gripping my neck with one hand, he inserted his index finger into my ear canal.

No one had ever done this to me before, and I almost convulsed at the unexpected feeling of intimacy. My eyes flashed open, and I opened my mouth in feigned surprise, abruptly cutting myself off mid-sentence with a little yelp. “I could never be ang — -unnhh!”

I let out a little staticky hiss from the back of my throat, something that had taken so much practice not to sound like someone choking.

Patrick pretended like his phone was on speaker now. He spoke to it, “Yeah, she’s quiet now.”

Patrick enjoyed himself a little while listening to instructions from our customer support friend, running his palm along the inside of my thigh, making flirtations with my panties. His other hand rested on my lower stomach, that sensitive place below my belly button.

I kept all of my enjoyment on the inside, ignoring his advances and remaining in my defunct state, just like a good fembot does when caught in a speech cycle.

Meanwhile, the Jessica Wilder inside me was having the time of her life.

And it only got better. Next Patrick had to manually restart my speech controller. He gripped the base of my jaw and tilted my mouth back. “You said reach all the way back? Okay.”

I inhaled deeply, a little nervousness kicking up a heart palpitation.

Was he going to try and put his entire hand in my mouth?

He placed two fingers on my tongue and started sliding back, watching my face for any signs of choking. For sure, that would’ve been an embarrassing news broadcast. Girl dies during customer support session.

When his fingers touched the base of my tongue, he pressed down and held for three seconds. I licked his fingers and gave them a wet kiss on their way out. “That should do the trick,” he said.

My eyes fluttered, and I regained consciousness. I smiled at him, “Hey, babe. What are you doing here?” I looked at my watch. “It’s late, isn’t it?”

Patrick gestured toward the phone. “Thanks so much for your help,” he said. “She’s working fine now. Oh, by the way, do these things come with command prompts? Ah, Blue 05 is the override code? Thanks.”

I gave him a devilish smile, and touched my neck before faking some confusion. “Um, who were you just talking to?”

“Nobody,” he said and eased me off his lap. I scooted aside, almost breathless waiting for his next move. I would’ve told him how much he’d improved if it wouldn’t have broken character.

His fingers played at his belt, and in seconds his pants were around his ankles. I decided to play virgin for a little while, standing with my arms folded. “Patrick,” I gasped. “What are you doing?!”

His arms were spread across the sofa cushions. Watching him perform such confidence was making me sweat between the legs, wanting to play the good girl so much more forcefully.

I backed away, raising my hands. “I’m not programmed for, I mean, not ready for that…I’m just…not ready.”

I started listing reasons for why we should stop, then he halted me with a gesture and said, “Blue 05.”

My protest faded and I simply stood looking at him with my normal blank expression. “Ready,” I said. “Please state your request.”

“Come over here and put your mouth on my hardness,” he said.

I smiled lovingly at him. “Of course,” I chirped like a college aerobics instructor. “I’ll come over here and put my mouth on your hardness.”

“You’re going to like it,” he said.

I nodded, smiling as I showed my dimples. “I know. You’re right. I’m going to like it.”

He watched me, his naked member standing up on end. “You’re my perfect little angel.”

I crouched down and began to rub his thighs, then leaned forward and kissed his nose. “I’m your perfect little angel.”

“Now get to work.”

I gave him a cutesy girl grin. “Now I’m going to get to work.”

Kneeling between his legs, I deviated just slightly from his command and kissed my way from his chest to his stomach, then I mopped him a little while with my hair as he massaged my scalp and temples. I pulled my hair back and started kissing his member, sliding my mouth down with my tongue as a cushion. His hips twitched and he took a deep breath, telling me to go nice and slow.

I’ve never been a fan of giving blow jobs, but delivering one as a sleeper bot who’s just been switched into command mode was all the motivation I needed. Patrick was getting the hang of things quickly, and he even started talking aloud about all the things he was going to do to me now that he knew his innocent little girlfriend — such a good girl — was some kind of experimental humanoid that had just fallen, literally, into his lap.

My tongue danced around his naked flesh, lips plunging his pipes until he erupted across my tongue. I cringed a moment, but swallowed hard and decided to break character a little early to grab a bottled water from the coffee table.

“That was fantastic, Jessica.” Patrick was practically passed out now, damp with sweat. “I think I’m finally starting to understand this whole robot fetish.”

I sat down and rested my legs across his slack form. It was beyond late, but neither of us seemed to care. “You want to stay and talk a little while?”

But I should’ve known Patrick would shake his head. “Oh, I wish I could but I have to get back…before my parents wake up and call the police or something.”

Squinting, I decided to let it go for once, just kissed him good night and then used my vibrator on the couch before falling asleep with a book.

My friend Amy only made things worse. As expected, she couldn’t take her eyes off Patrick anytime we had group outings. One of Amy’s special skills involved the ability to flirt with her friends’ boyfriends while coming off as charming and likable, very older sister-like. Here’s what she did at one party: For half an hour, the three of us stood in a corner drinking wine while everyone else smoked weed in the kitchen. Amy pulled Patrick’s life story out of him, playing it off as special attention to her best friend’s new love interest. She leaned forward and grabbed his arm. “Do you work out? You’ve got a very nice bicep.”

Patrick hiccupped a thanks. Amy sighed and said, “You’re adorable.” She reached her hand out and brushed some wayward hair off his forehead. “That’s better.”

Amy sought out Patrick’s company. They started having lunch and going for walks when I was teaching. One night, Patrick locked his keys in the car and called me when I was slammed with seminar papers. I thought Amy was a great friend when she offered to call the locksmith and wait with him.

Patrick was always doing stupid shit like locking his keys in his car. Earlier that month, I’d paid Patrick’s parking tickets when he got towed. I’d also picked him up from the emergency room after a car accident.

Eventually, it occurred to me what a lose-lose situation had opened up. If I didn’t devote more time to Patrick, I might lose him. The problem? I didn’t have time. I was in graduate school. My career mattered more.

Patrick’s endless insecurities, planted by his parents, made it impossible to nurture him. Our entire relationship, he couldn’t even decide if he wanted actual sexual intercourse. More than once, we’d be spooning in bed when he would randomly say something like, “I guess you’re just not happy.”

“What do you mean?” I sighed. “I’m happy.”

“But you’re not acting like you’re attracted to me.”

“Aren’t we lying in bed half naked? That seems like a clear indication I find you attractive.”

I rolled over so we were talking with our lips inches apart. His green eyes were enormous, his breath warm on my cheeks.

He looked down. “But you haven’t tried to….”

“Tried to what?” I said and kissed him gently.

He scooted back, folding his arms, and looked down. “You haven’t tried to have sex with me.”

I placed a finger under his chin. “I believe initiating sex is your department, Patrick. I’m more than willing, I’ve been waiting.”

He wouldn’t look me in the eyes. “I want to wait for marriage.” He took a deep breath.

“You’re a virgin,” I said and nodded. “Okay.”

The next bit surprised me. “No,” he said. “I had sex a couple times in college.”

My brow furrowed. “So what’s the problem, then?”

Patrick started to pace the room, explaining how he’d never wanted to have sex with his two serious girlfriends in college, that they’d pressured him into it. The pressure had hastened the ruin of both relationships. This part I could understand. I lay back down and said, “So we can wait. But then why do you keep saying I’m not happy? I’m fine waiting.”

He flapped his arms. “But you’re not even trying to fuck me!” he said, raising his voice. Then he turned toward the window, topless in his boxers, a gorgeous sculpture of a man who was acting like a cherub, and pouted toward the naked window. “It’s like you don’t care if we have sex.”

I watched Patrick pout, fairly certain the only reason I continued to endure these fits was his perfectly-crafted form and wonderful massages. Shadows flirted with his abdominal muscles and lower back indentations in a way that demanded the light’s attention. With the right script, I could have quelled his anxieties and reassured him. But I was getting tired of the tantrums. So I said, “That doesn’t even make sense.”

I picked up a book and started reading. Eventually, Patrick calmed down and rejoined me on the bed. We didn’t talk through anything, just pretended the conversation hadn’t happened.

That weekend, I was in for a true treat thanks to Patrick’s remorse for his tantrum. He sat me down and told me how much he loved me, how badly he wanted to make me happy. “I want to give you a night you’ll never forget,” he said and drew me into a Disney-like kiss.

For most girls, a promise like that meant sailing, a trip to Niagara Falls, a daylong spa pass topped off with love-making on a pile of rose petals. All of that would’ve been lovely, but what my twisted metal heart desired was the perfect kidnap package. We scripted our most ambitious game yet, which began with flirtation at an upscale restaurant in the art district.

We drove separate cars that night. He was a high-profile executive who’d just been solicited by a robotics firm to rent their debut, fully functional humanoid escort. I was Jessica X27b-001, fresh from trial runs and ready for public interaction.

I got super dolled up that night, high-volume shampoo, brand new cocktail dress, jewelry, practically an entire afternoon in preparation. I’d rehearsed my lines and practiced new moves while pretending to work from home.

I wore a pair of strappy platform heels that required their own practice session. It was all worth the effort, I realized upon final inspection. My hair was a waterfall of nectar.

Patrick was so lucky that I didn’t just spend the evening at home snapping selfies and accumulating likes on Twitter.

Seriously, two guys tried to get my phone number before I’d even made it from my car to the front door of the restaurant. My confidence was interstellar as I swung open the door and did my sassy executive walk to Patrick’s table, where I sat primly and leaned forward with one hand gingerly extended. “Hi, I’m Jessica.”

He caressed my wrist, kissing my knuckles. “Great to finally meet you, Jessica. I’ve heard a lot of good things about you from the company. I have to admit, you look even better than your product page.”

The waiter came for our drink orders, and of course we had planned to incorporate him into our fun a little bit. I gave him my best empty, Barbie smile. “Oh, I can’t drink.”

The waiter offered, “Some water, then?”

I shook my head. “No, I’m so sorry. I’m not able to store fluids. Would you like to try something else?”

Patrick waved his hand. “That’s fine. I’ll have wine.”

We exchanged pleasantries while Patrick surveyed the menu, then asked me, “So, Jessica, what kind of music do you like?”

I nodded, giving him a flirtatious smile and a giggle. “Oh, I love classical music.”

“Excellent,” he replied. “What composers?”

“Oh, um.” I put my hands in my lap and pretended to think really, really hard. Then I looked up, confused. “I’m so sorry. What did you mean by…composer?”

Patrick’s eyes flared with arousal. He was really starting to understand how the fetish worked. “You know, Mozart? Bach? Chopin?”

I nodded politely at each name. When he was done, I looked around and said, “This place is lovely. Do you like my dress?”

The waiter came up for our orders. Patrick was going to have salmon and pasta. I smiled and said, “I’m so sorry, but I’m not hungry right now…Do you like my dress?” The poor waiter, so confused, mumbled something polite and then left.

I returned my attention to Patrick, swiveling my head in a semi-circle, like an animatronic puppet on display. “I love spending time with you, Patrick. Maybe we can go somewhere more private after you’ve eaten?”

He smiled and sipped his wine. “Fine, let’s go ahead and talk business. So, with dinner included your rental cost for one night is $500. Don’t you think that’s a bit…steep?”

I gave a fake laugh. “Of course, I’d love to see your place. Do you like my dress?”

Patrick enunciated this time. “A bit steep, Jessica. Your price.”

I blinked three times in dramatic fashion, then let my eyes flutter. “I’m so sorry, Patrick. Your tone indicates distress. Are you dissatisfied with something I said?”

Patrick feigned annoyance, but I could tell he was having fun. He’d never been so dedicated to his role before. “I said you’re too expensive. Can you charge less?”

I twitched with surprise, and let my smile fade as I leaned to one side. “I’m so sorry. I’m not able to make pricing decisions. All rates are non-negotiable, but I’d be happy to speak to my program manager at a later time?”

Patrick barely touched his food, and left a huge tip. Phase two started on our walk to his car. He slipped his arm around my waist, gradually moving his hand to my buttocks as we neared his vehicle, parked an extra distance away, in a back street with hardly any foot traffic. I could feel his heartbeat against my breast we were so close. His was picking up speed, syncing with mine.

In the shadows of a skyscraper, he pushed me against his car door and delved his tongue into my mouth. I forced him off, keeping my cheerful smile. “I’m so sorry! But payment is required to proceed with our…with our…with our…evening.”

He held me in his arms, eyes moving over me like a stream over a bed of rocks. “So that’s how it’s going to be?”

I concentrated on his chest, the outline of his pectorals against his shirt. “I’d love to see your place. Do you like my dress?”

“Yeah, I do.” He reached for his phone and centered me in view of his camera, tapping with his thumb. “All right, last resort. Let’s see if this app I made works on you.”

I ran my hands through my hair, putting one leg out. “Are you taking a picture? I’d love to take a selfie with you. What kind of phone do you have?”

Ignoring me, Patrick tapped a few times. “Any minute now.”

At the cue, a bright camera flash in my face, I did my usual glaze over, my lips forgetting their smile. I pretended that his camera had blinded me. I shimmied in place and started to walk away.

He grabbed my arm, swinging me around.

“I’d love to see your place,” I said. My speech slurred and I acted as if I was suddenly exhausted. “Your place….youuuurr place….youuurrrpplacczze.” He caught me as I collapsed, enveloped in his embrace.

He draped me over his lap in the backseat of a rented Mercedes, tapping on his phone to override my systems. I was inert, feeling his erection against the thin sheen of my dress, which had ridden up to my waste, giving him a sneak peek at my black panties with a pink rim. “She’s not much in terms of conversation,” he said to himself as he straightened my dress, “but she sure gets me hard with this body of hers.”

When he reactivated me, I promptly informed him of an error in his favor. “I’m so sorry. Due to a technical issue with my payment processing code, you will receive one free night, courtesy of FemTech Industries. We hope that you will continue to be a loyal customer and always choose FemTech first for all of your companionship needs.”

We undressed each other as soon as we made our way through the front door. Upstairs, I pushed him on the bed and rode him until he was nice and hard under me.

His hands pressed firmly against my breasts. I covered them with mine and held my thighs so hard against his sides I thought his ribs would crack.

He sat up and we switched, time for me to be on bottom, taking him from behind. He wrenched me down into a pile of pillows, gripping my hips full strength and coming into me with slow but determined force.

His hardness had filled me all the way up. My eyes shut tight, and I buried my head in the bedding, loosing track of space and time as we moved together through the thick night air. I listened to the muffled song of his grunts and exhales, then started fumbling for my vibrator somewhere in all the clutter of my nightstand. That holiday feeling jingled through me as we came closer and closer to Santa’s visit and ahhhhh so many little presents torn open as Patrick shot his frosting into me. I let out a final, vocal sigh and imagined myself a holiday cake devoured straight out of the oven.

We dated for another year. He dumped me three times. Twice for an old college girlfriend, and the third time because of his parents.

Our last six months was long distance, because his parents convinced him to go to law school in another state. His law school was a three-hour drive, making long distance manageable if it hadn’t been for mommy and daddy coming up to see him every other weekend. They still didn’t know we were dating. And he didn’t want to risk us encountering each other. Once, he even canceled our weekend together at the last minute when his parents paid him a surprise visit. The biggest problem? I’d already made the drive. I was literally ten minutes away.

“You have to go back,” he breathed over the phone. “My parents are coming!”

“Are you kidding me?” I turned into a Wal-Mart parking lot and fumed into the receiver.

“Can you stay at a hotel?” he pleaded. “Maybe I can sneak out to see you after they’re asleep.”

“You’re 24 years old,” I yelled. “And you have to sneak out of your own fucking apartment to see the woman you’re going to marry!?”

“Don’t yell at me!” he snapped. “I’m doing my best. You don’t know what they’re like. Do you think I’m looking forward to this weekend now? All they’re going to do is criticize me and act like I can’t take care of myself. I wanted to spend this weekend with you, and now I can’t!”

I sighed, eyeing a Starbucks sign down the road. Already my mood was lifting at the thought of an espresso. “Sorry,” I said. “What do you want me to do? I’ve got work and other stuff. Maybe I should just go home.”

“Thanks a lot,” he sputtered, almost as if crying. “Now I’m all worked up, and I’m going to have to explain to them why I’m upset.” The phone clicked.

Oh, I would’ve been so distraught if it weren’t for that Starbucks. I drank my espresso in a soft leather chair and let some realizations wash into me. For starters, Patrick was such a fucking toddler. Wasn’t I the child abuse victim, the one who’d watched my mom paint the bathroom mirror with her own blood, the one who’d almost lost a hand? Wasn’t I the one who’d been almost raped, the one who’d given a gas station clerk a hand job just for gas money to drive home my drunken mother? If anybody had an excuse to be a steaming wreck, it was me.

Watching Patrick crumble in law school was showing me just how tough I’d been all my life. The whole thing sank in halfway through that revelatory coffee. Patrick wasn’t good enough for me.

As far as breakups go, this one made me want to hug myself. There was a wide world of men out there for me to try on. Surely one of them would fit.

The only tragedy was that Patrick beat me to the breakup. The coward emailed me the next day, ending our relationship. I know, are you surprised? Since this was our third breakup, it was hardly dramatic. I was almost amused by his choice of medium. Seriously, why not a singing telegram, or a courier pigeon, or a postcard from Mount Rushmore?

We didn’t speak for almost a year after that. But because life is full of surprises, and I travel a lot, I did get an email from him down the line. It said,

Hey! I know you probably hate me, but I thought I’d let you know there’s a used book sale going on in town. Maybe we can get through a cup of coffee without dredging up what an ass I was?

— Patrick.

Villainizing Patrick to all my friends over drinks was exhilarating. It was all great fun trash-talking someone I used to care about so deeply. In some ways, this part is natural in the recovery process. I had great friends who were all too eager to help. Still, it’s strange when you think about it. When I totaled my little Honda a few years ago, I felt no need to get drunk and talk about how much I hated my old car. I didn’t say anything like, “Girrrrl, that car was such a pain in the ass. Oil changes twice a year? Always having to pump it up with gas every week? And the safety inspections and property taxes alone were giving me a headache!”

And my friends would never have said, “Yeah, walking everywhere is so much better for your health. Seriously, fuck your old car!”

Friends cautioned me about jumping back into the dating pool too soon. Still, I found myself starting several relationships and then killing them off without an easy explanation. I met a cute guy named Jake at a job fair in Maryland who invited me for drinks in his new hot tub. I talked myself out of it, because he’d never read Love in the Time of Cholera. I broke it off with another guy in my grad program because he didn’t know what a CV was. I ended another one with a guy in political science because he coughed a lot, and I was afraid he might have cancer.

Amidst all that dating, I managed to attract one stalker. We met at a Halloween party. Scott wasn’t a bad looking guy — not my type, of course, a thin-faced ex-punk still beholden to his piercings, tattoos, and dark makeup. I friend-zoned him right away, especially when he showed up at my house with a bottle of bourbon. The problem? Stalkers don’t understand friend-zoning. They’re immune to its effects.

Scott’s mistake was bringing me alcohol, because when I saw the bottle the person attached to it became immaterial. Just like a robot, huh?

“Thanks,” I said and started drinking as the door swung closed in his face. “See you at class tomorrow,” I added. A real human would’ve invited Scott in.

After some reflection, I suppose it might be partly my fault that Scott thought we were dating. I’m terrible at reading social cues sometimes. On the other hand, Scott was crazy. So we both assume some responsibility here. After a few months, it became clear to everyone but me that Scott was in love.

A friend called me on the phone and told me to check out Scott’s Facebook. I logged on for the first time in weeks and browsed his feed. He’d downloaded a dozen pictures from my page and photo-shopped himself into them. Quite badly, I might add. All that led to a meeting with the department chair, and the dean of students, and the police. Fortunately, Scott came to his senses and began ignoring me. A few weeks later, he fixated on someone else. You know what’s odd? Part of me felt a little jealous of his new victim. Human nature, I guess. In some ways, being stalked still trumps being alone.

Chapter 7: Patrick the Man Child was originally published in Confessions of An Artificial Bitch on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.