Dance With the Devil
I knew I was leaving Anthonie Collins after that evening he asked to arrange sex with another man and woman. Not at the beginning of that night, but by the end. We were all in the hotel room, getting ready to start the action with awkward introductions.
Ant blurted out, “We should all be Facebook friends after this.” Later, he would say, “I was drunk and nervous, so I just blurted something out.” Let’s get each other’s personal contact info” is always my nervous response to sexual nerves.
I sent him a death stare. My hands flew to my hips which thrust forward in indignation.
The night before I had written him a text that said my only limitation for the evening was that he not try to get this strange women’s contact information. Besides that, despite being his lover for almost two years, Ant had me blocked on Facebook and Instagram. There is no good reason. I’ve never argued with his friends or called him names. So the gall of violating that boundary was too much. I shut the whole thing down. Ant didn’t recognize that I get what I want. If I say it isn’t happening, it isn’t.
Maybe that makes me a kind of narcissist, and we can discuss my limitations along the way. Ant is also adjusted to getting his way, so he threw glass objects at my head in the hotel that night, breaking one.
I had to call hotel management and they called the police. I didn’t want that kind of trouble for him so I put them off his scent by not providing his address.
Here’s the thing. I’m classified as a vulnerable adult. My therapist submitted the paperwork on me a month back because my husband I am separated from has been verbally abusing me for five years and physically got out of hand three times.
But my husband wasn’t the only one abusing the vulnerable adult. Sinister Ant was standing by to tell a suicidal me that he just did not care if I died.
He told me he had gotten tired of my suicide threats. They were too stressful for him. He had to call the police. No, he never talked to me when I was suicidal or had to walk me through my symptoms. He just grew tired of calling the police.
Showing the extent of my love addiction condition or codependency, when I spoke with him later in the night, I agreed to let him back in the hotel. We had sex for what I thought was the last time and I snuck out leaving him sleeping.
I thought I had really left him that night. But I needed his help with something and he managed to talk me into his bed once again, but I swore it would never happen again the more I thought about what else I learned on the night of the big hotel fiasco. As we fought over who actually ruined the night, I taunted him in such a way about his manhood that he would have to prove himself by showing me his messages from other women, if they existed. Just as I suspected, boom, on a dime, he produces a conversation between himself and another woman complete with 😍😍 and other love filled emojis. Meanwhile, he is using me, someone who loves him, for sex.
I needed to get as far away from this monster as I could. When he tossed a knife at me recently, Ant said, “My friends get knives thrown at them.” Not even an apology.
I know I said I was a reclusive writer and a nerd. He said he liked weird girls and nice asses. I immediately thought I should move on. I have a terrible ass. But I swiped to make it a match.
Later on, I went back to read what I wrote to him as introductory material. I’m surprised he didn’t run away. I was rambling and somewhat incoherent, enthusiastically, and honestly describing my life circumstances. I was still married, in an emotionally abusive relationship, trying to figure out a way to escape.
But he hung in there, and soon we were flirting and sharing our deepest secrets. In fact, we wrote everything back and forth to each other. I shared more with him than I had told my husband.
He was clever with a turn of phrase. His expressiveness drew me in. It wasn’t long before I wanted to meet in person, but a long month passed before we managed to make schedules sync up.
We’d decided to hang at his place, but he lived downtown in St. Paul, and there’s no free parking. The first time we met, we arranged to meet in the parking lot of my favorite Chinese restaurant’s, The Tea Garden, just outside the downtown loop so that he could drive me to his apartment.
In the car ride back to his place, we exchanged electrified looks. There was a definite attraction. He was wearing shorts, and I touched his bare thigh. Spark. Kaboom. The afternoon was going to lead to sex, and we both knew it. How powerfully intoxicating that sex would be was something I did not anticipate.
A significant roadblock emerged almost immediately. It would be the first insight I would get that this person was a psychopath. When he took off all of his clothes, there were lots of tattoos. Most of them cute and benign, but many others were symbols of Nazi pride.
He told me he had been an IV methamphetamine addict for nearly 20 years. As a result, he had committed crimes that resulted in time in prison. There was more to it than that, but it involved oversentencing of juveniles so he had my sympathies.
I excused the tattoos, telling myself everyone has to have a group to back them up in prison. The fact my Prince Charming had never seen fit to have those tattoos redone suggested maybe he was still a white supremacist, but I was already hooked on him through our intimate conversations. I asked him some questions to gauge if he was racist, and he didn’t seem to be.
Almost immediately in our times together, he did attack my research work in genealogy, my time spent watching the news (he stated I should be gathering news from Youtube instead, most specifically Joe Rogan).
I was a sheep and a guinea pig for watching any news the mainstream media-generated news. I was also stupid for engaging in politics, regardless of the reason. It was just a game, man. Don’t be a fool and play along with it. He did end up voting in the primary, his first vote in his life. He seemed proud of it, and he credited the behavior to influence from me, so I hope he does it again.
I didn’t buy everything he was saying, but I did begin watching news less. I stopped writing political articles during the year we saw each other. I realized what I was doing around my birthday in April of 2020, and I immediately resumed my previous behavior. I began watching the news. I’ve yet to write a political article.
I started trauma treatment last summer on a Thursday. I knew better than to send him any messages about what I had focused on for Day One, but I did, anyway. I sought support for how I was feeling. At first, he asked why I was sending him the messages. When I explained further, he didn’t respond until after I went to sleep.
I woke up the next day, Friday, to his messages. They were flippant, cold, and indifferent. It was basically a big “So What” to my first day of trauma treatment. I should not have been surprised. He lacks empathy. He is a diagnosed psychopath. But he has shown empathy to others across many different situations, so I have been fooled into thinking he is capable of it.
We just spent a wonderful night together on Wednesday. I gave him oral sex three or four times, which makes him especially happy. He made me happy once. He held me. That was twice. That’s a good night for us. I thought it meant I could reach out to him for emotional support. I was wrong.
He wasn’t shy about asking me for a favor just a little bit later on in the day on Friday, though. He needed money. I had already given him $150, which I could tell he had already spent on something other than what I had given it to him for. He wanted me to pawn his guitar for him. I knew from the past he wanted me to give him another $150 and then get paid back later, but I couldn’t do that. I didn’t have any money. So, I reluctantly agreed to do the pawn.
As trauma treatment continued on day two, it was incredibly stressful. I realized I couldn’t even talk to Mr. Narcissist about it during the passing off of his guitar because he would have his child with him, and he keeps me a secret from everyone in his life. I changed my mind about running 30 minutes into the city to grab his guitar, drive to the pawnshop, and pawn it, so I could run back to his place in time to pay his parking garage before it closed.
He blew up at me. He started calling me a spoiled rich person. I’m a disabled, divorced woman without a job whose marital support runs out in just a few years. He called me lazy. My back has a battery and wires in it to address chronic pain because I carried around newspapers that were heavier than I could handle every day when I was eight and nine years old. I had a job from that time forward until my disability.
The very first thing he did was say, “Well, then I am never having sex with you again.”
He knew that I suffer from love and sex addiction, so he wanted to hurt me. What he didn’t know is that I have been going to Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous. I’ve been gaining strength in leaving a narcissistic abuser, and he was one of the worst I had had to date. He spent a very short amount of time on the love-bombing phase of the narcissistic abuse cycle. It was a couple of months max.
I heard about what a great lover I was. How much I connected with him more than any other person. That I was special and beautiful. Those are precious texts to me now, because after those first two months were over, Mr. Narcissist got angry with me one day, and there were never any positive things said about me or to me again. He made it a point to tell me I would never again hear that kind of thing from him.
Someone who didn’t have my background would turn and run. I stay and try to win back those original positive feelings. That’s the trauma background. In fact, they call what I have with Mr. Narcissist, a trauma bond. I was hooked on him specifically because he tapped into my trauma. Did he do it on purpose? I’m told he did by the experts in narcissism and love addiction.
When we were at the part of the narcissistic abuse cycle where he first dumped me, I knew there was a part of the cycle where he would circle back and use me again. It is called hoovering. Nonetheless, I became involved in it all over again.
So how did a confessed psychopath manage to win over my trauma-torn heart? If I had been doing any reading about relationships at all, it would have been laid bare for me on page after page of information about love addicts (people with a deep need for reassurance of love), love avoidants (e.g., narcissists, psychopaths, and sociopaths), and the sad little dance they do from euphoric beginnings to tearful ends.
He wanted to kiss. And kiss a lot. He sucked on my neck. I sucked on his bottom lip. After years in a marriage of pecks, the twisting of tongues around one another was pure animal lust. I dragged my fingernails across his back, his legs, and his shoulders. He seemed to shiver in response. I thought I might have left behind marks on his skin, but I did not. He did leave a hickey, which I found embarrassing later on.
This was all well before our naughty bits came into contact. Our hands explored one another’s bodies. He pulled my body around his bed with ease. His time spent doing Jui Jitsu meant he knew how to handle me. He pulled my arms above my head, then touched my face with his other hand, pulling me into a kiss. It was masculine and tender at once.
The sex was all about connection. Our eyes never stopped staring directly into the other’s, no matter how we moved. Everything was about feeling each other’s souls. I remember thinking, “Are you trying to steal my soul because I am gasping for breath, I see stars, and my muscles are limp.”
Notably, in mythology, some demons come to sleep with women to steal their souls. An Incubus could also be a demon who induces a nightmare. What we ended up having together felt like a nightmare, so either definition fits.
Mine was mostly the soul-stealing variety. He had me doing things I had sworn off as wrong since my teens years, like stealing or experimenting with hard drugs like cocaine or acid. He drove recklessly while he was drunk, and I still rode along with him. He even drove drunk with his son in the car. He told himself and me that he drove better drunk.
He was my Incubus come to visit.
He didn’t realize that as damaged as I was, I wasn’t completely vulnerable to his evil. The Holy Spirit was watching over me extra carefully. I had been baptized at least two times that I have records for, and probably a few more times along my spiritual journey. Thanks to my crazy folks. Bless their hearts. They are “Coulda had a Cable TV show” whacky. They belonged to more different kinds of churches than I have spent years in education (It took me eight years to get my PhD). But I digress.
There was a song I listened to growing up called, “Somebody’s Knocking” sung by Terri Gibbs. The lyrics were about the devil coming to visit.
Should I let him in
Lord it’s the devil
Would you look at him
I’ve heard about him
But I never dreamed
He’d have blue eyes and blue jeans
My devil had brown, almost black eyes. The way he told it, the reason all of his teeth were fake was that he had them knocked out for having a big mouth. That sounded grim. And a little threatening. His ex-wife has a restraining order on him. He says she’s crazy, but what if its the other way around?
However, his willingness to blatantly treat me like a pain in his ass whenever I needed support, coupled with his winning stream of putdowns when I wouldn’t do his bidding, was enough for me to see him for what he is. Perhaps if he had introduced me to his son once in the two years we had sex together. Or perhaps if he had introduced me to any of his friends during that time?
I was nothing to him. I just needed to open my eyes and see that. Now, to finish trauma treatment and find someone who will love me enough to introduce me to his friends.
This story has more to come, but I’ll get this much down.