His “Nickname” Is Slot Machine: Part Deux-The conclusion to last week’s story that didn’t end with me being chopped up into itty bitty pieces.

If you’re just following this story, please click here to read part one of Slot Machine before proceeding to part two; and make sure to keep your glass of wine full because the story gets better and better. I seriously can’t make this shit up!

Now back to the story….

Do you know where the first stop was?

NEWARK! Yes, one of the three NYC airports. When I learned our destination was a mere cab ride from my apartment, my opinion of my boyfriend-of-five-months sank right down through the floor. I asked him why in the name of God he booked a flight out of Delaware when it originated where we actually lived?

Silence.

I was also speechless by the time the plane landed in New Jersey. I could only look out the window and stare at the New York skyline.

(WTFFFFFFF)

But, he did book the trip, and we were going to Vegas, and we were staying in the Venetian. So I held out some hope and said no more.

As we headed toward Vegas, I asked SM if I could listen to some music on his iPhone. This was almost six years ago, when the iPhone had just been launched. I had never used one before and was curious to see how it worked. He handed it over, and as I was trying to enter my contact information, I couldn’t help noticing an email from Craigslist.

The subject? “How much are your services?”

I didn’t mean to snoop; I was just trying to add my deets to his contact list, so I gave him the benefit of the doubt. After all, “services” could mean anything: painting services, handyman services, taxi services, anything.

Except, the next subject line happened to read, “Swingers in Delaware Newsletter.”

Yikes. No wonder he was so attached to his home state!

(This is not my idea of a good time!)

I had to say something. We’d been together five months and I had no idea about this “interest” of his. I didn’t want to cause a commotion in the middle of a planeload of people, so I typed up what I had discovered and passed it to him.

Instantly, he became a person I had never seen before. He was pissed off. He was defensive. He couldn’t believe I had been sniffing around in his emails!

Come on, it was an accident! Besides, I think any girlfriend with half a brain would have reacted in the exact same way.

With the last of the celebratory, pre-Vegas mood broken, we spent the next couple of hours in stony silence. As soon as we disembarked, I ran to the bathroom to call Fiona—I needed advice, and hers is always great. I was contemplating just buying a ticket and flying home then and there.

But I didn’t. Unfortunately.

We finally got to the hotel, exhausted from a twelve-hour flight that should have taken six hours, but SM wasn’t too tired to start in on me again. The look of rage on his face and the tone of his voice actually scared me. At that point, we were thirty minutes late for the Cirque de Soleil show, so we trudged off in utter silence. I decided to keep my mouth shut and avoid any further discussion of The Topic, and we agreed to just have a good time.

After all, we were in Vegas—fun city!

Very fortunately, two of my sorority sisters were in town at the same time, so we met up with them. This lightened the mood substantially. We ended up at the Playboy Club, and then moved to a bar downstairs by the casino. At this point, SM excused himself to go to the bathroom.

He never came back.

I was getting nervous. I knew he was a little tipsy, but not drunk enough to just disappear. My thoughts started racing. Was he jumped in the john and left for dead? Did he suddenly join the Merchant Marines?

I called and texted at least a hundred times, but got no response. My friend Molly and I searched every nook and cranny of all of the bathrooms (yes, including men’s rooms) in the casino, but no luck. He had vanished without a trace.

Maybe he found a goat to sacrifice and got charged and gored?

It was anybody’s guess.

By this point, maybe because of the stress, I was more than a little tipsy myself. Molly and I took a cab, but to the wrong hotel. I vaguely remember trying to give a poker dealer my room card. Not a good night all around. Finally, we made our way to the Venetian—luckily, Molly stuck with me; I couldn’t even remember my room number. In fact, the front desk had to have security escort me to the right quarters.

When I opened the door, I was greeted by SM’s bare, drunken ass waving in the air like a tattered flag on the Fourth of July.

I was too drunk to deal with another confrontation and passed out instead. I mustered up the courage to query him the next day as to why in hell he left me on the opposite end of the Strip when he said he was just going to the loo.

He claimed he had puked all over himself and was too embarrassed to return to the table, so he just up and left.

But… We were in Vegas. I really wanted to have fun, so we rallied and went for a couples’ massage. It was a much needed tension reliever. Unfortunately, it was also short-lived. SM moved on to the whirlpool, where he claimed a hairy man sat next to him and waved his paw over his crotch. When he progressed to the steam room, his furry new friend, not one to be deterred, asked my true love if he wanted a blowjob! SM claimed he declined these advances, but that email about the Swingers in Delaware gave me a momentary pause as to which way he was actually swinging.

I spent the final two days of our fun-filled getaway alone at the pool, as SM claimed to be too hungover to get out of bed again until our departure day. Although, ever the romantic, I had brought a bottle of Dom Perignon along for our special vacation—which he didn’t seem to have a problem slurping down.

The trip home was endless. What should have been a simple, five-hour flight lasted an unbelievable twenty-one hours! I could have landed in China or Australia sooner. We had to change planes twice, once in Colorado and again in D.C. When I dared to question him on our convoluted travel arrangements, he again called me a bunch of horrible names and got that same scary look in his eyes he had in our hotel room.

I just stayed quiet.

Our final stopping point? Delaware, of course! After all this, I was facing another day at the funny farm, followed by a four-hour car ride back to NYC.

Just kill me now.

At this point, SM let loose with an obscenity-laden barrage of insults that would have made a pirate blush. He said I never cared about him, and reminded me that his mother thought I was no-good and (again for the third time) one stuck up bitch. Of course, that made it true.

(I had to blur this out to save your ears!)

At that point, I had had enough. All I could think to say in response was, “You must have mistaken me for someone who gives a shit.”

It didn’t end with the trip. He continued to harass me with the most hateful emails and texts for what seemed like months until, finally, one day, they stopped. Of course, the cherry on the sundae of our time together was his final message to “mail back my GPS if you haven’t already smashed it in anger.”

So I did (because I’m such a nice person), right to Mommy’s front door.

Oh, and in case you haven’t figured this out on your own—we broke up.

What Mama’s Boys have taught me continued from my article titled, “The Shabbat of Poo”….

• Never make him choose. If you’re in a serious relationship, become a part of the family so there isn’t division. If it is super serious, bring both families together. Unless they make a habit of sacrificing animals in the backyard.