I Hate Symbolism

The local amateur gay hockey league tournament was this weekend, and since Initial's friend's boyfriend was playing, I was dragged tagged along, mostly because I felt I had spent too much of the day watching television; only a few days ago did I convince him to buy an antenna to at least pick up five channels on his television so I could watch the Simpsons over at his place. Once he did get the antenna, we started to spend too many nights sitting in front of the boob tube, and it was a good idea to get out of his apartment. Plus, I wanted to at least pretend to play nice; I mean, this friend is Initial's only friend that I can tolerate, so I might as well stay on that one's good side.

The game ended up being pretty goddamn boring, which came as no surprise to me. It was, after all, an amateur hockey played by lesbians and 30-something gay men for whom a puck in the face would be an improvement. There were tons of fouls, and the team that we were 'cheering' for ended up losing. By the end of the game, my ass was sore from sitting on the bleachers, my eyes were rolled up to the back of my head due to all the errors, and I was grunting with impatience as the clock slowly counted down.

Of course, afterwards, my ass was sore, my eyes were rolled, and I was grunting for completely different reasons.

We got back to Initials place and as soon as the door closed behind me, I knew what I was in for. He pushed me back against the wall, one arm trapping me, the other on my chest, his tongue in my mouth. Anticipating what was coming next, I deftly undid my watch and stuck it in my front right pocket, and slipped off my ring and put it into my left. Call me crazy, but I like sex to be completely naked: no rings, no watches, no glasses, no socks, no necklaces, nothing like that.

Now, I won't bore you with all the sleazy, tawdry, disgusting, erection- inducing details, but at one point my pants were ripped off me and flung across his living room, landing somewhere near the kitchen.

Yadda, yadda, yadda, afterwards we realize that the Kiss Kiss Bang Bang dvd we rented was due by midnight, and one of us would have to get dressed and drive the three blocks in order to return it in time. Because I felt as though I owed him one, due to this one thing he did that felt really really good, I volunteered, and went to search for my clothing.

As I collected my keys, phone, and watch, which had fallen out of my jeans pocket when they landed, I realized that my ring was missing.

I wear one ring. It was given to me by my first (and probably best, so far at least) boyfriend, way back when. It was his ring, the only accessory he wore, and four months into the relationship, he took it off his finger and gave it to me. It was a little too big for my ring finger, so I took to wearing it on my pointer. And for the past three years, I've worn it constantly, only taking it off for showers, sleep, and sex.

And now it's missing. The symbolism is pretty blatant. Sure, I'm I was an English major, so this stuff comes pretty easy to me, but the fact that I lost the ring, the one big physical remnant of my past relationship, just as I'm hitting the two month mark in another, sounds to me like a passing of the torch sort of situation. And I don't like it.

In many posts recently I've expressed reservations over Initials. When it's good, it's good, and when it's bad, it's boring and he gets too doting. (Plus his friends all suck.)

So maybe it is a sign, that I should forget any hesitations I have and just go for it, restart with a blank slate with this relationship. Or maybe it's a sign that Initials is going to fuck shit up for me, and I should get out before he starts losing other things.

All I know is, I want my goddamn ring back.

EDIT:: He found the ring, with even more, sinister symbolism. It turns out, it was stuck in his shoe, near the side, and he didn't notice he had been walking on it for a while.