“Butters?” my voice softly flowing through the other end of the phone. I haven’t spoken to him in years because I knew what I did was wrong but I was too much of a pussy to apologize.

 

Yes, his name was Butters. I didn’t name him, but the strange thing is that all my exes are named after dairy products. Maybe they sense my lactose intolerance and want to cure me with their dairy dicks, who the fuck knows. But no matter how much these men try to break me down, stripping away my inner lining, ripping holes in my stomach and heart, leaving me as a pile of flesh on the ground, I always seem to be the one, at the very end, who rips them apart. They call it having the last laugh but it’s never funny to me.

 

Maybe it’s because I never truly suffer after a breakup, I really only mourn the loss of a story, that’s the damn curse of being a storyteller. Now, I know what you’re thinking, well, that Turkish guy did fuck you up pretty good, and then there was the alcoholic Montenegrin, oh and don’t forget that one, you know, that Macedonian-Aussie that had you hermitting in your room for a couple of months. But I never loved them. Up until now, I never really loved anyone but myself. Aside from losing out on a good story, the true heartbreak came from them not being able to understand my light. Not truly being seen is heartbreak in itself, don’t you think?

 

See, but things have a way of working themselves out. After dating me, half of them married the first girl they met, usually a girl who ironically looks perfect for them, while the others went down a darker road. Butters went down the latter.

 

See, I don’t really know how to describe him. He’s a light that I didn’t understand and that’s what broke him. I met him playing chess at a house party. When you play chess at a party, it’s clear that it’s a shitty party. It was a metalhead party which was in a house that was on the edge of having crack den-like qualities. I was invited by one guy I met at Poli Sci 101 class. He wanted to fuck me, but I was a virgin and didn’t like how his knees buckled when he walked. I thought, if anyone is going to have this sacred pure puss, it’s going to be someone with decent bone structure.

 

When you walked into the house, it smelt of stale beer and dirty dicks. I had been to this house before, it was the party house in the shit suburbs of Vancouver. I took one of my friends there to a party a couple of weeks before, she lasted two minutes before running to the car crying. She’s a doctor now. It’s funny how the smallest of traumas change people.

 

But tonight, the party was dull. I wasn’t a punk rock chick and the guys were interested in girls with ear gauges and beer drinking talents which I simply wasn't born with. I sat on a couch, next to a couple that was making out. Every so often, some of their beer would spill onto me without them noticing. I couldn’t say anything, I’m a believer in love. On the coffee table in front of me was a chessboard and a pile of weed scattered next to it. I pushed the weed into a neat pile away from me, I was firm on not letting impurities near my body. In the midst of reorganizing a pile of weed, he walked up to me and sat across from me.

 

“You playing?” he asked. He was wearing a white wife beater and a pair of Eminem-baggy type jeans. I liked his buzzcut, it gave that military bad boy look that every girl creams herself over. He sat down on a small stool and smiled at me with eyes that told me that, yes this place is a shithole, but it’s going to be okay. I believed him.

 

“Uh, well, I don’t have anyone to play with,” smiling shyly as I pushed my hair back behind my left ear.

 

He moved a pawn forward, grabbed his beer and took a swig.

 

I moved a pawn forward, “what’s your name?”

 

“Butters.”

 

I looked at him, “like...your first name? Or…”

 

“Last name,” he smiled softly, “my first is Billy.”

 

“Billy Butters?” my mouth trembled as I contained my laughter.

 

“Trust me, I didn’t pick the name.”

 

I let out a soft giggle, “I kinda like it actually,” moving my knight, “Billy Butters.”

 

“You know, you don’t look like a girl who would go to a party like this,” he said, looking at the chessboard.

 

“Well, you don’t really know what kinda girl I am.” I looked down nervously, holy fuck, oh my god, you’re flirting with him, oh fuck… you’re a virgin. Just like...act like you’re not.  

“You’re right,” he looked at me with a smile, as his hand moved his Bishop, “guess I’ll have to find out.”

 

I could feel heat stream up through my body as my face turned red. I don’t know what this feeling means, maybe I’m in love. Maybe lust, no, wait, this is love. This must be what connection is. This is Marissa and Ryan type shit. Oh my god, I’m living the O.C.

 

“Butters!” a voice called out. He turned around to his friend signaling to go.

 

“Listen, I gotta go, but uh,” he scratched his head nervously, “can I like get your number to like... call you or whatever?”

 

“Uh, yeah,” I smiled, “where’s your phone?” He handed me his shitty Nokia, you know, the drug dealer one, “call me.”

 

He got up, put his phone in his front pocket, grabbed his beer, “I will.”

 

He walked towards the front door. My friend Christina quickly sat in the seat across from me, “oh my god, who was that.”

 

“Billy Butters.”

 

“God, that’s a fucking horrible name,” she laughed, “seriously, don’t date him, imagine his family,” she says, pausing for a quick moment, “okay, so that guy I was just making out with, oh my god, you should have felt his arms. He’s a and drummer and---” She kept droning on but I couldn’t listen anymore, I just met my bad boy. So what if he has a shitty name?

 

Five days later, with each day more torturing after the next, I got a phone call while I was getting into my car at the university parking lot. An unknown number appeared on my phone. Holy fuck, it’s him. I took a breath, tried to calm down but at this point, I was a hopeless virgin.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Hey, is this Natasha?”

 

“Yeah, who’s this?”

 

“Butters.”

 

“ Oh hi!” reminding myself to be cool. I cleared my throat, “Uh, isn’t there like a three-day rule or something?”

 

“What’s the three day rule?”

 

“You know, like three days until you call a girl.”

 

“And what day is this?”

 

“The fifth day.”

 

“Really? I wasn’t keeping count. Uh, I want to know if you wanted to go out this weekend? To see a movie or something…”

 

“Oh yeah, that would be great,” my voice increased in pitch with excitement. I cleared my throat again nervously, “Uh, how about we try something different. You know, movies, everyone does that. Have you ever tried Bikram's yoga?”

 

“Is that yoga in a hot room?”

 

“Yeah, you want to, uh, give it a try with me?”

 

“Hot yoga as a first date,” he laughed, “sure, why the fuck not. Well, then I’ll call you tomorrow and we can make a plan.”

 

“Okay! Sure! I’ll uh, talk to you later!”

 

“Bye Natasha,” he hung up.

 

I put my phone down. Pausing for a moment I tried to collect my thoughts. “OH, MY GOD!” I hit the steering wheel with my hands, “I’m going on a fucking date!” I kept screaming until I ran out of breath. I wiped the nervous sweat from my forehead, put my seatbelt on. Then the panic set in. I called Christina.

 

“Remember that guy from the party?”

 

“The one with the tragic name?” she said while chewing sounds traveled through the receiver.

 

“What are you eating?”

 

“A carrot.”

 

“Okay, anyway, yes! He asked me out.”

 

“Please tell me you said no. It took him five days to call you, and his last name is Butters...he’s an idiot.”

 

I ignored her comment, “he was just busy and of course, I said yes. We’re going to hot yoga together on Saturday.”

 

“This doesn’t sound like it’s going to end well.”

 

“Oh, don’t be such a Debbie Downer. He was so cute,” braking quickly as someone in a Honda cut me off, “what the fuck!” I yelled at my front window, holding the phone away from my face.

 

I put it on speakerphone instead, “Natasha, you basically met him in a crack den.”

 

“But it’s kinda a little Marissa and Ryan, no? You know, it's like a little O.C, right?”

 

 

This is the story of the beginning and end of Billy Butters.