The stories you are about to read are true. The names have been changed to protect the guilty.
Don’t you hate it when a name is forever after ruined for you?
Take, hmmmmm, let’s say “Yaldo.” I’ve had four partners named Yaldo in my life, two in college and two, well, later. The first was just kind of weird, and our thing didn’t last long. The second was not as smart as he should have been and was once (and only once, let me tell you!) mildly abusive. The third was my Older Man, way too tightly wound and, had I stayed in the relationship, likely to have become abusive as well. The fourth and final Yaldo was married. So was I. That was long long long ago. But one great hot nasty night does not break the Yaldo curse.
And who doesn’t remember (hopefully fondly; I know I do, although I realize this is not always the case) his or her “first?” That would be Xaldo, and I was 18 (surprised? You shouldn’t be. I waited on purpose, not out of any real sense of piety but because I wanted to choose and not be coerced). About three years later the name reappeared on a man who haunts me to this day. I don’t think I can ever fuck another Yaldo as long as I live.
But Zaldo? You stand alone.
Her Other Evil Twin 