Me, My Me, and I: A Love Story


've loved me since the day I met me.

It was three years ago when I first caught sight of that mirror in Bed Bath & Beyond. I couldn't look away: Me had wild brown hair, soft green eyes, and a great ass. I made one of my signature catcall whistles to let me know I liked the way me looked.

Our first date was Japanese food. The maître d' asked if I was waiting for someone else. I informed him that no, we would just be the one of us. Me and I learned a lot about each other: We were both Sagittariuses. We both drove Dodge station wagons. Both of our mother's names were Cheryl Wasserstein.

One day, my roommate Phil suggested I bring me to my dec-annual psychiatric check-in. He was very insistent about this. I was going to go, but then I got the flu so me and I stayed in and watched Mulholland Drive. I fell asleep a few minutes in because I was very bored.

For our two-month anniversary, me and I decided to vacation in Venezuela. I had wanted to go since I learned of their exotic extradition treaties. I researched a five-star resort to stay in, and booked the Honeymoon Suite on impulse. Upon arriving, the concierge met us at the front and asked if I was waiting for someone else. I informed him that no, it was just me and I, and you must be related to that Japanese maître d', ha ha!

We spent our days basking in the sun and making each other laugh. Wherever we went, people stared, in awe of our chemistry. At night, we dined at the hotel restaurants, sharing dinner for two and splitting dessert to cap things off. On an unrelated note, I had to buy new pants there because the old ones stopped fitting. To celebrate the purchase, we went out and split a bucket of midday Budweisers by the pool.

Each night, we made passionate love. It was mostly hands stuff, which is our signature style, and also the working title of my memoir. Sometimes we would sneak out to the Jacuzzi in nothing but our towels, giggling the whole way. The cleaning ladies must have caught wind of our exploits, because they would point and laugh whenever we walked by — a traditional Venezuelan gesture of respect.

On our third day, things got interesting.

Me and I were about to get in the pool, as I was adjusting my new trunks to accentuate my bulging thighs. That's when I looked down and laid eyes on the most beautiful creature I had ever seen: myself. Myself had wild brown hair, soft green eyes, and a great ass (I had a type). I whistled, and a nearby bikini babe snapped her head in my direction. She asked if I had a problem. No, I told her. I do not have a problem.

The rest of the day, I couldn't stop thinking about myself. But I knew it was wrong. Because what about me?

Later that night, I found myself at the bar, while me was busy being blackout drunk. I ordered two Long Island iced teas to set the mood. The bartender gave me an encouraging look, which he did by arching one eyebrow. (I continued to gain the respect of the locals.) Next, I went to the jukebox and put on “Living on a Prayer,” just like I always do in situations like this. Then, we danced. 

Hours later, everyone had left but us. Things were getting steamy on the dance floor: I was touching myself in all the right places. The manager shuffled over to ask whether everything was OK. I told him yes, because I was about to fuck myself. And don't tell me, I slurred over my shoulder, and he nodded, and sort of backpedaled away, to signal that he was very impressed.

The next morning, I awoke to discover that I was beside myself. I couldn't remember much, except that we had sex, and that I really needed to get back to working on my memoir. I threw the sheet off and snuck out. I had to get back before me found out what I had done to myself.

I never did tell me what happened. Sometimes, though, I fantasize about the three of us together, in the middle of some hot, three-way action. It always brings a smile to my face.


Illustration By Jesse Benjamin