Warnings: NSFW, unchristian, NC-17

(Also, the stars* signify that there will be a future backstory blog).

Welcome to the modern-day literary form of Sodom and Gomorrah, inspired by a cheating, conniving, barbaric man-slut.

Ever wondered why Sodom and Gomorrah are similar to sodomy and gonorrhea? Yeah, me either…but this happened to paint a picture.

Turn your Bible (Apple Music) to: “timetakesthetimetimetakes” by Peder.

Now, let’s begin with a quote from the late F. Scott Fitzgerald’s, “The Great Gatsby,”

“I hope she’ll be a fool—that’s the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.”

That part.

When I was born, my mother wept, not cried. Niagara Falls, I was the fourth child out of a total of four girls. The mere idea that I wasn’t formed with male genitalia caused chaos in my parent’s marriage. My mother pleaded to God her entire pregnancy for the boy my father demanded from her reproductive system. They had a nice masculine name squared away: David. Strangely they chose the element of surprise and asked the doctor to keep the sex to himself. I presume they were undoubtedly certain the grand finale of popping out children would be to receive the prized boy. For ten whole months, my mother rubbed her belly thinking a penis was going to champion its way out… It didn’t.

Sorrowfully, my mom’s eyes locked on her nurse’s name tag. That name tag would dictate what people would call me for the rest of my life…Angie (other than the usual name-calling). I could have gone without knowing these memories, but the truth is, it all played a part in our futures. Talk about trauma.

So why does my mother’s reaction to my birth typify the way many couples feel when they give birth to girls? Simple, it’s because men are glorified while women are treated like shit.

ATHOUGH recent studies show that women are stronger and more resilient than men. However, catastrophically, our femininity downplays our strength. Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences of the United States of America discovered that under extreme conditions and epidemic, women are able to survive longer than men. Not to mention the uterus woes, menstrual cycles, excruciating cramps, pregnancy sickness, pushing an entire human being out of our vaginas, postpartum depression, menopause…etc. Then there’s infertility shame some of us have to endure, in which that immeasurable pressure may or may not turn into a domestic war depending on if your partner is a brute or not.

Then there’s the gender wage gap arena where females boast a whopping 79 cents to the male’s whole dollar today, in 2019 and that’s just in America. There’s the flood of male domination in the corporate industry that women are forced to withstand professionally and submissively and so on and so on. But more importantly, the most recent studies show that this is all happening because…wait for it- childbirth. Women give up work hours and promotional opportunities to dive into maternity leave to tend to their newborn, in which the husband exceeds and advances in his career thus continuing the cycle. Some call it a motherhood penalty, and they’re not wrong. It’s a ferocious vicious cycle. BUT you already know all of this.

If you are a good person who embraces women and riding the equality wave, then ignore all of the above. Otherwise, here’s a story:

Rewind two break ups ago, back to 2016.

I was recovering from a nervous breakdown*, and was returning from Tacoma, Washington back to California from a 2.5-month break from the meltdown. * While in Washington, I was helping my sister Melissa with her house-flipping and interior design business; all while trying to reconnect with myself.

By the end of my recovery, I thought I wanted to get back into media writing again, and was tempted to ask for my position back at Dick Clark Productions. By that time, I had already slept with a higher-up and the way my morals are set up…well they weren’t really set up, I didn’t want him to feel obligated to take me back after “The Sex.”

Anyway, slut-ing aside, it was back to the old-fashioned emailing of resumes from the perfectly handcrafted, French-inspired kitchen my sister sculpted with her bare hands.

I applied to probably 30 jobs in SO CAL. I had a few interviews but landed a second interview to be part of the media team at Univision for their new segment, FLAMA.

I had my second interview via Skype with the management at Univision and afterward, already began packing my bags. I had rehabilitated my confidence to an all-time high, and for sure the position was already mine. Turns out it wasn’t but there I was, back in California.

Ok, I swore this blog wasn’t going to be about me, but I’m obsessed with details, and backstories so it might be a little about me.

This story becomes entangled with Layla’s story.

Layla is an unwavering friend I met 10 years ago in 2009 when I lost a massive scholarship from the Ford Family Foundation going into Biola University. So instead of asking for funds from good ol’ daddy or my family, as I usually did, I began working part-time at a tata bar. The irony and cliché were not lost on me: Bible Institute of Los Angeles by day, gentleman’s club by night. * Granted, I landed a day job on campus as an ambassador and blogger for my university, however, Biola was $34,000 a year at the time soooo… Okay, okay, ranting will be saved for another blog. *

SO, Layla and I met in the dark-neon lit corners of the club in which companionship-searchers lurk. We quickly became close and stayed close. She was drawn by my elegance, naturally. *bats eyes* and I was fascinated at the fact that she has three different baby daddies and was going through a separation with baby daddy number 3. You know, REAL life shit. Not the squeaky clean, conservative, pristine, wholesome lifestyle that was expected from me.

Despite my parents’ divorce (which was the scandal of the century in our church because my dad was indeed the pastor), I was entrapped by ultra-conservatism, dogmatic Christianity, in and out of private schools my entire life, a pastor’s child and for once in my life, exactly 5 miles away from my Christian private university. I was around some of the realest people I had ever met (not to mention some of the worst, gossipy, tweaked out, seediest people too). I was immersed in an upside-down world I was never allowed to know about. I was shooketh and as Layla and I gravitated toward one another in that fantasyland with the realest and the fakest, she fought for her livelihood, and I fought for tuition. An unbreakable bond blossomed.

Fast-forward, still in 2016, returning back to Cali, post-meltdown, car repossessed, evicted from my apartment in Costa Mesa, rejected by a job I was sure was mine, and dignity in shambles. I became completely financially dependent on my then boyfriend who was (still is) running a small business that his parents gave him when he dropped out of college. I’m still thankful to him for that to this day and used to want to repay him back for his generosity, but he cheated on me, so to hell with him. Anyway, back to the mismanagement of my early 20s life.*

Realizing I was essentially homeless, Layla welcomed me with open arms into her two-bedroom house filled with 3 children and a live-in boyfriend, we’ll name him: Hoeseph.

With them, it was love at first sight. For me, his likability was ‘meh,’ being that my wavelength radar had been renewed while in Washington. By the time I moved in, they had been together for 4 torturous years.

Hoeseph made sure she was financially dependent on him, which she didn’t mind. She could be a hands-on mother to her 3 children. The kids were in and out of the house, going to after school activities, constantly at sport competitions, traveling for tournaments and fortunately, spent quality time with their very active fathers.

This gave Layla and Hoeseph space to have a whirlwind of scandals. Within 3 months of their relationship, I watched Layla ride for him while he was in jail for 3 months for dislocating someone’s jaw at a bar. She made trips to and from the jail to prove her loyalty to him. When he had nothing, she handed him everything. We believed this faithfulness would change a man, but when he got out, his infidelity came in.

A woman’s gut-wrenching intuition is stronger than any heavy-weighted champion man and ignorance was not bliss for Layla. She thrived in knowing what he was up to. Hoeseph became Hansel and Gretel and lazily left unsubtle hints of breadcrumbs that ultimately led to his final act of savagery…

So, I’d hope. It’s awful to say, but I was relieved in the beginning of his cheating, because at last, this would be the end of their toxic relationship. But yet again, Layla rode for him despite the humiliation and neglect that was subjected to her. When he discovered she tracked him through Apple’s GPS friend locator feature, he was furious, and instead of apologizing for running amok, as she saw on his GPS, he immediately stopped sharing the location. A week later, she put my number in his phone, enabled the friend’s locator, and begged me to keep track of him. I would receive random calls throughout the day of Layla asking me for his GPS location. Sometimes he was at work but more often than not, he was out running amok once again. Excuses were made for every red flag that waved blatantly high in the sky, because as long as the King of Red Flags was HER king, his indiscretions would remain inconsequential. The corner house at Pam Am Boulevard would witness the most disturbing toxic behavior. There would be choking, closed-fist punches, and dragging, but she was unconcerned with the physical abuse, it was the 30-plus women lingering in his phone she discovered that inflicted pain. I never witnessed this abuse, (I wish a bitch would), but the couple months I stayed there, I avoided any room he was in.

This is how selfless Layla was, welcoming me into her overly crowded home, with a Tasmanian devil as a boyfriend, and asked for nothing in return. It gave me a good incentive to get my shit together and get the fuck out of there. Although, today, some of the themes in my life circulate with the ideologies of: birds of feather flock together, keep your circle small, and keep your vibes clear of negativity, this was one low frequency wave I would ride. I would never give Layla up. No matter how much we disagreed, loyalty would remained reciprocated.

That year, 2016, was when she discovered that he traveled to Tijuana, Mexico and spent the entire day at a “gentlemen’s” club called Hong Kong.

She had his Facebook instant messenger information, and an employee from the was sending him a “menu” of girls who offered their services. Instead of grabbing all of his shitty belongings and throwing them outside of her house, she grabbed her purse and a friend and took her irrational ass to Honk Kong in TJ. She knew this would hurt. This is what she often did; confront the other party. If he was DMing girls on IG, Layla would DM them from her account and ask the 5 W’s: Who, what, when, where, and why? Because Lord knows it wasn’t about to come out of Hoeseph’s mouth. That was her addiction, to know everything that took place when he would stray. As long as she knew the truth, she was immovable from the relationship.

I can’t reveal exactly what transpired at HK, however, a Reddit user wrote about his experience one night at the club, and it explicitly lies there (if you MUST to know). But this is what I can tell you:

Every other debaucheries costs as much as an on-sale Fashion Nova dress. They were handing out dildos and shaving cream for a few bucks because I guess they go hand in hand? Layla says it’s used to avoid infections, I personally believe it’s a placebo so may God be with them. As she walked deeper into this less than safe haven, all she could think about was, “the person I love and adore the most was here, with these people, with these naked women willing to do anything.”

Exasperated, she went downstairs and sat down next to a spa where some of the girls were laughing and splashing around in a bubble bath. The men stood around to watch and feed their appetites.

When she reported back to desensitized me, the first thing I asked was, “will you now take that STD test you’ve been putting off? Please go see a doctor.” She finally agreed.

Do you think after the fact her test came back positive for a curable STD, she would leave? No! By this time, my only choice was to support her the way she always supported my shenanigans. In fact, I offered her some golden advice that my sister Anita offered me when I was having relationship issues.

“Why don’t you try to be kind? Kill with kindness no matter what he does.”

“Kind?!”
It sounded foreign to her. It was foreign to ME. A simple “Be kind”. This advice saved my sister’s marriage. Of course her husband wasn’t a cheating, lying, master manipulator. His faults were forgivable but it was the only advice I had left in me.

Layla took the advice and bent over backwards. They agreed to threesomes and to join forces on Tinder. If he needed multiple outlets of intimacy, she would give it to him, and he would finally offer her honesty. Enticing, as this solution seemed, it heightened his thirst to stray.

Sadly, to her dismay, the loyalty she offered him would remain unreciprocated. At this point, we all knew that.

Not only did he cheat on her, he paid women to assist him in his sex scandals. He paid a lesbian who didn’t even like eggplant. 

And gueesssssssss whaaaaaaat, at the end of their relationship, HE left HER!

Sometimes I wonder if I had an ounce of tolerance Layla has, would I be married? For example, by the end of that year in 2016, I began dating; we’ll call him Cowboy. Cowboy went to Biola like me, a super blonde-golden head, blue-eyed, tall and lanky dude. He was ideal, especially for my family. A year younger than me, he was focused on his career as a teacher at a high school in Long Beach, and advanced quickly. He became Dean, then Vice Principle. His plan was to run for mayor and have a Latina by his side to get the Latino votes. I stayed at his condo most of the time while getting my act in gear. We never argued, and we never fought except twice. The first argument was because there were random girls in his IG search engine. The second was because one day in October, I received some job offers. They were all marketing related, but none of the companies I sought after. Eager for double-income, Cowboy emailed my resume to about 20 companies. I was livid. It felt invasive. I got the job but left him. I left the person who encouraged me to do better. This man who took me to south coast plaza and let me pick out any engagement ring I wanted. We frolicked through Tiffany, Harriet Winston, and Cartier. I was set for life, but my heart became distant. Once I’m betrayed, things can never be the same. Is that ego? Trauma? I’m working on it.

Moral of the story is:

God chose to destroy the two cities of Sodom and Gomorrah because their sins became outrageous enough to wipe them off the face of this earth.

Ladies, abuse from a misogynist cheater is the ultimate form of disrespect you can give yourself. Choose to eliminate toxins, wipe out the shit storm, and choose freedom! Allow Layla’s loyalty to be a testament to you ladies who believe even a ménage a trois might save your relationship. Only he can change himself.

Men, a woman birthed you. Women give you children. Women will work all day (and get paid less than you), and still lovingly clean and cook for the household. Women give up their careers to raise your children. Women still mother you. Discontinue the Neanderthal behavior, especially toward women and please, once and for all, if she gives you a girl instead of a boy, LOVE HER regardless! Reproductive pressure is toxic behavior. Of course I’m nowhere near perfect, I preach because I know how it is to be toxic because of my anger toward men. I’ve done unspeakable things.* During my last breakup with Nick, from the first blog, I truly believed I would have a full-on lesbian relationship and be done with men for good. Fortunately, Nick did a complete 180 rotation when he realized I was shutting it down. After one month apart, he laid out his exact faults, and demonstrated exactly how things would change. We made a blueprint of what we wanted things to look like and began the first steps of modification. I chose to forgive as per my new initiation. I choose freedom of trauma. So far so good, but we shall see.

 (Apple music: Messy Love by Mura Masa)