I jotted some note about not wanting to step down again in my journal the next day, but it's not quite the right metaphor, or maybe I just got it wrong. I mean, it does suck to give up an addiction, physically and mentally, but the end result is worth it. I think I either meant that I didn't want to take a step back, or that I didn't want to have to repeat the step again and again. I am trying so hard to learn my lessons.

I was telling someone recently that I decided I should only hang out with my non-smoking friends as I go through this rough period in my life, and then I realized that, with the exception of one person, there was only one person in my life I would consider a smoker. I mean, I've seen a few of my other friends smoke socially every so often, but there was only one who I thought might be hard to see.

He's the one who gets up every day, and goes out and buys a pack of smokes first thing after he walks out his ront door. That is, if he didn't buy a pack the night before, before he headed home to bed. He will never be without, unless he's broke (which is frequent), and even if has no money, he always seems to scrape up some change to feed his habit. He has a committment to that red and white package with the black lettering, one of the few in his life he will always uphold.

He and Phillip Morris would make a really cute couple.

He's also the guy I most recently slept with, an act (well, acts) which turned an unhealthy friendship into a depressing, and, ultimately, mortifying fling. See, I'd gone this route with him before, a year ago, when I thought it had meant something. We even did it again six months ago, when he returned from a long trip. But this time it depressed me because whatever spark had existed, was extinguished by the increasing pathos of his life.

In the year that has passed, I've accomplished major goals in my career, both creatively and financially. The last four projects I've been offered - all appealing in both substance and wage - came to me because someone was familiar with my work. For the first time in my life, I have a reputation that has nothing to do with how much I drank, what I said, or who I slept with. This doesn't mean I've elminated the other reputation, but, all in all, I feel much more stable.

He, on the other hand, is flat broke, has burned many bridges in his personal and professional life, and is at a standstill creatively. A year before he had been a rising star, cocky and charming. I've watched him peak, and then begin his downward spiral, wondering if his poor treatment of women had impacted his karma, or, at the very least, his reputation. He's not really that much fun to be around, and he hasn't been for a while, except in an very unhealthy way. I am only just realizing that I took pleasure in his pain. I am disappointed in myself.

I mentioned the word "mortifying" a few paragraphs back, as well. I don't really care if my friends find my lovers unappealing, for whatever reason, just as they don't care what I think about theirs. We don't really discuss those kinds of judgements; we are always more concerned with how our friends are being. If you think a friend's lover is cool, you make approving noises; if you don't, you simply keep an eye out, listen closely and be supportive, and offer a critical opinion only when absolutely necessary.

My friends hate this guy. Hate him. I never even told my roommate that I had this little fling because he hates him so much, and I didn't feel like being alternately questioned and mocked this spring. I envisioned my roommate grabbing me by the shoulders, and shaking me. Perhaps throwing cold water on me. Slapping my face. The friends I did tell, well...let's just say they were happy with my ultimate decision.

The first day I quit smoking was the last time I slept with him. He had smoked, of course, all day (though he at least showed me some respect and didn't smoke in front of me that night), and hadn't considered how his breath might taste. We kissed and...his mouth tasted like an ashtray. I had made it 24 hours without a cigarette, and now I had to be reminded of what I had given up in an incredibly intense fashion. If I were a guy, I would have lost my hard-on instantly. Instead I turned my head and kissed his neck. He kissed mine. We worked our interaction that way, avoiding sweet kisses and darting tongues, the one thing that, in the past, had guaranteed some sort of emotional connection.

I asked him to go down on me, and he willingly did. He was always good at that, and enjoys, in general, getting women off. I closed my eyes. I shut out my thoughts and emotions. I concentrated on his tongue concentrating on me. I breathed. I moaned. I came.

Even now I can't remember if we had sex after that. Everything was a blur. I suppose we did. I didn't care after I had my orgasm, you see. If we did, I'm sure I played along, and I'm sure he came. I wouldn't want to be remembered as bad in bed.

I didn't want to see him after that for a while. I started a few fires to scare him off. I didn't know what was going to happen, but I knew something would be different. I needed to focus on my work and my non-smoking, and I needed to be around people who were supportive of me. I needed to solve some problems. I needed to get out of town, too.

The last time I saw him, two weeks later, he told me I was the most important person in his life. He lit a cigarette. He told me he didn't want to lose me. He puffed away furiously. He told me he loved me. The smoke separated us; I pulled back and waved it away with my hand. He also told me that he didn't care that he had hurt the girl he dated before me, nor did he care that he had hurt the girl he dated after me.

"You were the only one that I cared about, Jami. I cared if I hurt you."

How could you not care if you hurt someone who cared about you? How could you not care if you hurt someone you had made love to? Dammit, how could you not care if you hurt someone who had opened up to you, invited you into your life?

What did he think of me, saying something like that? And did he see something that I didn't? Did he think this was what I wanted to hear? Say what you will about me being a bitch, there was no way in hell I could feel good about his actions.

His smoking made me sick. As I listened to his confessions, I watched him pull cigarette after cigarette from the pack, and put it into his mouth. It was the first time I had ever been with him while he was smoking and I was not. I knew that just a few weeks before, I would have been digging just as furiously at a pack of cigarettes; grabbing at them, smacking one between my lips, lighting, dragging, and then, finally stubbing it dead and gone in an ashtray, or on the floor if there was no ashtray available. I would have been stuck in the same fucked-up cloud.

"If I was with you," he said, "If we were together, I would ruin everything. And I don't want to lose you as a friend."

I looked at him, as much as I could see him through his own personal haze, and focused my gaze. The gaze of a woman. I could see. And let me tell you, brother, I could see. Watch me see.

"Being with me is not an option," I said. "Because..."

I paused. Did I really want to say this? Well, it was the truth. I had to say what I really thought.

"Because you're not good enough for me."

I had never said anything like that before in my life. It had never occurred to me before that someone wasn't good enough for me. I had met men I wasn't attracted to, and men who weren't attracted to me, and men I had nothing in common with, and men of numerous other descriptions, all of which generally meant the same thing, that either I or he or we knew that it wouldn't work. But never had I uttered those words (At least in relationship to me; I'd certainly said to friends about men or women in pursuit of them.).

Perhaps it was that I had never felt good enough about myself to feel comfortable judging someone else in that way. Maybe I've gotten wiser over the years. Maybe I didn't realize it about him until that exact moment. Whatever the case, once I commenced that train of thought, I knew I had to finish it.

"You're a mess. You don't have your shit together, at all. You drive everyone you go out with crazy.You're in a rut creatively. You can't find a decent job, and the ones you do find are with unstable companies, so you keep getting laid off. And your salary is a fraction of mine, and I'm sorry, but that does matter to me at this point. I want to be with someone who can keep up with me, and my goals. You've burned so many bridges in this town because you're so public about the fucked up companies you work for, that no one is going to hire you again. You're going to have to find a whole new career, or leave town. Why on earth would I want you to be my boyfriend? You're not good -- you're not good enough for me."

That was a rough thing to say to someone who was supposed to be my friend. I knew then that, even though I am notoriously honest, what I said was too over the top - hell, antagonistic and cruel - even for me. This was not a good relationship for either of us.

I didn't talk to him for a week, and I didn't care. He called me every day, and sent a few emails. I left for San Francisco, excited to get away and clear my head. He called me eight times on my cell phone, twice at an inappropriately early time of day, which I felt was an attempt to ensure I wasn't having any sex. He knew we were coming to an end, but he wasn't going down without a fight. I told my San Francisco friends what happened when I got a little disturbed by the number of phone messages I had received. They all had the same take on it: He was desperate to exert some sort of control over me.

I called him when I returned and left him a message, telling him I had received all his messages, that I was annoyed that he had called me when I had specifically told him that I didn't want to speak with him or see him, and that I felt like he had tried to ruin my vacation.

The last thing I said to him was the following:

"Unless someone in your life has died, don't bother getting in touch with me."

And you know what? I wasn't kidding.

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