Just when I think, or rather hope, I’ll never hear the word “bro” again, I move back to NYC and it’s thrown in my face in less than 72 hours after my arrival. Why this is, I’m unsure, but I’m going to assume it’s some sort of necessity in reassuring me that I’m officially home — at least for the moment.
Last night I was out with two friends; one would be Sam and the other would be a fella I casually dated about a year ago. The fella, whose identity I’m keeping concealed due to his stance on the following, tried to weasel his way into a threesome sort of situation. It should be noted that all three of us are currently in relationships. Granted the seriousness of our relationships and rules vary, but I, for one, have my heart completely secure in the hands of Olivier — despite the Atlantic between us.
However, this didn’t matter to the fella because, as I learned, “bros” have a different idea of what constitutes cheating than most. In fact, I was shocked to learn that if you find yourself dating a self-proclaimed “bro,” you better be damn sure you know what you’re getting into, or else your sanity and your heart are fucked.