What the Petraeus/Crocker Testimony Will Mean (Brunch Version):
Bleary-eyed in Boerum Hill, Brooklyn, the Rude Pundit brunched with his friend Conrad yesterday morning. He had crashed at Conrad's for a couple of hours after a good pot and cheap beer party that ended some time that morning. Conrad was complaining, as Conrad does, often, about his live-in lover, Preston. Preston had opted out of brunch at the Mexican joint, so Conrad felt free to talk.

But it's always the same story with Conrad. One day he's on the phone talking about how he's had it with Preston, that he's throwing that fucker out on the gentrified streets with just the clothes on his back. The next day he'll say that he's giving Preston another chances, that Preston is making all kinds of promises, and Conrad just can't say no when Preston looks at him that way. The Rude Pundit just shakes his head, wondering how often this is gonna happen. How many times is Preston gonna demand that Conrad, the wealthier of the two, take care of him while he does whatever he wants, going out without Conrad, fucking around (although Conrad denies Preston does this), making a wreck of their condo and demanding that Conrad clean it up, making Conrad feel like shit if he tries to redecorate a room, say, without Preston's input.

The strange thing is that the sex ended sometime late last year. Sure, sure, while they were fucking, it was good. Conrad was a gleeful bottom, and he was happy to take it in the ass, the face, whatever Preston wanted. As Conrad described, nothing make him jizz harder than Preston telling him to get on his knees. So even if Preston, who's always been an asshole, treated Conrad like shit, at least Conrad got his rocks off regularly. But then Conrad decided he was tired of being a catcher, that he wanted to step on the mound for a while. Preston was absolutely adamant about their established positions, so, ambitions aside, Conrad stayed bent over until, his desire to do the fucking instead of getting fucked rising, they reached a kind of stalemate, a sword fight that ends in a draw, if you will. Sure, they could just jack off on each other, but that's fun only for so long.

The Rude Pundit's advice to Conrad was always the same: Ditch Preston. Toss that cocksucking (or, to be more precise, cocksucked) wad of fuck out. Have some goddamn self-respect.

Conrad, though, has always got an excuse as to why he lets himself be dicked over in a non-fun way. Yesterday, over tortillas and green chile-filled eggs, Conrad said how Preston's gonna ask him for a just a few more months to prove his love (a request he's made every few months). The Rude Pundit asked what was different now. "Little things," Conrad said. "Like he's putting the Times in the recycling bin, he's wiping the toilet seat, you know, stuff like that." The Rude Pundit just stared at his friend. "This is his last chance," Conrad fumbled with his words. "If he screws it up this time, that's it. It's over." He sucked down some mojito and said, "I mean it." Essentially, it was the same conversation the Rude Pundit and Conrad had had back in May. Back then, Preston was asking to move more of his stuff into Conrad's place, and, even though everyone of his friends wanted Conrad to tell Preston to take what he had there and move out, Conrad allowed it.

What the Rude Pundit wanted to do at that moment was to get up, toss a twenty on the table, tell Conrad to call when he grows a pair, and walk off. Or he wanted to drag Conrad out of his chair and smack him a couple of times, saying, "This is what you do to Preston." But good friends are few in this world. And sometimes you gotta sit there with that head-shaking disgust making you nauseous. Because you don't know what's harder: to help the friends you have or find new ones. The Rude Pundit shoved his brunch plate away.

Conrad said, "You don't approve. You're upset." The Rude Pundit said he was disappointed, that he had hopes for Conrad being independent. "Don't worry," Conrad said. "I know what I'm doing." The Rude Pundit did not believe him for a second.