Tell me the truth.  Tell me a lie.  Proclaim hyperbolic and fantastical statements. Stories that are hard to believe.  Except when you do… 

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Furnishing the enormous yellow and white boa constrictor Britney Spears draped across her shoulders like a pashmina shawl when she performed “I’m a Slave 4 U” on the MTV Video Music Awards in 2001. 

While handling a large spider whose natural habitat is the Ecuadorian jungle, falling victim to a deadly bite, closing breathing passageways and turning the entire body green.  In a life saving move, being transported by helicopter from New York to a hospital in northern Virginia that had the antidote to the South American poison.  

Chauffeur driven in a Rolls Royce Silver Cloud whenever available.  Owned by a close friend: billionaire New York socialite, Jocelyn Wildenstein.   

With years ticking away, death was imminent due to a rare, incurable cancer that was slowly, stealthily, attacking blood cells and bone marrow.   

Since the time his permanent adult teeth formed a smile, a second row of shark-like teeth emerged behind the “normal” ones, which had to be pulled, only to make space for another set to grow back each year.   

And of course, keeping a selection of snakes and spiders as pets that are illegal to own in the United States, outside of an accredited zoo.   

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Many of us have met people prone to eye-popping exaggeration.  But in my experience, those tales are usually spun by passing strangers, most probably never to be in your company again.  Like someone who strikes up a conversation when sitting next to you on an airplane.   

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Matt was exceptionally intelligent, at least that was the conclusion I drew from the conversations we had.  At the time I knew him, he was living in The Bronx, near or on the Grand Concourse (that’s the area where Yankee Stadium now stands), not that I ever visited him there.  In its glory days, early in the 20th century, the Grand Concourse was considered an elegant neighborhood.  It was referred to as the “Paris of The Bronx.”  Matt told me he was employed by the Bronx Zoo, as an Arachnology specialist. 

For a short period of time in the early 2,000’s, Matt and I had an intimate affair.  It was serious enough that I invited him to an event at my work place, where he was introduced as “the boyfriend” to my colleagues.  That is something I would never have done if I wasn’t considering a long term commitment.   

The reason I broke up with him wasn’t cemented by the telling of his animated stories, true or fabricated.  It seemed impossible for him to arrive anywhere on time: which is a habit I find selfish and inconsiderate.  He was never just delayed by a few minutes or because of an “act of God,” like transportation snafus.  No matter what, he was always at least forty five minutes late.  One weeknight evening when he was coming to my place to spend the night, Matt showed up more than an hour past the agreed upon time.  I didn’t say anything at the time.  The next day, when we spoke on the phone, I ended things between us.  Breaking it off by telephone is taking the easy way out.  I acknowledge I should have waited and spoken to him in person.  It was such a “guy” thing to do.  He was pissed but didn’t seem terribly surprised.   

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During our time dating, Matt told me he had an ex-lover named Geoff.  For whatever reasons and coincidences, more than a couple of my boyfriends over the years have had exes named Geoff.  I apologize for this stupid and ridiculous response, but I developed a negative, visceral reaction when I hear that name mentioned by someone I’m seeing, no matter how it’s spelled. 

Matt’s Geoff lived (and maybe still does) in an apartment on West 23rd Street in Manhattan.  They remained good friends after their committed relationship ended.  He referred to Geoff as one of the Hamptons’ “Pink Mafia”.  Matt explained there were a few obscenely wealthy gay men who owned large beach front properties in East Hampton, NY.  These men orchestrated who was included in the elite gay summer social circuit.  Apparently, a status certain Long Island summer residents who are gay strive to achieve.  Though I never met Geoff, Matt showed me his building in New York City when we were walking around Chelsea.  Matt still kept some valuable jewelry — expensive gifts  —  in a safe in Geoff’s apartment.  I’ll never know if it was genuine or costume, but Matt wore a very large emerald around his neck, mined in Zambia, mounted in platinum, dangling from a white gold chain, to a party he and I attended.  I never questioned its authenticity. I guess I should have added that unignorable gem to the list of his fantastic existence.   

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In high school, I had a friend who constantly made things up.  She was confident and extremely talented as a singer and a truly nice person.  I was at her family home on multiple occasions.  After witnessing her parents’ drunken and abusive behavior in front of company, I made an unauthorized conclusion that she had been badly treated by them from childhood on, thus causing her to invent a publicly happy, revisionist reality.  Over the decades, I have run into her.  At one accidental meeting, she introduced me to a man she had married who, without question, was gay.  Not that this is any kind of evidence, but the introduction took place at a gay piano bar in New York City.  Maybe they had an arrangement.  I don’t know and I didn’t ask.  Four years beyond that, she and I bumped into each other on Barrow Street in West Village.  She was holding hands with a woman with whom she was currently living and intended to marry.   

Where she created an alternative reality, it was to my mind, subconsciously in the name of reinventing a past she denied in order to survive.   

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About a decade ago, while at one of my regular watering holes, I was told by an acquaintance that Matt had died.  It has taken me this long to contemplate and write about it.  The messenger had no idea that Matt and I had ever spent time together, let alone dated.  He was relaying the sad story of his friend who had worked for Con Edison.  Con Edison?  He died from a rare form of leukemia. Though he didn’t mention his surname, it was the same Matt.  I had often seen them out together.   

I don’t consider myself to be gullible.  Maybe some of his claims were lies and others, not.  Or maybe it was mostly the truth.  I think back on the play, “Six Degrees of Separation,” the true story of a young man who hung out among the rich and famous, claiming to be Sydney Poitier’s son.   I remember meeting him in my early 20’s at a Manhattan nightclub.  It didn’t even occur to me to question his lineage.   

I don’t know for sure, but I don’t think Matt wanted anything from me.  I had nothing to offer him.  Except my company.  And the sex was great. And that’s the truth.

Andrew Sarewitz has published more than 60 short stories (website: www.andrewsarewitz.com). His play, Alias Madame Andrèe (based on the life of WWII resistance fighter, Nancy Wake) garnered First Prize from Stage to Screen New Playwrights in San Jose, CA; produced with a multicultural cast and crew. Member: Dramatists Guild of America.