In my years, I’ve gotten myself into some situation, some of which being so beyond bizarre that they just feel like the kind of dreams I have when I pass out drunk after a week of about five hours of sleep. Cue my icanhascheezburger moment at Housecore Horrorfest. Cue me pissing my pants on the floor of a Swedish hotel. Cue my psycho ex-best friend busting through my front door. But there is a story that happened much before those aforementioned horror-comedies that’s been long overdue to be told. I kept it hidden for a long time, partly out of shame, but also partly out of fear due to reasons that will soon be revealed. However, I feel like enough time has passed for me to realize that I sort of fell victim to anxiety stirred much more by bark than by bite. A little while ago, I was also emailing with a really rad reader named Nat who encouraged me to share it, and by god, I must give the masses what they want. And by masses I mean my 2.5 person readership (I implore you to go check out the rest of this site if you haven’t already – it’s a lot higher quality).

So, without further ado, here it is:

Dahvie Vanity, notorious (alleged) pedophile, face of musical (bowel) movement Blood on the Dancefloor , wanted me to move to San Diego with him and be his teenage trophy wife.

Yano, “allegedly.”

#gottacoverthoselegalbases

Perhaps I should fast forward a little bit in an attempt to sort out the million puzzle pieces your mind has probably just been shattered into. If I had to guess, the first thing you probably want to have addressed is a question of where I met this bozo. Well, the answer is probably (un)surprisingly a Blood on the Dancefloor show. But Jenna, what were you doing at such an abortion?! To be fair, it wasn’t intentional. I was there to somewhat ironically shake my booty to opener Millionaires, who, if you were the trillest of the scene bitches, instinctually knew how to get down to like they were some goddamned primordial jungle beat. It wasn’t until about a couple of weeks before the show that my sister noticed the headlining band on our tickets and quickly pulled up Dahvie’s rap sheet

(http://truthaboutdahvie.tumblr.com/post/40316532001/dahvie-vanity-allegation-roundup).

“Is this something we really want our money supporting?” I remember her asking. The answer, of course, was a resounding no. But, not only was it pretty much too late to apologize at that point, I was also pretty much accustomed to trying to rationalize irrationally shitty people at that stage in my lie. I guess I should also preface this story by saying that 19 was a bleak time in my life. I’m sure I’ve alluded to it in past articles, but it’s hard to really go into detail because the person I was back then just feels so horrifyingly foreign, like it wasn’t even me. Abridged version: I was knee-deep in narcissistic abuse from my ex, I hardly ate anything, and I was working pretty much six days a week in a 90 degree kitchen. Needless to say, I was pretty fucking eager to take a night off from that collective shitpile to party with the Millionaires, so I very unwisely swept Dahvie under the rug and promised my sister we’d leave before BOTDF, which, dahviously turned into some famous last words.

I can still see it all clear as day: a new crop top, a fresh manicure, and shots of vanilla Smirnoff off the counter of my sister’s old apartment. It was the usual makeup and pre-game. My sister joked about how my summer white peplum skirt (lol remember when those were a thing) that hugged my ass was going to attract the affection of Mr. V. I rolled my eyes thinking about how I would bitch slap the dumb out of him if he tried anything. Selfies were snapped and one blurry cab ride (RIP pre-Uber days) was had to the night’s hallowed ground. Thanks Baltimore Soundstage for always letting me in under-aged (Editor’s note – the legal drinking age in Canada is 19) and fucked out of my skull. You the real MVP.

It didn’t take long before we had a run-in with the man of the hour. In fact, I don’t think the music had even started yet. My sister and I were standing a few yards back from the stage barrier as I swung back in forth in my special state. As drunk as I was, though, it was hitting me how very much I stood out like a sore thumb. In an ocean of 12-year-olds keeping the Hot Topic legacy alive, I was a heavy droplet of eyelashed, spray tanned, I-front-like-I-do-grown-woman-shit-even-though-I’m-literally-a-teen Millionaires fan. That’s when I heard my sister say it.

“Welp, there he is.”

I turned around and saw photos snapping and young girls squealing as a hooded Vanity stood swarmed, his bodyguard as vigilant as fucking Big Brother. Maybe it was the fact that his eyebrows were fleeked back before fleeked was even a thing, or maybe it was the cult of confused pussy that surrounded him like an oracle. To this day, I’m not so sure. But there was something so utterly charismatic about this 5”-nothing munchkin of the night that my sister couldn’t even deny.

“There he is,” I said back, my eyes meeting his. Our gaze locked instantly.

This is where I should have done run out the door and into the arms of the Subway down the street because 12 inches of sandwich probably would have been much more beneficial to me at that point in my life than four inches of peen. But nope, a dude paid attention to me long enough besides just to tell me how stupid I was, so lord knows, teenage Jenna couldn’t help but ride that cock for as long as her self-esteem was willing to be stroked. And so, the blob that is Dahvie and friends progressed towards me like a spreading cancer.

“Hi, I’m Dahvie,” he said, extending his arms, pulling me into a full-on embrace before I could even comprehend what was happening. I think I sort of awkwardly grabbed the back of this cape thing he was wearing that made him look like a certified fruit bat. I had barely said hi back when he was swept back away by his crew. My sister, of course, just stood there literally pointing and laughing at me for the next ten minutes. Talk about calling it.

Once the show started I had forgotten about the whole incident. Millionaires came out with their giant hair bows and matching bedazzled Orioles shirts and slayed me in the soul. No shit, I think I actually danced one of my eyelashes off. Unfortunately it seemed like they went as fast as they came and I was still so lit I wasn’t ready to leave, so my sister and I committed the cardinal sin of staying for BOTDF just to watch the spectacle unfold. I have the clearest memory of us standing behind the crowd, shaking our heads as Dahvie rubbed the mic all over his junk and referred to a young black fan as “chocolate.” Meanwhile, his homeboy Jayy Monroe or whatever the fuck his “name” is was up there shaking his tiny butt in an outfit that would make Mr. Slave blush.

It was a combination train wreck and circus that I became the star of when I least expected it. Dahvie had come out into the crowd and came straight towards me, the spotlight following. He shoved his junk in my ass and grabbed my hips, and fuck, I didn’t know what else to do (since no obviously wasn’t in my vocabulary back then), so I just reciprocated his grinding. When he stopped, he actually looked shocked that I had gone for it and gave me an awkward high-five that was muffled by his fingerless gloves. Needless to say, Julie got in a lot more pointing and laughing.

By the time the lights came on, I was still pretty much in shock, but I was sobering up, and determined to find out what this dude fucking wanted. I busted outside where D-bag was signing shit and taking pictures with all the little kiddos. Of course, he immediately took notice (not to say I’m any great shakes – my point is just that it was fairly obvious at this point that he had an eye on me). He abandoned his post to rush to my side, the crowd again slithering along behind him.

“There’s my body guard,” he said, grabbing my hand. He leaned in closer. “How old are you?”

Well, at least he asked I guess. I told him 19 and it looked like he was overcome with relief. Apparently my legality was the final factor determining if I was wifey material or not, because after that he seemed to open up the floodgates. He wanted to know my name, my sign, if I had a good time. Yano, all the classic moves. Finally he got down to business and asked me if I wanted to go smoke in his green room or some shit. I told him that I had a boyfriend and pretty much thanks but no thanks and he seemed reasonably understanding, but not before he snatched the phone out of my hand and put his number in it in case I changed my mind. My sister finally reappeared out of 7-Eleven with a bag of donuts, grumbling about how she was too old for this shit, and quite frankly, I was feeling the same way.

“Are you Dahvie’s girlfriend?!” a tiny girl with glasses and side fringe called after me as Julie ushered me into a cab.

I was happy that I managed to escape the clusterfuck of a night relatively unscathed, but something about having his number really fucked with me. Was it real? Do I delete it? Do I post it on the internut? Well, for some reason, probably largely out of boredom, I very unwisely decided to text it for the lawlz, not expecting much to come of it. Little did I know, I was getting myself into some deep shit. Bear with me, the order and specifics of what followed are all a little bit blurry now (a lot of substance and late nights have occurred between then and now), but this is basically how I remember it:

We stayed up all night after the show hitting the text. He was alright to talk to, at least at first. Then around sunrise he hit me with the shock and horror of an unsolicited dick pic, which I could lead a lengthy discussion on, but I’m going to try to be the bigger person here. He was eager to get me to send n00dz, too, but I was adamant about only sending normal selfies, even after he sent me the official BOTDF email to send them to to make me feel “safe” or whatever. I already seemed to be having an emotional affair, so I felt extra guilty about the prospects of having a physical one, too. I guess I finally passed out and awoke the next day feeling wrecked from the inside out. All I could do was lay in bed, too shaken about what I had gotten myself into to even move.

Yet for some reason, I just couldn’t stop. He had a way about making me feel “special” or whatever when no one else did, and that was my downfall. He promised me this, that, and the third, and even insisted on wanting to fly me out to his hometown of San Diego for the 4th of July. One of my most distinct memories was sitting in the windowless breakroom at work as he sent me text after flirtatious text. One asked how big my boobs are, and when I explained to him C’s but I wanted to get them done since my breast condition fucked them up, he offered to buy me a boob job on the spot, the only requirement being that I suck his dick good.

After declining his trip out West out of continuing distrust of his true motives, Dahvie seemed insistent about coming to me. The tour I had seen him on was coming back up North and he wanted to make a pit stop in Baltimore along the way. He sent me the address to a gas station in Glen Burnie (which, if you’re not familiar with Maryland, is basically where you hear about all of the bodies being found in parking lots on the local news) and asked me to meet him there in the wee hours of the morning. I panicked, not knowing how to respond. It was one thing for him to make me feel some type of way over text, but it was quite another to throw myself into a situation that in my heart of hearts knew wasn’t worth the risk. I explained to him how no matter how old you get, if you’re a girl and you live with your dad, like I did at the time, you can’t dip out of the house at 2:00 and expect everything to be all peaches.

His advice? Just leave early, say you’re spending the night with a girlfriend, and wait in your car for me. I tried to explain how in most of Bmore that isn’t the safest course of action, and he accused me of making excuses and pulled the “if you cared about me you’ll do this card.” Instead of pulling the “well if you actually cared about me you’d have some regard for my health, safety, and welfare card” that I should have, I told him that I was overwhelmed by the whole situation, and needed a few days to collect my thoughts. He replied something along the lines of “you get three days.” I know the tone of texts can be ambiguous, but something about it felt hostile, and for the first time, he made me feel genuinely afraid. The ugly person I had read about was finally starting to emerge. The worst part is that I blamed myself. I was 19, not 12. I should have known better.

I did probably the wisest thing I could have at that point and ghosted him. Three days passed, then a week, and I heard nothing from him. The whole affair slowly drifted away and felt like nothing more than just a bad dream. But peace was interrupted when he texted me one day when I was out at the beach. I felt my stomach drop as I held my phone under my towel to try to make out what it said despite the extreme sunniness.

“So you’re really going to just forget about me like that?”

I felt a pang of guilt, but mostly just fear. Instead of just keeping the sheet over myself like I had been, I felt like I was going to have to finesse myself out of the situation in order to exorcise my life of Dahvie Vanity for good. I told him that I was tired from being out in the sun all day but that I would give him a call or something the following night so we could talk. He told me that he loved me. I wanted to go drown myself in the water.

Since I express myself better through writing than I ever could through a dreaded call across the country, I decided to shoot him an email to the address he had sent me basically saying thanks for the memz but no thanks. Keep in mind this was the second time I had tried to reject him now. Always glued to his phone, it didn’t take him long to respond. I opened it, shaking, praying that he would be understanding and that he wasn’t going to threaten to cut off my toes and eat them for dinner. It was thankfully absent of threats, but sadly also absent of any compassion.

“OMG IF YOU’RE FRIEND-ZONING ME NEVER TALK TO ME AGAIN.” I think he also called me a bitch or something for good measure.

Yes, folks, a thirty-year-old man was accusing me of friend-zoning him because I didn’t want to suck his dick for new titties.

But before he totally smothered me with his fedora, it became apparent he wanted to offer me with some final food for thought: “You really want to give all this up? A good life? A boob job?” I was actually that miserable that I thought about it. I tried to picture it, I tried to give myself a pep-talk. “All you have to do is be with this dude and you can start over in 365 of warm and sunny.” But it didn’t take me long to realize that being Mrs. Vanity was no merely matter. All shallowness of being someone’s trophy sugar baby aside, he wasn’t even someone I could respect on a human level. Shit, at least Monica Lewinsky could rationalize her game-running through Billy boy’s impressive smarts, but I couldn’t even think of one pro about the great Dahvie V. At the end of the day, I can’t pretend to like someone that I don’t. As much as y’all know the little Tumblr sad girl in me loves daddies (Editor’s note: We ALL love HOT DADS), I can’t stomach ones of the sugar variety. Shit makes my insides feel dirtier than bottom-shelf tequila.

I think what helped me snap back into reality was looking at the big picture. Yeah, my life sucked. Then. But, I was doing well in school and knew that things were ultimately too promising to throw away for silicon and sunsets. As Paula Dean would say, “it gets butter.” What worries me, though, is that there are youngsters out there not as fortunate as I am, who don’t have meaningful opportunities, who are truly lost in the proverbial sauce. These are the kids that get led astray by grown ass predatory adults, and it’s fucking sad. But to be honest, the person who I feel most sorry for in all of this is Dahvie himself, who, to be honest, I feel like a bit of a dickhead dragging through the mud since BOTD is such a cheap shot. As musician Lady Nogrady, who collabed with the band on their biggest single “Bewitched,” pointed out after Vanity made sexual advances towards her, “in the end he loses.”

He’s the one who has to live with the loss of meaningful relationships with everyone from scorned fans to Jeffree Starr because of his actions, and he’s destined to fade into obscurity as he milks the last of his following that will soon tire of his antics, too.

Dahvie, you done goofed.