Petty-pants junction

Ok. So you may know the story. You may not.
Here's the run-down.
I met this guy on-line. We hung out a few times. We made out, a few times. We talked on the phone a bunch and e-mailed even more (cuz who doesn't love my repartee). Then, one day, nothing. Yeah, you know douches like him. Think they can exploit the fact that they appeared from the aether, the ones and zeros universe and just as quickly disappear. So, after a few unreturned phone calls, I got the hint.
So about six months later was the big "Summer at the Henry" bash. I went with a group of friends and we meandered from room to room. Drinking the free beer and wine and avoiding the snacks. I hadn't eaten all day, I got a little inebriated, and I lost my friends. On my fifth trip to the bathroom, I run into the guy. At this point, I can't even remember his name. All I can remember is his e-mail address. Anyway, since we met in the bathroom and we're both a little tipsy and we're both gay, we start a hardcore makeout session.
I tell him that I'm just going to walk home, he offers me a ride. During the car ride, along with some heavy petting, he convinces me to go back to his place. Of course, I don't bring up the fact that he's a jerk, I just hate-fuck him for about three hours, then pass out. Then wake up, wonder where I am, remember, stumble to the bathroom. Open his medicine cabinet to discover Propecia [pregnant women should not handle tablet due to a specific type of birth defect] and some aspirin. I take the latter along with a 16 oz. glass of water. It is around this time that I remember that I have actually paid for a trainer at my gym the next morning. I somehow manage to wake up early, but not early enough to go home and change. Luckily, I'm wearing my Rod Laver's so I ask the guy, "Hey, do you have some sweats or gym clothes I could borrow?" He finds some Adidas track pants (that match my shoes amazingly well) and a Tee. I put them on and my cab arrives.
"So, I'll just give you a call and come pick those up," he asks.
"You still have my phone number," I query incredulously.
"Uh, actually, I don't," he says.
"Great," I exclaim, "See ya around."
And since that day, I have had his pants.
But! Last week, as I'm leaving the gym, who do I see? You guessed it.
So I've decided that I must wear those workout pants just to prove that I won. Who gives a shit if I'm totally immature, right?