“STOP IT! FUCKING STOP IT! PLEASE?!?! PLEASE?!!?
FIVE GOD DAMN MINUTES, FIVE MOTHA FUCKING, COCK SUCKING, MINUTES, THAT’S ALL I
WANT. THAT’S ALL I FUCKING WANT. PLEASE!”
My voice is raspy from an evening of alcohol,
cigarettes, and Cocaine. I punch my steering wheel in the parking garage at
work, my eyes welling up with tears. I am a fucking mess right now. I put my
face in my palm. I wanna cry. My hands and face are red and hot to the touch.
I’ve been chugging water all day. And chain smoking.
Ah, yes, the sun, my arch nemesis. I managed to
catch the last dose of Etizolam out of town last night, just before he could
make his presence known at 6 AM. But I can never escape him. He always finds
me. And fuck does that cocksucker know what buttons to push…
I’m so nervous. About what, I’m honestly not sure. I
have a lot to worry about. I’m running out of amphetamine powder, I’m running
on five hours of sleep, I have $500 worth of drugs sitting in my nightstand
drawer right now, and as much as that gives me a hard-on, the impending sense
of doom, gloom and regret are too familiar to minimize at this point. I’ve been
at this for far too long to convince myself otherwise.
Shielding my eyes with my hands from the sun’s
merciless rays, I take a deep breath. I need to pull it together. I got five
days. Five motherfucking, cock sucking days until I’ve got five off. Five days
to go through a quarter ounce of Cocaine (technically 6.5 after last night), a
gram of Molly, a gram of Ketamine, and a bunch of benzos to even everything
out.
It’s funny. I never come back from these “vacations”
feeling refreshed, just exhausted, physically and mentally. They work
cyclically. Besides taking amphetamine sulfate every day for the past six
months and drinking a handle of vodka every weekend, I’ve mostly been a good
boy. But shit’s been hectic lately. I’m always busy. This is both good and bad.
The speed fuels me and gives me a sense of drive that my body cannot and will
not produce organically. It invests me in whatever stupid horseshit I have to
do, and makes me a better employee, friend, writer, creator, producer, person.
But even the best version of me is still me. And I
fucking suck.
Considering I’ve been strung out on dope, meth, and
Suboxone before, a speed habit really ain’t shit. But I love it. It’s not quite
as good as Adderall, but it’s cheap, and it’s incredibly effective. I got into
it around the time my Dad died. When the markets crashed I took a hiatus, but
then I reconnected with my old dealer back in July. And well, the rest, as
they, is history.
And junkies that know their history are still gonna
repeat it because they’re fucking stupid.
And they like fucking up.
ONE
WEEK EARLIER…
I put my cigarette in my mouth and fish around my
jeans’ pockets for my speed caps, pulling one out as I fly down the highway,
washing it down with a swig from my water bottle. The GPS is leading me to
Biddeford, Maine. My fingers wrap tightly around the steering wheel as I drive,
the joints inside them aching from how tightly I grip it.
I never did like driving on the highway. Or driving
period. When I’m just going around town I’m prone to fits of road rage, which
on the surface seems born from aggression and rage, but really stems from
anxiety. I’m always fucking nervous. If I don’t have anything to be nervous
about, which is rare, because I’m a fucking mess and my life is the same, I’ll
fucking find something to worry about.
I sigh and light another cigarette as the speed
begins to kick in. I’m an hour and a half into my pilgrimage and I’ve got
another hour to go. Clarity, energy, self-confidence, and focus shake off the
fog of withdrawal in my head. For about 20 minutes there, six months of minimal
sleep and drug abuse was beginning to finally catch up to me. I straighten up
in my seat and take a final drag of my cigarette before tossing it out the
window.
Her name’s Alina. I like that name. It’s elegant,
pretty, the kinda name you give a Russian princess. Or maybe Pollack, I don’t
fucking know, she’s just sexy as all fuck and I wanna feed her and maybe fuck
her if she lets me.
Only thing is, she has a husband. Hold on, hold on,
let me finish. They’re in an open relationship. She makes way better money than
me. She sells a shit ton of weed. She has runners on her pay roll. A real boss
ass bitch, if you will.
We’ve been talking online for… Eight months? She
smokes a lot of weed, so it’s easy for her to forget she’s conversing with
someone. This leads to her forgetting to reply.
I go into every text I send to anyone under the
assumption they want nothing to do with me. Talking to me is an inconvenience,
a burden, a horrendous experience they want to avoid at all costs. It doesn’t
matter if this person is my friend, they hate me. Why wouldn’t they?
This level of insecurity doesn’t lend itself very
well to trying to talk to someone like Alina.
Basically it went like this: I shot my shot. She
replied. I said something, she replied. I made her laugh, she liked that. Then
she stopped talking.
I got drunk, I hit her up. Mind you, this is months
later, but she picks up the conversation like it was yesterday.
I get drunk again, I hit her up again. She replies.
We stop talking.
This might sound hard to believe, but I got drunk
again, and I hit her up. And, I know, crazy, but she responded. At some point I
ended up with her number and shit took off from there.
I am a feeder. I gain sexual gratification from
fattening my partner. I do not like thin women. They do nothing for me.
I could write a fucking thirty page thesis on why my
sexuality alone makes me a reprehensible piece of shit. But I cannot change it.
“Harry,
stop staring at her tummy! It’s rude!”
I shake my head as my mother’s words ring in my head
and I try to focus on the road. The speed grows stronger and I grow more
self-assured.
Pinning this woman down (yikes, doesn’t that sound
wrong?) for a date has been maddening. 99.9% of that stems directly from my own
insecurity and anxiety. I have not seen anyone romantically for two years. It’s
honestly kind of eerie, as the last time I went out with a woman was when I
took. Jessica to that hotel and did too much blow and couldn’t get a hard-on.
Alina has a lot of shit going on. She’s in school to
get a business degree in addition to running a drug operation, but she’s
finally done with school for the semester. Every time I text her it could be an
instantaneous response, or it could come several hours later. This makes
planning difficult.
I banged into work for this. It almost didn’t happen
at all. Her Subaru shit the bed and it’s snowing. She’s really hot and she’s
into the same weird shit that I am, therefore I was not willing to let this
opportunity slip. I told her I’d see her at 7 and I’d pick her up.
I’m not very confident.
I’ve gotten better at it, but most people can see
right through it. I do not like being emotionally vulnerable. I do not like
being sad in front of people. I mask my anxiety through jokes.
“HOW ABOUT YOU FUCKING CALL ME NEXT TIME YOU FEEL
LIKE STICKING A NEEDLE UP YOUR ARM, DUDE, WHAT THE FUCK?! ARE YOU EVEN
TRYING?!”
“I didn’t wanna make you worry…”
“LIKE I’M NOT FUCKING WORRIED NOW!? THAT YOU’RE
USING AGAIN!? BELIEVE IT OR NOT, I’D RATHER A FUCKING PHONE CALL TELLING ME
YOU’RE FEELING BAD THEN FINDING OUT YOU’VE BEEN GETTING HIGH FOR FUCK KNOWS HOW
LONG?!”
So here’s the thing about Alina. She’s a rare breed:
a dual-diagnosis as I call it. She’s a feedee and a feeder. She likes her men
husky, to say the least. In my case she’s in luck, as I’m getting fat again. I
can either be on meth or be fat, there’s really no in between. Even on speed I
still manage to eat as poorly as I do.
So, if you’re unfamiliar with my previous work, I’ll
give the quick synopsis. Feeders are people into other fat people that wanna
make them fatter. Feedees are people who are fat or express a sincere desire to
become fat, because doing so gives them sexual pleasure.
I light another cigarette as I finally pull up to
her apartment. She comes out, and God damn. She’s kinda short, 5’6-5’8, with
dreadlocks tied back with a headband. Boots are strapped over her thick calves,
which give way to big thighs that scrape as she walks. I realize that to most
of you this description of someone doesn’t sound flattering or beautiful, but
to me, she’s gorgeous. Her face is plump and fleshy, with the cutest little
double chin that fills out her smile wonderfully. She’s 260 pounds, at least
for now. I’m gonna do my best to change that for the better.
“Hi!” She squeals as she gets into my car.
“Hey! Nice to finally meet you!”
“Well you’re pretty fucking brave to come up here,
dude. Especially in a car like this…”
“Ah, we’ll live.”
“So, roads here are kinda fucked, so I’m gonna try
and guide you as best I can…”
She unzips her coat, revealing a sweatshirt tightly
wrapped around a nice, big belly… She pulls her seatbelt over it, the thick
fabric of the belt slicing through her fleshy midsection unflatteringly, or
very flatteringly, if you’re me.
She catches me staring at it and gives me a knowing
smile. She’s wearing purple lipstick and that shit girls put on their eyes that
I don’t know the name of. All I know is it’s very pretty.
“So… One thing that kinda sucks about getting fat,
haha, is that um… I have to wear everything high waisted…”
I smile. “Well, that sounds like what we call a good
problem…”
“I knooooow! Oh, good, you smoke too… Don’t mind if
I do…”
She pulls an American Spirit from her purse and
lights it up. For whatever reason, the unhealthier a girl is, the more I’m
attracted to them. The smoking, the drinking, the eating, the drugging, these
are all very desirable traits for a derelict like me.
We turn down a hill, which has not been plowed yet.
“You’re gonna wanna take a right… DOWN THIS HILL…
STOP… STOP… FUCK!”
I try to hit the brakes but I only continue to
slide. It almost seems as if the night is over before its even begun.
“Fuck… Fuck… Fuck!” I mumble.
As we pick up traction and roll into unsuspecting
and oncoming traffic, fate smiles upon me. I manage to slide into the right
lane, narrowly avoiding the cars on either side of us and stopping just short
of the curb.
“Fuck, you alright?” I ask, poorly masking my heart
racing in my throat.
“Yeah, I’m good… That hill sucks…”
Perhaps I underestimated Maine. Coming from
Massachusetts, the land of snow, addiction and road rage, I thought I had a
decent handle on driving in the snow. But this is different. The roads are
different. There’s fucking tolls everywhere, too, which like Jesus Christ, is
such a pain in the dick.
HOT TAKE ALERT!
Toll booth workers can suck my tiny Irish dick.
These cocksuckers get government pay, government benefits, to sit on their ass
and be a glorified cashier that happens to work outside sometimes. And they
still have the nerve to bitch and moan about their conditions.
WHAT’S FUNNY ABOUT TOLL BOOTH WORKERS, IN
20-FUCKING-19, IS THAT THEY ONLY TAKE CASH AND CHECKS.
DRUG DEALERS TAKE CREDIT CARDS NOW.
I DON’T WANNA FUCKIN’ HEAR IT.
A check? A God damn check? Do I look like some blue
hair in line at the fucking grocery store? Fuck a check, take my fucking bank
card you lazy, refusing to adapt sap on government resources. I’m glad EZ-Pass
and pay by plate are leaving you in the fucking dust. Fuck you.
This
has been “pulling the e-brake on a story to spout ignorantly on things I’m only
half informed on, with your host, Harry Miller.” We now return to yet another
story about a fat girl that I like.
After slipping and sliding along Maine’s confusing
as fuck roads, we hit the highway again. Alina pulls cash from her purse and
hands it to me, sparing me more embarrassment from the overworked, underpaid
and constantly oppressed soldier of the state tasked with making the heroic
sacrifice of charging people to drive.
“Hmmm… You wanna go to Longhorn?” She asks.
“Sure, sounds good to me.”
“Well there’s also Texas Roadhouse…”
“I do like Texas Roadhouse…”
She snickers. “Do ya?”
“Yeah! You don’t fuckin’ like Texas Roadhouse?!”
“I mean it’s alright,
I guess…”
“What about the rolls?”
“Ugh… I do love those fuckin’ rolls… Alright, fuck
it, let’s go…”
Tonight’s itinerary is dinner and a movie. Frankly,
I’m not a big fan of that date scenario. It’s a hack bit that’s been done to
death but like, c’mon. You’re not gonna get to know someone by sitting in
silence watching a movie together. But it’s been a while, and I’m just happy I
finally got her to fucking go out with me period at this point.
“Y’know… I fucking hate Christmas music.” Alina
begins as she butters up a roll.
I smile and nod. “Yeah, me too. I worked retail for
almost ten years, so… Yeah. Doesn’t really bring out my best mood.”
Alina’s eyes go wide. “Yes! I worked in a warehouse
for a while, and holy fuck was it brutal!”
“Hey guys, can I get you something to drink?” The
waitress asks us.
“Uh, yeah, do you guys have Coke products?” Alina
asks.
“Yes.”
“I’ll have a Sprite then.”
“OK! And for you?”
Jack
and coke…
HEY!
FUCKFACE! WE GOTTA BEHAVE TONIGHT! YOU GOTTA DRIVE IN THE SNOW!
Alright,
alright…
“Uhhhh… You guys got Bud Light?”
“Yes.”
“Bud Light it is then.”
“Short or tall?”
Tall.
For fuck’s sake, I’m nervous, tall.
SHORT!
YOU DRUNKEN IRISH FUCK!
“Tall.”
“Alright! I’ll have that out for you in just a sec!”
My beer arrives and I down it like a drunk taking
their first drink of the morning. I switch to Coke after that like a good boy.
The alcohol takes the edge off the speed and I begin to relax a bit.
Thankfully, Alina has done most of the talking, and not even in an awkward way
either.
“…And so my great grandfather, right…” She says,
biting into another roll.
I’m trying not to ogle her as she eats, but she
makes it look so damn good. She eats unapologetically, while I tug at my
t-shirt intermittently to hide my man tits. I love how comfortable she is, how
unapologetically she exists, just as herself.
“Got those appetizers!”
Her eyes light up and she finishes her roll, quickly
taking a potato skin made from what appears to be half an entire potato. I’m
thrilled.
“What was I saying?” She asks before she takes a
drink.
“Your great grandfather.”
Her eyes widen and she snaps her fingers. “Yeah! My
great grandfather, right? 95 years old. He lived to be 97. Guy was like,
royalty around here. Rich as FUCK. Blew it all on crystal meth.”
“Crystal… Meth?”
“Crystal meth.”
“AHEM! Hahahaha… Um, I’m sorry… But… I’m gonna need
some more context on that.”
“Well, and this is all second hand information, but
apparently he just started doing shitloads of meth right before he died.”
“Well that’s the thing, because meth was kinda my
thing for a while… And that shit… That shit wreaks fucking havoc on your body.
The sleep deprivation alone, on top of what it does to your heart…”
She nods and I realize I might’ve overshared.
“Uh, uh, look... I wanna make this very clear to you
right now…”
I run my thumb over the bag of speed caps in my
pocket.
“I do not do that shit anymore. Been years now. Two
and a half to be exact.”
She smiles. “Heroin was more my speed.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah.”
“Well that’s good because I used to do heroin too.”
“It’s super common, at least up here anyway. I carry
narcan around in my purse and I haven’t even used in six years.”
“That’s really cool of you…”
“It’s street justice, dude. You get back what kinda
energy you put into this world. I’ve got a lot of friends who are still using,
too… Unfortunately.”
“That sucks. I’m sorry. This Fentanyl shit… It’s
outta fucking control, man. Like the dope ain’t even dope no more…”
“Yeah. And it’s like, I can tell when people are
falling off. They stop buying from me. They stop talking to me. Because they’re
spending all their money on hard shit. And I do my best to try and reach out
and at least offer an ear. Get ‘em help. I didn’t do AA or any of that shit.”
“Me neither.”
“I’m lucky I got sober without it, honestly. I mean,
I still do blow like once a year. I still drop acid, shrooms, y’know…”
I smile, knowing all too well what she means. “Yeah.
Me too.”
This really does just get better and better. She’s
sexy as all fuck, she gets high, she doesn’t give a fuck that I get high, she
wants to gain weight, and she has crazy stories for days.
She also has a husband.
That doesn’t really bother me. I knew that going in.
Frankly, I am in absolutely no place to begin with a relationship with anyone
right now. So word, right?
But there is the feeding part…
I’m sure her husband would really appreciate some
drug addict swooping in and fucking and slowly killing his wife. He’d probably
love it even more if he got her into doing hard drugs more often, because he’s
just such a joy to be around while sober, and even better high. Yeah, he’d love
that.
ALERT,
ALERT, ALERT, SHUT DOWN IMMINENT. SHUT DOWN IMMINENT. HARRY IS THINKING ABOUT
THE FUTURE. CEASE AND DESIST IMMEDIATELY. RESUME FOCUS ON THE SHORT TERM, I
REPEAT, RESUME FOCUS ON THE SHORT TERM.
“Ooooooooh, I’m so full…” She moans.
Evidence of her dietary conquest is splayed out in
front of her. I was kinda holding back on the appetizers, and for the first
time in a few months I don’t have much of an appetite. She’s done most of the
work here, and I’m quite proud of her. Her steak has been reduced to a few
chunks of gristle and a bite or two of good meat.
“You can’t do one more bite?” I ask with a smile.
She sighs, rubbing her belly through her sweatshirt.
“Just for you…”
Fuck. I love this. The encouragement. It is here
where I get to reciprocate and play my position. She takes down the last two
bites as her silverware clinks to the plate.
“Good job. I knew you could do it.”
“Thanks! You barely touched yours, though…”
“Ah, I know. Don’t have much of an appetite…”
“Yeah… I uh… As I’m sure you’ve noticed… Talk a lot
when I get nervous.”
I shrug and smile. “Well, it’s not like this has all
been bullshit small talk. You have some crazy fucking stories. You’ve led quite
a life.”
“Nah, not really dude. I just got started early.”
The waitress takes our plates and packs everything
in to-go boxes. Then the check arrives. She immediately pulls a wad of cash
from her purse.
“Hey, Alina, c’mon…” I start.
“You c’mon! You’re the crazy fuck that risked his
life coming up here to see me! It’s been a good day for me in sales, don’t
worry about it.”
“At least lemme split it with ya…”
“No, no, no. I got it.”
I’m kinda pissed, but not for the reasons you might
assume. As a feeder, I feel like it’s my obligation to pay for food. They pay
enough, with the physical aspects of the gain, which while sexually gratifying,
are major life adjustments nonetheless. They do the heavy lifting (yuk yuk yuk)
in the relationship. The least I can do is pick up the check when we’re done
indulging.
So it’s not that I’m some traditionalist chauvinist
pig.
I’m just a pervert.
“So uh… You started with pills, I take it?” I ask as
we smoke in my car.
“Doesn’t everybody?” She replies.
“Not me.”
“What?”
“Yeah, no. I started shooting heroin when I was 23.
Never took a pain pill in my life.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, why?”
I shrug. “I was doing a lot of bad shit. Doing
drugs, selling drugs, ripping people off. I was a different guy back then,
which I know sounds like horseshit, but it’s the truth. I did not give a fuck
about what happened to me. Meth kinda kicked the door in for the last level of
drugs for me. Once I’d done that a few times I was like ‘fuck this, I’ll do
whatever the fuck you put in front of me. I’m gonna be this and do this until I
die.’”
She stares at me and I take a dramatic pull of my
cigarette. My flair for terrible dialogue begins to wage war against my social
awareness. I go for it.
I shrug. “You don’t always die, though…”
“Jeez…”
I toss my butt out the window and clap my hands
together, shifting into reverse. “OK, terrific! Let’s go see this movie, huh?”
She laughs and I’m immediately redeemed.
We’ve opted to see Knives Out. As we pull into the parking lot, she smiles.
“Nice. I was hoping no one would be here…” She
sneers.
Suddenly I’m not so annoyed at having to see this
movie.
“Yay! I can’t wait to do sexy feeder things in this
movie…” She says just loud enough for me to hear as we walk into the theater.
I get some Starburst mini’s and a bottled water,
which I need desperately, as a combination of the speed, my anxiety, and all
the salt has left my mouth incredibly dry.
I go to get the tickets at a kiosk when I notice
she’s beaten me to it. The cashier is ringing up nachos and popcorn.
“Where do you wanna sit, Harry? The back or the
front?”
“Back.”
“Which ones are available?”
“The grey ones. Black ones are taken.”
I look at the kiosk. They’re all grey.
We get two choice seats in the back and she hands me
my ticket after once again paying for everything. As she turns around, arms
full of food, she notices an ice cream cooler.
“Ooooooooooh, they have ice cream!?! I’m sorry guys,
I have to be the worst right now…”
She opens the cooler, delicately balancing the
popcorn and nachos as she reaches her hand in and pulls out a strawberry
shortcake ice cream bar. I wanna start clapping.
Atta
girl. Atta fuckin’ girl…
“So how much were those tickets?” I ask her.
“I don’t know, it doesn’t matter.”
I chuckle and shake my head as I follow her into the
theater. It’s empty. We go up to the final row at the top of a set of stairs.
They got the nice seats here, the ones that recline and are plush like real
armchairs. I strategically take off my sweatshirt and coat and throw them on a
free seat, then sit down, whipping the armrest between us out of the way as we
get settled.
Remember…
She likes fat guys…
So
don’t be a fucking faggot and suck your stomach in…
Let
that shit hang.
Like
her.
She
thinks you’re sexy.
Go
with it.
“Alright, let’s go…” She says, smiling at me before
snuggling up against me, pressing all 260 pounds of her against my chest as I
put my arm around her. I draw in a deep breath through my nose. She’s so warm,
so soft. I’m not in the most advantageous position to play with her belly here,
but I trust it’ll happen in due time.
“Open up…” She whispers, holding a nacho dripping
with melted cheese to my mouth.
I eat it. The whole “having my fat admired and being
fed” thing is still something I’m entirely unfamiliar with.
This
must be how those other girls felt when I’d ask if I could play with their
stomach…
One
of their biggest insecurities…
The
thing they hate most about themselves…
Is
what I find most sexy…
I blink the doubt away as she hands me the nachos
and I dunk one in the cheese. She straightens up a bit and I bring it to her
lips. She opens her mouth wide, the movie projector adding an atmospheric
ambiance to everything. Her tongue extends almost out of her mouth as she takes
the entire chip down.
Drugs are and always will be my main love. But the
only thing that comes remotely close is feeding a fat girl. I almost feel like
I’m on ecstasy. I can’t stop smiling. When your sexuality is so niche and
stigmatized and frowned upon, meeting someone who you connect with, and not
only that, has the inverse and same fetish as you, is something special…
The previews begin to play.
“Ooooof… Hold on… Lemme get comfy…”
She sucks her gut in and pulls the waistband of her
leggings down, letting her belly spill out onto her lap. It’s magnificent, so
perfectly round, free of so much as a mole, let alone a stretch mark, and hey,
I’m not knocking stretch marks, but a perfect belly is in the eye of a
beholder.
And so far, this is the closest I’ve seen to one.
She puts her arm around me and I put my head on her
chest, shame surrendering to my sexual
impulses as I assume a rather feminine
position. I get so caught up in playing with the warm ball of flesh as my
hard-on pumps pre-cum through my boxers, and later my jeans, that I almost
forget that she’s hungry. And we can’t have her wasting away now, can we?
Frankly,
Harry, from everything you’ve told me, this stems from your mother…
What?!?!
You’ve
mentioned your mother is overweight.
Yeah.
And
she’s been that way your whole life, right?
Yeah…
Well,
are you familiar with the phrase “Every man grows up to marry his mother?”
Great.
Wasn’t bad enough I’m a fuckin’ weirdo, now we gotta throw incest in there…
It’s
not incest, Harry, it’s a natural part of everyone’s sexual development. Most
women and men will seek out a partner who reminds of us the parent of the
opposite sex. Or whatever gender the person is attracted to…
Fuck…
You’re right…
It’s
not a big deal, Harry. Your Mom was heavy, and you like heavy women.
No…
It’s… It all fucking lines up. Jesus Christ. I used to…
Go
on…
I’m
sorry… This is all really hard for me… I don’t wanna fuck my Mom, though… It’s…
Fuck… She’s gross! Like, I don’t wanna fuck my Mom, man! I fucking swear to
God!
I’m
not saying you do, Harry. All I’m saying is that human beings typically become
attracted to traits or attributes that the parent of the opposite sex has. And
it’s not always physical. They can be personality-based, for example…
God…
You’re right… The smoking, the drugging, the drinking… Jesus Christ…
HARRY!
STOP STARING AT MY BELLY!
There, chest against her breasts, my hands resting
on her belly, I’m overwhelmed by feelings. She runs her hands over my scalp,
transporting me, unwittingly, to my childhood. I let out a sigh of relief and
shock. 27 years of emotional baggage and repressed memories, sexual impulses,
release in one heavy breath.
Serenity. Calmness. I could fall asleep right now. I
could do this all day. My muscles relax for the first time in 20 years as waves
of euphoria pulse through my body. Comfort. Security. Affection.
Shhhhhh…
It’s OK, Harry…
It’s
all gonna be OK…
My Mom didn’t molest me. She loved me. She just
wanted to comfort me. She just wanted to be a good Mom. She just wanted me to
not go through the things she did. The horrors that she experienced. A drunken,
abusive, father. A mother who’d had enough. Violence. Withdrawal. Addiction.
Dropping out of school. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. That woman has
been through things I couldn’t comprehend. I have too much respect for her to
spill it here, but you get the picture.
“All
the things that growing up as Daddy that he had to see
Daddy
didn’t want you to see
But
you see just as much as he did…”
I jump a bit as she chuckles. Someone in the movie
said something funny. I’m disoriented. I feel high. I feel disgusted. Isaac was
right. That fuck. God damn it.
“Alright, my turn…” She says, shifting her weight as
I sit up straight.
She rests her head on my chest and feeds me another
nacho. As her hand touches my stomach, though, there’s an involuntary reaction,
a kneejerk reflex I can’t control. My gut jerks inward, instinctively, and
immediately my anxiety flares up.
She looks up at me, eyes big, green, and
inquisitive. “What’s wrong? You keep sucking it in…”
SHE
LIKES THIS, YOU FUCKING MORON…
STOP
BEING A FUCKING FAGGOT.
TAKE
A DEEP BREATH…
“Sorry… I’m just… You can keep going…”
“You hungry?”
I nod and lie at the same time.
She feeds me another nacho, then begins to admire my
body the same way I did hers. Her fingers feel alien on my skin, prompting a
twitch that I cannot reign in despite my mind’s best efforts.
YOU’RE
MAKING HER FEEL WEIRD, FUCKFACE.
CUT
THE SHIT, DUDE.
YOU’RE
FUCKING THIS UP.
THEN
AGAIN, THAT’S KINDA PAR FOR THE COURSE FOR YOU, ISN’T IT?!
“Are you sure you’re OK? I don’t wanna make you feel
uncomfortable…”
“Yeah! Yeah, I’m fine, I swear to God…”
“OK…”
No drug addict that’s ever sworn to God has meant
it. She gets a bit more cautious, running her hands up my chest and fondling my
breasts the way I would hers. This is a bit more relaxing for me. But the seeds
of self-loathing have been sewn, and I feel I’ve left a stink of insecurity in
the air.
“Look… I’m sorry… About when you were… Y’know…
Playing with my belly in there… It just kinda… It’s new for me… And… I didn’t
mean to make you feel uncomfortable…” I stammer as I drive her back home.
“Oh, no, dude, it’s OK! I had an eating disorder
before I started doing this stuff… I know what it’s like to not be comfortable
in your own skin. I honestly just feel like I made you uncomfortable, and I’m
sorry…”
Sorry
Alina, but if anyone’s gonna feel bad about this, it’s me.
I’m
not a big fan of sharing blame…
“It’s just like… I don’t give a fuck that I’m fat. I
don’t…”
“You aren’t, though. I mean, you’ve got some extra
chub on you, sure. But there’s nothing wrong with that.”
“It’s just that… I’ve never been with a girl that
likes my fat the way I like their fat…”
She nods as she lights a cigarette.
“But… I know how much I love your body. And if you
like mine the same way, then fuck it, right? Why should I feel uncomfortable?”
“Dude, it’s really not that simple, though. Like, I
had an ex, right? In high school? Football player, linebacker specifically, and
he was like… 275 when we met. I, and I’m not proud of this, but I sorta… I
mean, I did… I got him up to around 450. I enabled him. There’s no getting
around it. He got injured, stopped training, stopped exercising, and I indulged
his every bad habit. Because it was hot for me.”
I nod, knowing all too well the exact feelings she’s
describing.
“And it fucking kills me, because he was not in a
good place when we broke up. But at the same time, I was what, 16? 17? I didn’t
know what feedism was. All I knew was that I preferred heavier guys. And I grew
up in a big, Italian family. The way we show love to one another is through
food. And all this shit aside, feeding someone, it’s super intimate. As
malicious as the whole thing sounds, I didn’t mean for him to hate himself. I
thought I was just making him happy…”
“Yeah, no, I get it. Trust me, I get it. You didn’t
understand the full scope of what you were doing.”
“Right, exactly. And I haven’t been in a
non-consensual feedist relationship since. I’ve figured out it’s just way
sexier and way hotter when they’re into it too.”
“Oh yeah, absolutely.”
“I mean, look man, I’m here for a good time, not a
long one, but within reason. I wanna have kids some day, y’know? I wanna be
healthy, within reason…”
I nod as if I want kids or to live past my 20’s.
“…But it’s like… Tough, dude. The dark side of this
stuff really gets me down sometimes…”
“Yeah… Preaching to the choir…”
“But hey, I really did have a good time tonight…”
“Me too…”
“And y’know, I’m gonna be training a new guy for the
next couple of weeks, so hopefully I’ll have an iota of free time coming up…”
I smile at her.
“And we can, y’know, do this again…”
“Yeah? I’d like that.”
We pull up to her apartment. It’s still snowing.
There isn’t a single car on the street.
“So uh, you wanna come up before you head back to
Boston?”
“Yeah! Sure! Where should I park?”
Her eyes widen and she sighs. “Fuck…”
“What?”
“There’s a parking ban. You’d get towed.”
“There isn’t like a garage or something?”
“Nope. Fuck… I’m sorry, Harry…”
As if on fucking cue, a cop begins to roll down the
street. She has “narcotics” on her, I have narcotics on me, and I’d prefer if
she didn’t know about them.
“And there we go… Yeah, I’m sorry, if you park here,
you’re gonna get towed…”
“It’s all good…”
“Maybe I can come down to your neck of the woods
once I free up my schedule.”
“Yeah? I’d like that.”
“Alright. I’ll be in touch.”
She leaves. I drive.
Jesus,
dude.
Take
the fucking hint.
She
didn’t even kiss you.
She
wants nothing to do with you.
That
invitation inside? That was a formality.
She
knew there’s a parking ban.
She
wants nothing to do with you.
Yeah? Well fuck you, I got to play with a belly
tonight.
Cool,
congrats. I bet it’s gonna be super hot when she loses a toe to diabetes.
**
“I don’t know, man, she’s such a hard read…” I say
to Alex as I chop up Cocaine.
“Yeah, you were tellin’ me…” He replies, eyes
trained on the blow as I methodically chop and screw it.
“Like, I’m gonna try and get her down here for New
Year’s, but who knows how that’s gonna go. Speaking of New Year’s…”
I sniff a line and hand Alex the straw. He happily
gacks up his line and we go out on the porch for a cigarette.
I bought a quarter ounce of blow for New Year’s.
Well, “New Year’s” is a subjective term. For me personally, a drug addict, it
means December 27th at 11:30 PM to 3 PM on January 2nd,
2020. It’s only just begun to occur to me that such an amount of 7/10 Cocaine
is quite a lot in such a small amount of time.
Which is why it can’t hurt to dip into it a bit
early, right? Right.
I’m shithouse drunk and coked to the gills by 4 AM.
“We done? Or should I break out the Ketamine?” Alex
asks.
“Alright, I tell you what…” I slur.
“I’ll go and weigh this shit out, and if we haven’t
done a half gram, I’ll break out two more gator tails.”
“Deal!”
I weigh the coke out as Alex stands in my doorway
anxiously.
“Alright. Looks like we’re about a point short.
Let’s do it.”
**
“Mom’s xmas present was 200. You wanna split it?” My
sister texts me.
“Yeah.” I reply.
It’s just my Mom there, all alone in that house now.
My Dad’s been dead for almost a year now. I
don’t know if I mentioned that
already, I’m drunk.
I chain smoke on the 12 minute ride from work to my
childhood home. I do not want to do this. It’s 11:45 at night. I’m in my
pajamas, a bag of speed pills in my pocket, benzos in my backpack. I press the
butt of my cigarette to my forehead as I try and pull it together.
“Sweetie!?!? Are you here?!?!” I hear my mother
shout from the porch.
She puts out her cigarette and comes inside from the
back deck, her bloodshot eyes glimmering with the last drops of happiness left
in her body. She wraps me in a hug. I force a smile as we let go.
Unconditional love is a funny thing. Even though I’m
a derelict, drug addicted, career fuck-up that has done absolutely nothing with
his life, my Mom still loves me. She just wants me to be happy. That’s it.
That’s all she wants. And I can’t even be that.
Her face is red, bloated, and swollen. She ushers me
to the kitchen, beer in hand, where baked ziti and chicken parm, my favorite,
sit on the oven. A pint of Jack Daniels sits on the counter, along with a six
pack of Pepsi. My hands tremble as I scoop food onto a plate. She’s sauced, but
that’s kinda the norm.
Has been since as far as I can remember…
My heart begins to race as I pour myself a drink, a
generous drink, more whiskey than Pepsi if we’re being honest. We sit in the
living room, my mother, my sister, and I.
“It’s so nice to see you, Harry…” She slurs over her
beer.
“Nice to see you, too…” I reply.
“Everything going good? Work, your apartment?”
“Yeah, Ma. Everything’s great. Alex and I get along
great.”
“Seeing anyone?”
Alina flashes through my mind. “Nah. Nothin’
serious.”
My sister rolls her eyes. “Typical.”
“The fuck’s that supposed to mean?” I reply.
“No need to get so defensive, Jeez!”
“I’m sorry…”
My mother’s dying from alcoholism in front of me and
I’m frozen with fear. Well, I shouldn’t limit it to just alcoholism. She’s
obese, she’s a smoker, she’s an alcoholic, and I recently learned she’s type
two diabetic. She doesn’t know that I know that. I went by to pick up my mail
when she wasn’t home, and I found the letter. It was pinned to the bulletin
board.
She still works, part time, at a department store.
She wakes up at 5 AM every day and cracks a beer, then another, then another,
until the shakes go away. I do not judge her. She has endured things that
would’ve driven me to suicide, and all the while she has never grown jaded.
Her mother left her with an alcoholic father and
five younger siblings when she was still a teenager. She dropped out of school
and worked to raise them, all while being berated and beaten at every turn. Two
of them died along the way. She was raised in an era where mental illness,
things like PTSD, anxiety disorder, simply did not exist. She was raised in a
culture where nobody spoke about the shit in their lives, they drank them away.
Then she met my Dad, who was equally as fucked up
and broken. His poisons differed slightly, but they were poisons just the same.
They bonded through their trauma. My Mom got pregnant, my Dad stepped up to the
plate, and they got married.
And they swore, up and down, that I’d have a better
life than them.
That I wouldn’t end up fucked up like them.
They had pure intentions. My parents are good
people, or were, as the case may be. My mother is still one of the purest
people I’ve ever met in my life. She just has demons. Demons I cannot hope to
even relate to.
I often imagine myself enduring the Hell my mother
went through, only to have me as a son. I was given opportunities she never had
a chance of having, and I pissed all over them. There’s only so much of that
that you can blame on my turbulent childhood.
Was my Dad a drug addict? Yeah.
Was my Mom a drunk? Yeah.
Did my Dad sell drugs? Yeah.
Did the cops get called over a lot? Fuck yeah.
But when you grow up seeing all of that, at the very
least, it should trigger something in your head. That common sense impulse that
what you’re seeing is not what you want out of life. I feel more pity for the
suburban dope fiends that get put on Percocet at 16 and end up shooting dope
than I do myself. I have no excuse for being the way I am. I should know
better.
What kills me about my mother is that I see myself
in her. I want to shake her. I wanna cry onto her bosom and ask her what I have
to do to save her. I just want her to have a happy ending, a happy anything.
But I know, all too well, that it’s simply not that
simple.
She doesn’t love herself. She’s done. She wants to
die. Her soulmate, my father, is gone. She’s all alone in her house, with a
derelict, piece of shit son who screens her calls. Coming over for the holidays
is not about seeing her, it’s about creating the illusion that I’m happy.
I’ve spent much of the last two and a half years
fixing the superficial things in my life that convey happiness. I have my own
car, my own place, a full time job where people like me, a network of friends
who love me, but I’m still taking speed every day. I’m still binge drinking on
a rather frequent basis. I’m still popping benzos to get to “sleep” every
night. I’m still me.
But I just hope that this hologram of a happy me is
enough to give my mother’s life of misery and prolonged suicide a grain of
hope. I see the pain in her eyes. I know the pain in her eyes.
I just want her to be happy, to be OK, to not worry
about me.
And she just wants me to be happy, to be OK, and not
to worry about her.
But neither of us are. And we know it.
My sister has tried the intervention approach, the
tough love approach, everything there is to try.
I’ve done nothing.
I’ve sat on my hands and pretended the problem
doesn’t exist.
Part of it stems from me not wanting to confront my
own issues.
Part of it stems from the blatant hypocrisy of a
drug addict casting stones at another drug addict.
Part of it stems from me feeling she wouldn’t have
to drink so fucking much if she had a better son…
It’s easier to not see her and pretend she doesn’t
exist than it is to acknowledge her existence and see her like this. I used to
be really close with her. There was a time I could tell her anything. I see her
in every woman that catches my eye. Whether it’s the eyes, the laugh, the cavalier
attitude towards their weight and unhealthy habits, the smile, she’s there, or
a part of her is.
But that woman doesn’t exist anymore. It’s like Pet
Sematary, I guess. Sometimes, dead is better.
My inaction kills me. It drives a knife into my gut
and twists it until my organs mix and match, shit mixing with bile and blood.
You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it
drink.
But you can do things to a horse to make it thirsty.
I could take her to AA. I could get sober with her.
But I do not want to get sober. Nothing scares me more in this world than
getting sober. Death is a welcome alternative. Real nice, right?
I would rather my mother die of fucking alcoholism
than get my own shit together. I’m a fucking disgrace.
She gets defensive, nasty when confronted on her
drinking. The few times I’ve tried to weigh in on the issue, my anxiety is
running high already. This quickly turns to rage, and I get nasty back.
Nothing
is accomplished except for furthering the distance between us.
I hate it.
I hate it so fucking much.
When I’m not repressing her existence through drug
use and burying my head in the sand, I typically let my rage at her lifestyle
overwhelm my compassion and underlying love. Because all of that is easier than
the truth. It’s easier than empathizing with her, easier than facing the fact
that I am exactly like her.
She’s my Mama.
And I love her.
BUT WHAT THE FUCK COULD I TELL HER?!
WHAT COULD I TELL HER?!!?!?
THAT IT GETS BETTER?!?!
THAT IT’S WORTH IT!??!
IT HASN’T BEEN BETTER, NOR WORTH IT, IN HER 60 YEARS
ON THIS EARTH!!!!!
WHY!?!?!
IN THE FUCK!?!?
WOULD IT SUDDENLY CHANGE!?!?
NOW!?!?!
I go to my childhood room at the end of the night.
It’s been remodeled since I moved out. A futon sits in the corner, there’s
carpet now, the entire upstairs has been done over. It looks great, but it
still inspires nothing but dread and bad memories within me. I spent far too
long in this room.
The futon is hard and difficult to sleep on. My legs
dangle over the edge as I toss and turn. I kick the blankets off in a rage and
tear my backpack open, pulling the bag of benzos out. I crack one in half and
swallow it, waiting the hour or so that it takes to kick in. An entire
lifetime’s worth of repressed tension and baggage melt away my eyelids finally
grow heavy and I drift off to sleep.
We open presents the next morning. I get new
clothes, sneakers, stuff I need. I’m very thankful. Then
I get the fuck out. As
soon as I can. I can’t handle this.
“It was so good to see you, sweetie. I love you.”
She says as she hugs me one last time.
“You too, Ma. You too.”
“Don’t be a stranger now. Call me once in a while!”
My eyes drift to the six empty beer cans on the
counter. I blink away the tears.
“Yeah! Yeah, of course, Ma.”
She smiles at me, and after I load all the food and
gifts into my car, I leave, lighting a cigarette before I can even leave the
driveway. My hands feel numb and tingly. I wanna throw up. I wanna cry.
As I approach the driveway to Alex’s parents’ house,
there’s a lot of cars parked in the street. Alex’s parents own the house, but
the basement is finished, and functions as our apartment.
I take a deep breath as I park. Alex has seen me on
Thanksgiving, and gets the gist of the situation, thanks to me being a drunk
prone to spilling my guts when I’m good and sauced.
“How was it?” He asks as I come in.
“Good! Good.” I reply.
I make a few trips to and from the car, bringing my
presents and food inside. On the last trip, I grab the handle of vodka from
beneath my car seat and stick it in the freezer. Once things are all put away,
I take a generous capsule of speed, and my emotions become more manageable.
I hide in my bedroom. The party upstairs grows
louder with each passing hour. I am not mad at this, I have no ill-will. I just
wanna be alone.
I start drinking early, at around 3 PM. Holing up in
my room, writing and drinking and taking speed, only taking breaks to smoke.
“Buddy!”
Alex’s Dad, Peter, comes out onto the porch as I’m halfway
through my cigarette. He’s a good guy, a great guy, a great landlord. He’s got
a cigar in his hand.
“You know you’re more than welcome to come up,
right?” He asks me.
“Yeah! Yeah, I know. It’s uh… I just… It’s my first
Christmas without my Dad…”
My ace in the hole. His face immediately falls.
“Oh, bud, I’m sorry. Say no more. But if you’re
hungry, or you wanna come up, please, do it. You’re a good kid. And you’re more
than welcome to come up and hang out. Y’know, if you wanna.”
“I know, and I appreciate it. Really. I hope you don’t
think I’m being rude…”
“No, no, no, of course not.”
There’s an awkward silence between the two of us
before I stamp out my cigarette and stand up.
“Hey, Merry Christmas.” I say.
“Merry Christmas, Harry.”