Terry's Friend Harry

2021-06-13T23:40:00.001-07:00

Nightmares of the Bottom

2020-02-15T17:13:00.000-08:00

“Are you high, Harry?” My father asks.

I’m in shock and complete disbelief that he could even ask such a thing.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?!!”

He pushes his glasses up his nose. “Don’t bullshit me, you’re fuckin’ high. You been usin’ again.”

My Dad is shorter than me, he’s a good 5’10. I’m six feet even. But fuck if I’m not still scared shitless of him. All things considered, he’s got a right to ask if I’m using. I’ve lost weight, there’s bags under my eyes, I’m pale, sickly.

And, y’know, I have been getting high again.

BUT NOT ON HEROIN OR METH, WHICH MEANS I’M SOBER.

My hand reaches into my pocket as my mother weeps on the couch. I thumb the bag of capsules, making sure I still have them, and didn’t drop them, which would explain the current interrogation I find myself in.

I look back at my Dad. He’s thin, holocaust thin. His teeth are rotting out of his face. His eyes are pinned, his cheeks sunken, his bones rigid. I smell piss.

“ANSWER ME!”

“I’M NOT GETTIN’ FUCKIN’ HIGH ANYMORE!”

“PROVE IT!”

Suddenly I have a urinalysis cup in my hand.

“Please, Harry…” My mother cries.

She looks like shit too. Her skin and eyes is an almost mustard yellow. Surely her liver will give out soon. Nevertheless, she has a beer in front of her.

“YOU’RE A FUCKIN HYPOCRITE!” I scream.

“BATHROOM! NOW!”

“I don’t need this fuckin’ shit… I came here to visit, not to be treated like a fucking drug addict!”

“YOU DON’T HAVE A CHOICE HARRY, NOW GO!”

My Dad clenches his bony hands into fists and begins to leave his hospice bed, sitting in the middle of our living room.

“Alright, alright. Jesus Christ…”

I walk through the dining room and into the kitchen bathroom, locking the door behind me and sitting down on the covered toilet lid. I begin to cry.

“He’s fuckin’ cryin’ in there. Little fuckin’ faggot. I DON’T HEAR ANY PISSING GOIN’ ON IN THERE, HARRY!”

“FUCK YOU!” I scream at the door.

“Fuck me, right… Fucking embarrassment is what he is.”

“Yes, absolutely.” My mother adds.

“We did so much to keep him from ending up like this. Catholic school, busted our fucking asses, and WHAT’S HE DO?!?! HUH?!?! WHAT THE FUCK YOU DO, HARRY?!”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP, I’M TRYING TO FUCKING PISS!”

“I knew he was using, I knew the whole time…” My mother cries.

I’m trying to piss, but I can’t. Too much pressure. I shake my cock around like an abusive mother would an infant, to no avail. Enraged, I throw the cup at the wall, and it disappears.

BOOM, BOOM, BOOM!

“WHAT?!!?” I roar.

“WHERE IS IT, HARRY, WHERE’S THE PISS?! YOU’RE USING! YOU’VE ALWAYS BEEN USING! FUCKIN’ JUNKY PIECE OF SHIT!”

“YOU FUCKING MADE ME LIKE THIS!”

The bathroom door disappears.

“Excuse me?” My Dad asks.

“You… Fuckin’ heard me…” I mumble.

“Pussy. A fuckin’ pussy. That’s all you are. Pinnin’ your problems on me. You saw how this goes. Both of us, we showed you. It ain’t fuckin’ pretty. But you just couldn’t leave it the fuck alone, could ya?! COULD YA??!”

My Dad pushes me, his frail limbs packing quite the punch as I stumble backwards, landing in a hospital gurney. I don’t have a shirt on anymore. I’m very thin. The light is flickering inside my room. There’s blinds over the doors. A TV, hidden behind a glass partition, plays The Sopranos.

I’m strapped to a heart monitor. I can see shadows moving behind the blinds, speaking in hushed tones.

“Seven grams of crystal meth, in his wallet… Here… He’s got pills too, never even seen them

before…” One says.

I check my back pocket, only to find my bare ass. I’m in a gown. Fuck.

“HARRY??!!?!!?”

My Dad’s voice rips through the halls of hospital, shaking my room as dust falls from the ceiling.

“Fuck. FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!”

I rip the wires off my chest and hop off the stretcher, leaning on my IV pole as I stumble out into the hospital. It’s incredibly busy, but no one seems to notice I’m here. A morbidly obese young woman, with jet black hair, very pale and sick, lays in a gurney to my immediate left. A green t-shirt barely covers her enormous stomach and breasts, and she’s packed her lower half in a very tight pair of leggings.

“Why are you here, miss?” The nurse asks her.

“I’m too fat.” The woman replies, her mouth not moving as she speaks.

“And why are you so fat?”

Suddenly, the woman sits up, with a great deal of effort, and points to me.

“What?!” I gasp.

“You made me this way. I was happy. I was fat, yeah… But you didn’t help…”

“I don’t even know you…”

“OH YOU DON’T?!?!”

I squint at her. “Sarah?!!?”

“I PUT ON A HUNDRED AND FIFTY POUNDS, FOR YOU, HARRY! ALL FOR YOU! JUST SO YOU COULD CUM! YOU TOLD ME YOU LOVED ME! IS THIS HOW YOU TREAT SOMEONE YOU LOVE?!!? HUH?!!? LOOK AT ME! I’M DISGUSTING! I FUCKING HATE MYSELF! But I suppose none of that matters to you, right? You’re on to your next victim!”

She pulls up her shirt, revealing her big, stretch-mark riddled stomach. Her breathing grows more labored and frantic. I can see her organs failing.

“Titillating, isn’t it?” The nurse asks.

“WHAT’S WRONG, HARRY?!? IT WAS SO FUCKIN’ HOT WHEN I WAS CRAMMING DONUTS INTO MY FUCKIN’ MOUTH ALL DAY!”

“Please… Don’t…”

“You wanna see my legs, Harry?!”

“No.”

“You used to love them! Remember you used to give me cankle kisses?!”

“I can’t… Please…”

The nurse pulls up her leggings, revealing obese, fluid-saturated legs, the skin stretched to a layer as thin as cellophane, turgid and purple.

“No… I didn’t mean…”

Suddenly she flops back in bed, the heart monitor running to her body flatlines.

BEEEEEEEEEEEEP….

“Dead. Because of you.” The nurse says, deadpan.

“FUCK! FUCK THIS, FUCK THIS, FUCK THIS, FUCK THIS!”

I rip out my IV and begin to run down a long hallway that never seems to end. Doors line the sides as the lights flicker in and out. I just keep running.

BOOM…

Finally, I reach a door. I grab the handle and it melts between my fingers. I wipe the smears of bronze paint off on the door while pounding on it with my fists.

“PLEASE! PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE LET ME IN! I CAN’T… I CAN’T…”

At the end of the hallway is my father. He’s limping along with a cane, so frail his clothes hang off his frame. He’s snarling at me.

“YOU….”

“YOU’VE BEEN NOTHING…”

“BUT A PAIN IN THE ASS…”

“Fuck you!” I scream as I pound on the door.

My Dad’s shorts fall down. He’s wearing a diaper, saturated with piss as he shambles down the hall, a shell of his old self. He’s not the old man I knew.

“AFTER ALL THIS… YOU’RE STILL… GETTING… FUCKING… HIGH…”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP! SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP!”

He stops suddenly, his eyes watering up. “I’m tired, Harry…”

“So sleep.” I reply, curling into the fetal position against the door.

“I’m tired of you fucking up. I’m tired of being so sick…”

“SO SLEEP!” I snarl back.

“Why couldn’t you be more like your sister?!”

“DON’T FUCKIN’ BRING HER INTO THIS!”

“Why not?!”

“BECAUSE SHE MADE IT OUT OF THAT TOXIC FUCKIN’ SHITHOLE WE CALLED A HOUSE GROWING UP! MADE SOMETHING OF HERSELF! DON’T YOU FUCKIN’ DARE RUN YOUR FUCKIN’ MOUTH ABOUT HER!”

“Hehehehehehehe…”

My Dad spits out a tooth as blood flows out of his mouth, all while he laughs maniacally.

I wake up.

“Mr. Miller? We’ve been expecting you.” A muscular bald man says as he takes my bags.

I’m led through what appears to be some sort of new age opium den. It’s relatively empty. Hookahs filled with some sort of narcotic leave their users slumped out on pillows, dreaming. A pink light fills each room. We walk through a beaded doorway, leading to a room-wide booth seat. A table sits in the middle, holding a bottle of Jameson and a massive pile of Cocaine.

“There you are. She’ll be in shortly…” The man says, nodding.

“OK.” I reply.

I go to town. Snorting, drinking, smoking. The beaded doorway rustles, and in walks none other than MuffinMaid. In the flesh. She’s a bit heavier than her recent posts would imply, but every bit as sexy. She’s tall, as tall as me, clad in a pink bikini. Her belly almost obscures the second half as I drink her in, her pale blue eyes enrapturing me as she tosses her black hair out of her face.

“Mr. Chin says I have to take care of you.” She says sheepishly.

“C’mon over, darlin’, I don’t bite.” I reply.

She smiles and chuckles, taking a seat next to me.

“You, um… You mind if I…” She stammers, motioning to the coke.

“No! No, no, no, no, no! By all means!”

She snorts up a fat gagger and swigs Jamie from the bottle. My kinda woman.

“Can I bum a smoke?” She asks.

“Absolutely.” I reply, handing her one from a pack that seems endless.

“Thank you…”

She lights the smoke, exhaling seductively before looking at me. There’s something fucked up about her face that I can’t put my finger on, but I love it.

“You wanna play with my tummy?”

“I thought you’d never ask…”

I put my face in her stomach, my dick throbbing through my jeans as I do so. I kiss it, worship it, its soft warmth returning me to a childish state as I rub my face over it repeatedly.

“Hey, Harry?”

“Yeah?”

As I look up, I realize it’s not MuffinMaid.

It’s my sister.

I fall off the booth seat, knocking over the table and coke and booze resting atop it. I begin to crawl backwards as my sister’s face looks back at mine.

“How could you do this?!”

“HARRY?!?!”

“NO! NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO! NO!”

I vomit all over my shirt.

Then I wake up.

And I vomit again.

I haven’t been getting much REM sleep lately.

Home Alone

2020-01-05T21:03:00.000-08:00

I drum my fingers along the arms of a leather armchair, the balls of my feet twisting into one another as Chernobyl plays on the TV hanging from the wall.

I’m only half paying attention. I don’t have the attention span for much anymore, besides drugs, booze, and cigarettes. Everything else is a distraction of necessity. I shoot up from the armchair, pacing around my living room anxiously, running my hands along my oily scalp.

My breathing grows heavy and my heart begins to race. I don’t know what the fuck to do. Well, that’s not entirely true. I know what I want to do…

But it’s 4:30 PM…

I grind my teeth as I stare at the clock. Alex has been at work for an hour and a half. My eyes drift to the kitchen counter, where my keys and wallet rest. I’m in my pajamas still, but when has that ever stopped me?

In an instant, I’m in my car. I begin to back out of the driveway and head for the liquor store, a force unseen guiding my movement, poking and prodding me from behind with white hot poking sticks.

Let me make one thing clear.

I have liquor.

But I can’t start with the liquor at 4:30.

Even I can’t do that.

“Will that be all?” The old woman behind the register asks.

I pause and sigh. “Pack of Marb reds too, please.”

“Sure thing, honey.”

I brace myself on the counter as my heart rattles around my chest like an inmate in solitary confinement. I run my hands over my head again as I stare down the six pack of PBR tall boys sitting in front of me. I want to down one right now. I wanna pounce on it, like a sailor pounces on their love after being at sea for six months.

You really can never have enough cigarettes.

I cruise home, smoking all the way, even though the ride is barely long enough to get halfway through my butt. As I reach the porch I stop short. I cannot smoke inside, such behavior is forbidden. Suddenly, the cigarette is burdensome. I want booze. I want calmness. I want relief.

I stamp the cigarette out prematurely, angrily, and then crack open a beer. I guzzle half of it down in a few hearty swigs, putting the rest in the fridge as I catch my breath. I’m not the biggest fan of beer. It always felt like beating around the bush to me. It leaves me bloated and yearning for more. But it curbs my anxiety, and allows me to think for a second. And for that, I am thankful.

I sit back down in the armchair, and put on a Sopranosre-run. I can quote this show like the Bible. It’s the one where Tony B gets out of prison. Tony B, Jesus Christ. Such a short arc for such an impactful character. I would suck David Chase’s dick if it meant I was given a quarter of his writing talent.

Beer number two is cracked in record time. I begin to ease up a bit more. The Cocaine in my desk drawer is calling my name. I thought I took this time off to have fun, but it’s caused me nothing but stress, anxiety. I just wanna get high, and when I get high, well…

I don’t wanna get as high.

Then I wanna get higher.

And so on.

And so forth.

I get up to take a piss. It’s yellow, a sign of dehydration. Let’s see… I’ve had two slices of Domino’s pizza in the last two days, and a decent amount of water. Or at least, I thought I did. I have no appetite. Well, that’s a lie. I’m hungry, but the idea of food detests me. Which I suppose is ironic in a way, what with my gut and tits and all.

I down two Gatorades back to back, almost vomiting as I pace around the kitchen. I cover my mouth in a futile attempt to resist my gag reflex. I choke my own body into submission, and while I’m packed to the brim, it eventually begins to filter though my kidneys to my bladder, and moisture begins to form on my palms. My anxiety begins to alleviate a bit. I collapse into the armchair, put my head in my hands, and run them down my greasy face.

I get up to piss 20 minutes later, and take the time to inspect myself. My beard is unkempt, uneven, but that is to be expected. I have bags under my eyes. I’m breathing heavily, despite not physically exerting myself at all. My blue eyes are cracked and tinged bloodshot, a glossy coat of desperation in their solemn gaze as I splash water on my face.

I storm out of the bathroom and take the immediate right to my bedroom, sitting down on my unmade bed and tearing my nightstand drawer open. I pull out my copy of Appetite For Destruction, as well as the eight ball of Cocaine in a small ziplock bag.

I dump a bunch of it out, pressing my license over it as I run a lighter over it. It compresses to a flat, clumpy, powder, probably because I’m in a basement. I don’t fuckin’ know, I’m not a God damn scientist.

I scrape the residual Coke off the back of my license and, like a Benny Hanna’s chef, chop up the Cocaine into a few fine lines. My hands shake as I pull a straw out, its insides caked with Ketamine, MDMA, and Cocaine, and sniff a fat line to the face.

My heart pumps as the Gatorade kicks in and I re-center. I get up, arms swirling in windmill motions, pacing around my room, thumping my chest like a Gorilla. I trot out from my room swinging dick and taking names, turning around halfway down the hall to close my door.

After all, Alex’s parents still live here.

And they don’t need to see this.

I smoke a cigarette, and another, and drink another beer. It soon grows boring. I throw on some Guns N’ Roses to drown out my own thoughts…

WELCOME TO THE JUNGLE!

WE GOT FUN AND GAMES!

WE GOT ANYTHING YOU WANT, HONEY WE KNOW THE NAMES!

WE ARE THE PEOPLE THAT CAN FIND

WHATEVER YOU MAY NEED

IF YOU GOT THE MONEY, HONEY, WE GOT YO DISEASE!

Beer now bores me. I fling open the fridge and pull out my handle of Jack Daniel’s, old number seven. I slam the shot glass down. It’s 5:15PM. What am I to do?

A car door slams in the driveway, sending me into a frenzy. I bolt to the window like a dog anticipating its owner’s arrival, and realize it’s Alex’s Mom.

It checks out.

This is when she usually comes home.

She’d have no reason to come down here.

I’m just Alex’s reclusive roommate.

That always pays his rent on time, might I add.

WHICH MEANS I DON’T HAVE A PROBLEM.

Shot.

Cigarette.

Line.

Shot.

Cigarette.

Line.

Shot.

Another shot.

Cigarette.

Another shot.

Line.

Bump.

Cigarette.

Shot.

Soon it’s 8 PM. I’m hammered drunk, but the Cocaine fuels me to go further. A lot of drunks will tell you they use Cocaine as a means to drink more, and little else. The actual Cocaine high means little to them, as it only facilitates more drinking.

I’m not sure where I stand on that.

I’m an uppers guy, I always will be. I love the heart-pounding euphoria of Cocaine. I love chopping it up on a CD, I love putting it up my nose, I love the numbing effect, artificial or not, on your nose and throat. I love the way it drips down my esophagus and coagulates in my liver as Cocaethylene.

I love how much fucking money I spend on it.

I love how it dictates my entire night.

Boy oh boy, I’m getting hacky now, aren’t I?

I am oh so sickeningly predictable. I stumble to the bathroom, my fingers fumbling for the light switch and slamming the door shut behind me.

When, suddenly, everything begins to shift and change.

I’m no longer in my apartment. I’m in the bathroom of some sort of music venue. Sounds of a genre I can’t pinpoint boom distortedly against the walls of the dingy bathroom. It’s just me here now, unzipping my jeans in front of a row of urinals.

When suddenly, the door swings open.

“Guy! How ya doin’?! Long time no talk, huh?!?!” He says.

I stop pissing as I look at him. He comes up to the urinal next to mine, despite several others being open. He smiles a wicked grin, his teeth crooked but not as horrendously as my own. He’s got a widow’s peak, and a mischievous smile on his face. A scar runs diagonally across his face, almost symmetrical in its haphazard execution. He smacks his lips and smiles at me as he whips his hog out and drains the main vein, as it were.

“Sup? Cat got your tongue?” He asks as he pisses.

“Nah…” I stammer back.

“Huh! Awful quiet all of a sudden, aren’t ya?”

“I don’t know…”

“You don’t know?”

He’s dressed in a cheap suit, and slams his hand against the flusher thingy before turning back to me and putting his dick back in his pants

“Fun, isn’t it?”

“Huh?”

“All this? All this time?”

“Fuck off.”

“Oooooooof! That hurts, bud! I got feelings too!”

“The day I anthropomorphize addiction in my stories is the day I die. Fuck off.”:

He puts his hands up and smiles again. “Alright! Alright! No harm, no foul! Catch you on the comedown, tough guy!”

“Wouldn’t count on it. I got Xanax.”

“Oh! Well then, excuse me! You’ve got it all figured out then don’t ya?”

I nod.

“So why not finish pissin’?”

I realize I’m still holding my dick. I can’t piss with someone else there, it just can’t happen. Call it insecurity, call it what you will, but it won’t happen.

I put my dick back in my pants. He begins to laugh.

“You ever hear of rebound anxiety, Harry?” He asks as I wash my hands.

I shake my head.

“No? C’mon. A degenerate of your caliber has to be familiar with that!”

“Nope. Don’t know what you’re talking about. If you could fuck off, though, that’d be great.”

“That’s just the thing, though, Harry. You invited me in, and I’d prefer to stay.”

His teeth grow jagged, yellow, and dry like my own. His dehydrated tongue smacks around them, taunting me.

I slam the faucet handles off with as much aggression as my mind can muster. This only makes him laugh. He follows me to my bedroom, where I rack up more Coke.

“Now we’re talkin’! This is the Harry Miller I know!”

“FUCK. OFF.”

“Oh, my dear, dear, friend… I’m afraid we’re in far too deep to consider that a viable option now.

Like it or not, you’re stuck with me. You’re also a hack writer, by the way. I mean, c’mon, personifying addiction as a tall, dark, and handsome man with charisma and a sleeve full of magic tricks? Not exactly re-inventing the wheel, are ya?”

“Well if I’m a fucking hack, I’m a fucking hack, right?”

“HA! That’s right. And ain’t shit you can do to change that. You are the Dean Koontz to Morbo2000’s Stephen King. The re-rock to his fish scale…”

“Yeah. Yeah, I am. And so fuckin’ what?!?!”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just know it fucks with you.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Oh yes! It drives you fucking crazy. It’s the only thing I let you have an ego about: who’s the bigger loser. Who’s got the better stories of drug-fueled degeneracy, of self-pity and self-destruction. You know you’re both losers, right?”

“Morbo’s got fucking kids, and he’s sober now…”

“You do know I don’t exist, right? You sound fucking crazy right now.”

I snort a line and look up, and he’s gone. It’s 11:30. The back door opens up.

“Sup?” Alex asks as he comes inside.

“Nothin’. Nothin’. You uh, you want a line?”

“Ah, twist my arm why don’t ya….”

Oedipus Sex

2020-01-04T20:33:00.000-08:00

“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 27^th at 11:30 PM to 3 PM on January 2^nd, 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.”

Loser Birds (Part I)

2019-06-22T18:44:00.000-07:00

“Dog it’s like I’m fuckin’ 30 years old, I ain’t got no fuckin’ job, I put everything I have into this shit but I still find myself fuckin’ doin’ drugs, drinkin’, all fucked up by myself sittin’ on the couch in somebody’s house that I don’t even know… The loser birds are chirpin’ they’re drivin’ me crazy… This is what comes out of it.” –Skinny Cavallo

Ten two milligram Xanax bars. Genuine ones. No pressies, no sir. Mexican pharmaceutical, to be exact.

An eight ball of quality Cocaine.

Two grams of Molly.

Three grams of Ketamine.

A handle of Jack Daniels.

A handle of Jameson.

Half a strip of LSD.

300 whippets.

Too many packs of smokes to even count. A carton, fuck it, we’ll call it a carton.

Weed.

This is what it’s all come to.

Two years earlier…

BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM!

My eyes open in slow motion before the nod pulls me under again. My right arm hurts. Oh wow, it really fucking hurts…

BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM!

Who the fuck is knocking at this hour?!

“HARRY?!!? OPEN THE FUCKIN’ DOOR NOW!”

I vaguely hear my aunt’s voice from deep within the void of the nod. Few things can make me give a fuck about anything when I’m shooting heroin. My aunt flipping the fuck out is one of those things, because she is my landlord.

I’m on the floor. Fuck. There’s an extension cord of some sort wrapped around my bicep. The arm it’s wrapped around is swollen and purple in some spots. The knob to my bedroom door begins to jiggle violently.

“IF YOU DON’T OPEN THIS FUCKIN’ DOOR RIGHT NOW I’M CALLIN’ THE FUCKIN’ COPS, HARRY, YOU UNDERSTAND ME!?!? FIVE…”

I use my good arm to push myself up off the floor and get the cord off my gimp arm. The nod pulls me under again. I just need to get to the chair, so I can do a shot of crank, and straighten myself out…

“TWO…”

“Alright, alright! Jesus Fuckin’ Christ! Gimme a God damn second!” I snap.

“DON’T YOU JESUS FUCKIN’ CHRIST ME, OPEN THE FUCKIN’ DOOR!”

I get up into my computer chair and scan the room. I don’t even know where the fuck to start. There’s Gatorade bottles full of meticulously capped and un-needled needles all over the fucking place. I never got around to throwing them out. I was too busy with some other shit…

Six months earlier…

“Drug usage is increasin’ since the last time, let go awhile and I’ll be back just like the last time…” –Kevin Gates

My sweaty, bare feet push against a stack of books propped up against an old Playstation box underneath my desk as my butt threatens to slip right off my computer chair’s seat and send me flat on my ass. I’ve got a death grip on my cock as I crank, crank, and crank, and a 550 pound woman eats a cake in front of me. She’s young, around my age, and models under the name Sweet Adeline. She’s wearing a pig snout and her big belly is spilling out onto the linoleum floor of her kitchen.

Sunken eyes nearly pop out of their sockets, which are weighed down by ugly, visible bags, the kind only insomniacs and drug addicts ever have. I suppose I’m a mix of both at this point. Crystal Meth will do that to a man.

I grab the same XXL Metallica tour t-shirt I had from when I was a fat teenager and pump a fresh batch of knuckle children inside of it. My heart rattles around in my chest at a thousand miles an hour while the muscles in my calves burn from all the focus and strain it requires to finally bust a nut on Crystal Meth. But when you finally do, God fucking damn when you finally do…

The t-shirt is crusty and somewhat damp from prolonged use. I wipe my hand off like the slob I am as I struggle to catch my breath. Sweat pours down my red face and it dawns on me I’ve been neglecting the basic human necessities of hydration and nutrition for some time now. To my credit, I’ve gotten much better at both while tweaking, but time has a way of getting away from you on this shit.

I wince as I X-out tab after tab of obscene extreme obesity porn. Monstrously overweight women eating and eating and eating, struggling to move afterwards, moaning as they rub their distended bellies, unsure of whether they’re disgusted with themselves or turned on by their own hedonistic gluttony. I like to think most of them fall into the latter camp, because otherwise, it’d be pretty depressing.

Humanizing these women does not make me feel good, especially after I’ve finally gotten my nut off. As I close the last tab I remember I ordered pizza from Domino’s. I haven’t eaten in at least 24 hours, and that’s being conservative. My order is ready for pickup.

Oh yeah, that’s right, I said pickup.

I’m not made of money, after all.

Plus, I much prefer being able to satiate my primal meth sex drive without worrying about the pizza guy showing up to ruin my fun and sending me into a paranoid frenzy.

But there is a problem, well actually, a few. I cannot people right now. For that, I need booze. I let out a grunt as I hoist the handle of Evan Williams from next to my desk and pour myself a double shot. I down it and chase it with a full bottle of Gatorade, because I need to drink my drinks and eat my food in a lump sum. I cannot drink and do something else. I cannot eat and do something else. I have to focus the laser guided missile that is Crystal Meth fully onto whatever task is at hand. Meth has a way of convincing you you’re never thirsty or hungry, even when your stomach is eating away at its inner lining and your body doesn’t have a drop of moisture left inside it.

As the Gatorade fills my stomach and begins to rehydrate me, my heartrate slows down and my entire body relaxes a bit. I take off the sweaty basketball shorts I’ve been cranking my hog in all day and slip into a pair of jeans that used to be pretty tight on me. They’re baggy as shit now. I can barely keep ‘em up without a belt. But my only belt is for shooting up, and I don’t feel like putting it on just to impress some shithead at Domino’s.

The liquor and the Gatorade vie for supremacy within my stomach, and the liquor seems to be winning. I open my desk drawer and pick up the ten gram bag of shards, studying as if I don’t have enough shit to last me three lifetimes over right here. It’s 10:30 PM. Domino’s won’t mind if I’m a bit late getting myself together…

My jaw aches as I sink my teeth deep into the leather and saliva runs down my belt’s weathered strap. I flex my fingers and make a fist, smacking the top of my arm and running my free hand’s fingers up and down the surface to find a good spot to hit in. The tops of my arms are most advantageous for shooting up, as nobody else knows I’m back on meth, and I’d prefer to keep it that way. The freckles that line the tops of my arms, in addition to some concealer, make great camouflage for track marks.

Luckily for me, I have a lot of options as far as veins are concerned. There’s a mole that rests almost directly on top of one of my best ones, and I position the tip of the needle just behind it before digging it into my flesh and pulling back on the plunger.

My eyes open even wider as the barrel flushes red and I slowly push the plunger down, taking meticulous care not to slip out and give myself an abscess. Meth is arguably the least forgiving of all IV drugs when it comes to abscesses, and I’ve spent many, many, a night pushing white-hot wash cloths down on inflamed injection sites praying and wishing and hoping that I hadn’t fucked up enough to require medical attention.

I been lucky.

So far.

Success.

I pull the needle out and wipe the fat droplet of blood from my arm as the rush takes over and my horniness is reignited. This is gonna ruffle some feathers, but fuck it, I’m gonna say it.

IV meth has a better rush than IV heroin.

My pupils are as big as those fuckin’ things cats drink out of as I get into my car and drive to Domino’s. When your pupils are this big, everyone looks like they have their high beams on.

“What’s with the fuckin’ high beams, cocksucka, you tryina’ kill me?!” I shout as I ash my cigarette out the window.

Thankfully for not only me, but all the unfortunate motorists driving alongside me, Domino’s is but a short drive from my apartment. Paranoid by Black Sabbath roars through my speakers as I whip down the road with no regard for the speed limit, seatbelts, or DUI laws. I take a last haul off my cigarette as I pull into the Asian strip mall, the last place you’d ever expect to see a fucking Domino’s…

Fuck me, there’s a line. I should not have done that shot. Nothing, and I mean nothing is worse than waiting in line when you’re tweaking. I would rather grind up an ounce of the stickiest weed on planet earth by hand while peaking off a ten strip of LSD than wait in line on meth for more than five minutes.

There’s a family in front of me as I glue my sleepless eyes to my phone and use my free hand to hold my pants up. All I want, all I fucking want, is to get my food and go home. Centering my laser-focus on my cellphone is all I can do right now, or I will literally go crazy.

WHYAREN’TWEMOVINGWHYAREN’TWEMOVINGWHYAREN’TWEMOVINGWHYAREN’TWEMOVING…

“Sir?”

My head whips up from my phone and I jam it into my pocket, almost hard enough to send my jeans around my ankles. I awkwardly pull the waistband up like an old man, only for it to slide down again, dangerously close to my dick.

“Harry Miller. I uh… I fuckin’ did an order…” I stammer.

I’ve been up for a while. Two days, I think? I don’t fucking know anymore.

“SMOKIN’ WEED, SIPPIN’ SYRUP, LATELY I BEEN GETTIN’ SWERVED…” –Jelly Roll

I speed home with my medium cheese pizza and order of cheesy bread. I have a lot of masturbation to do, and all this food nonsense is beginning to irritate me. I throw an episode of Uninformed With Bill Burr and Joe Derosa on as I choke down two slices of pizza and the end piece of the cheesy bread, which when combined with the stomach bile I’ve been sustaining myself with for the last day or so, is enough to sustain me and turn my attention to more important matters…

Like porn.

“Yeah I’m 26 years old and I ain’t done a god damn thing but fuckin’ sell dope and go to bars…”

Suddenly, it’s 5 AM. I know because I can hear my aunt upstairs getting ready to go to work. My skin is red and my dick is shriveled in my hand. I’ve been taking shots of Evan Williams and shooting more crank intermittently, but I haven’t cum. I was supposed to write tonight, but all that’s on my screen is…

Well…

“…Lisa let out a long sigh as her belly pinned her to the couch, helpless to her own gluttony as it sat in front of and around her in the form of empty soda bottles and takeout boxes, as if to mock her. ‘How had she ever let it get this bad?’ Were her last thoughts as she entered the food coma…”

Jesus fucking Christ. I got fifty pages of shit like this written.

And what the fuck am I supposed to do with it!? What publisher or website would see this horrid, embarrassing, erotic fat fiction and think “HMM, THIS GUY SEEMS STABLE!”

My room smells like a chimpanzee exhibit as disgust washes over me and the unmerciful light of the sun begins to seep through the blanket and curtain I stuffed into my basement apartment window precisely to prevent realizations like this.

I can’t. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t. I need to stop. I’m all done, I wanna get off.

I put my dick back in my shorts and take a few swigs of Gatorade. I open my drawer again.

No benzos, fuck…

Fent it is then…

I started this whole thing under the impression that I could function on meth far better than on heroin. For some reason, one substance or the other just has to be in my life. I cannot live without them. I mean, c’mon, you see how much fun I’m having here…

I had some money left over from my last meth pickup and stumbled upon someone with Fentanyl mixed with some inactive cuts, essentially making it Sam’s Club heroin. You can fill in the blanks, I’m sure. If you can’t, it’s not that important…

Poke.

Pull.

Nothing.

“FUCK!”

Poke.

Pull.

Nothing.

“FUCK!”

Poke.

Pull.

Nothing.

“FUCK!”

Usually in an undertaking such as this I’d be much more careful of avoiding track marks. But it’s the end of day three (?) of a meth binge, and I just wanna get off. That’s all I wanna do man, I just wanna stop. I just wanna go to sleep. That’s all I wanna do, is go to sleep.

My Meth-induced determination prevents me from changing spikes or picking more strategic spots. The needle gets duller and duller as I stab it in and out of my arm. It should be easy, but I’m so dehydrated that getting a hit is very difficult. Blood trickles down the litany of puncture wounds lining each arm as tears form in my eyes and I nearly bite through my belt.

“FUCK! FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!”

The idea of snorting the Fentanyl doesn’t even occur to me. It simply isn’t an option. I’m not even strung out on this shit, it’s more of a novelty to keep me from getting strung out on benzos, my other go-to drug when it’s time to sleep on meth. My heart continues to race around my chest as I put the blood-stained, battle-tested rig down on my desk and wipe my arms with wet wipes. Some of them have already begun to bruise, brown and ugly.

I take another swig of whiskey and tie off again, finding a decent vein in my hand and sinking the worn needle into it. Blood surges into the barrel, much more quickly than usual, the sign I’ve hit an artery.

But arteries are still veins.

And I’m still a junky.

Like a get out of jail free card, my anxiety and overstimulation are replaced with comfort and serenity. My eyes close and I take a deep breath through my nose before awkwardly staggering to my feet and going to the bathroom. My white t-shirt looks like the tarp from American Psycho, and my black shorts are stained with a deep, ugly, maroon. I turn the water on and calmly lather up my arms with soap and water, cleaning the caked up blood plastered on both of them. As the red slowly fades into clean running water, I dry off my arms, and go to bed.

“HARRY, I’M NOT SHITTIN’ YOU, OPEN THE FUCKIN’ DOOR RIGHT NOW!!!”

This is my Tony Montana moment, I suppose. My Bonnie and Clyde final shoot-out. One last shot, one last drink, one last drag of one last cigarette.

I ignore my aunt and try to prep a shot of meth. I get as far as mixing it up before I hear the keys jingling and the door swings open.

“WHAT?! I… HOW THE FUCK… I DO NOT FUCKIN’ BELIEVE YOU… I DON’T FUCKIN’ BELIEVE YOU. YOU MOTHAFUCKA. I PUT YOU UP HERE, I COULDA BEEN CHARGIN’ YOU DOUBLE, TRIPLE, WHAT YA PAYIN’ NOW. AND YOU THROW IT IN MY FUCKIN’ FACE WITH THIS SHIT!?!”

I start nodding off again as she struggles to process what she’s witnessing. She grabs me by the collar and smacks me in the face.

“WAKE UP! WAKE THE FUCK UP RIGHT NOW OR I’M CALLIN’ A FUCKIN’ AMBULANCE! YOUR GETTIN’ FUCKIN’ SECTIONED, HARRY, I SWEAR TO GOD.”

Being sectioned is no joke. Basically, there’s this law in Massachusetts that allows anyone to tell on anyone for excessive drug or alcohol use, and they will be forced into treatment or jail, depending on what you’re addicted to. There’s some kinda time limit for it, I think they call it the Baker Act somewhere else, but honestly? You want my honest opinion? I think it’s a crock of shit.

Yeah, lock a guy up for having drugs on him. Take his license away. Fuck it, y’know what? Plaster his face in the paper, too. Make him pay for a lawyer he could never afford to begin with, and whatever you do, make damn sure he loses his job, if he even has one, that junky degenerate piece of shit.

You could put a rehab on every street corner in America, every suburb and every ghetto, and give a scholarship (I always thought that was a funny way to describe it, since every drug addict I know was a major fuck-up in school, myself included) to every junky in the country. You could do that, but what you and nobody else on planet earth can ever do, is talk a junky outta using. I’m pretty sure I just plaigerized the shit outta Drugstore Cowboy. Sorry Mr. Van Sant, no disrespect intended.

So, with all that in mind, it does seem a bit silly to think you can force someone into treatment and magically make it take. But I get it. Watching someone destroy themselves so willingly is something non-addicts can never wrap their head around. Because it defies logic.

“HARRY, LOOK AT ME! LOOK AT ME YOU LITTLE SHIT!”

“Sup?” I ask, barely able to keep my eyes open.

“ARE YOU GONNA FUCKIN’ DIE OR WHAT?! LOOK AT ME, HARRY, KNOCK THIS SHIT THE FUCK OFF, RIGHT NOW! I GET YOU THAT JOB, I GET YOU THIS PLACE, AND ALL YOU DO, ALL YOU FUCKIN’ EVER DO, IS GIVE ME FUCKIN’ TROUBLE. WHAT THE FUCK IS YOUR PROBLEM?!”

My aunt raises valid points. For such a small woman, she can put the fear of God in me, at least when I’m not nodding out on heroin. She looks like she coulda been an extra in a Def Leppard video thirty years ago. The kinda lady who never got the memo that sniffing coke and smoking cigarettes wasn’t cool anymore. Not that I’m in any position to criticize anyone for their vices…

Two days earlier…

“Aye bruh. Hmu. Got something to tell u bout.” Slim texts me.

I roll my eyes. This is interrupting valuable masturbation time. I haven’t seen Slim in damn near a year, since I got on subs, rediscovered meth, and got off subs to pursue a career as a tweaker full time. I can maintain a functional meth habit, at least that’s what I tell myself. Heroin is too hard to hide. I just can’t do it.

I thought I made this abundantly clear to Slim, but I can’t knock the man’s hustle.

So I call him.

“’Sup?” I ask.

“How you doin’ bro? Haven’t seen you in a minute.” He replies.

“’Sup?”

The meth had emboldened me as I pound a shot of whiskey.

“Right to the chase, I feel you. Anyhow, my man just got back from Cali, and he brought over some things you might have an interest in…”

“I’m listenin’…”

“He got them fuckin’ shards you told me about. That Tina.”

“Yeah? And how much is that gonna set me back? Considering he came all the way out here and whatnot…”

“You ain’t let me finish, bro. He also got some of that tar. I’m tryna get him to get more. Shit got scooped up real quick. I guess they can’t put that Fentanol shit in it as easy or somethin’. I told him to get me a damn dump truck worth of that shit, ‘cause everything out here dirty as fuck right now. Man I been sellin’ dope damn near twenty years and I ain’t never seen nothin’ like the shit I’m seein’ now. Everybody’s droppin…”

“Tar, huh? I’m pretty good on the shards. No offense or anything, but I don’t think his shit’s gonna be up to snuff for me.”

“Figured as much bro-bro. But the tar is legit, straight fire.”

“Anybody drop from it?”

“Fuck kinda question is that, nigga?”

“What’ll you do a G for?”

“I could let my last one go for seventy. Old time’s sake and all.”

“If I make it a hundo can you come to me?”

“Hell yeah I can do that. You still at the same spot?”

“Yes sir.”

“Ight. I’ll be in touch.”

I step outside on my back porch for a cigarette, excited for the first time in a long time. I haven’t shot dope in a while. Before I can even flick the butt into the coffee can filled with rain water that serves as my cigarette graveyard, I can hear the booming boom-bap hip-hop music blasting from Slim’s Mazda.

I was never much of a car guy. Or an anything but drugs and music guy, really.

I go under my bed to my stash box. It’s been looking dire for a while now. I recently had a brief foray into the Cocaine business. It was not particularly fruitful, but it got me the $300 or so I’d blown on a quarter ounce back, and allowed me to have some fun, and that’s all that really matters, ain’t it folks?

Needless to say, I don’t think a re-up is in Harry’s future any time soon.

Unless, of course, it’s whiskey, heroin, or crystal meth.

“There you are bruh, a 1.1.” Slim says as he tosses me a corner bag of tar.

“I thought this shit came in balloons or whatever.” I reply as I study the bag.

Slim shrugs. “You know you gotta cook it, right?”

“Yeah I’m pretty sure I know how to fuckin’ shoot dope, man. The fuck kinda fiend do you take me for?”

“Man, you won’t believe the amount of mothafuckas that have called me up sayin’ this and that, shit won’t shoot, yadda, yadda, yadda. Once I tell ‘em you gotta cook it, though? They don’t say shit. I even got one guy to start bootin’ it ‘cause I told him you can’t snort the shit.”

I smile. Every once and a while Slim says some shit you gotta hear to believe. I can’t act like I didn’t miss that every now and then.

This fent epidemic has been out of hand for some time now. I often tell people close to me it was one of my primary reasons for getting out and getting “clean.” But to tell you the truth? Nothin’ would make me happier than getting a hot bag right now. Slipping away into the great unknown, not knowing shit but happiness and nothingness.

“I’m bustin’ my ass tryina’ get more of this shit, so lemme know if you need more.”

“Yeah.”

There’s an awkward silence between the two of us. I get up and go to my room, Slim leaves. There’s nothing in my shithole apartment worth stealing that I haven’t stolen already from myself. I pull the spoon from my drawer and dump a few shards of crank into it, along with a big ol’ glob of tar.

I haven’t blinked since I started mixing up my shot. This here, this is a special occasion. I shoot up every day, but it’s rare that I’m ever in the presence of some premium black tar. I believe such a monumentous occasion does not afford me the privilege of searching for a concealable vein. This is going right up ol’ faithful, the crook of my right arm.

Pulling back the plunger, the black mixture gets even darker, not an air bubble to be seen.

Houston, we’re ready for take-off.

“Oh fuck…”

“I’M CALLIN’ YA MOTHA AND YA FAHTHA, YOUR ASS IS OUTTA HERE, I SWEAR TO GOD, HARRY, THIS IS IT. NO MORE FUCKIN’ SECOND CHANCES.” My Aunt Mary screams at me as she presses her phone to her ear.

I slip back into the nod.

“JIMMY?!! IT’S MARY. LISTEN, YOU’RE NOT GONNA FUCKIN’ BELIEVE WHAT I JUST FOUND IN YOUR FUCKIN’ SON’S ROOM. BLACK TAR FUCKIN’ HEROIN. SOME SORTA CRYSTAL SHIT, I’M ASSUMIN’ IT’S CRANK, HE’S GOT A BUNCH OF FUCKIN’ PILLS TOO, SUBS, THE WHOLE FUCKIN’ NINE. I WANT HIM OUT, JIMMY, I WANT THIS MOTHAFUCKA OUTTA MY GOD DAMN HOUSE RIGHT NOW!”

Good thing I’m high as fuck, otherwise the gravity of this situation might drive me to jump out the window and run into oncoming traffic. I grab my smokes and light one up, as if I’m trying to top the level of disrespect I’ve already shown my Aunt.

“AH YOU OUTTA YA FUCKIN’ MIND?!?! PUT THAT FUCKIN’ THING OUT! THE FUCK IS THE MATTA WITH YOU, HARRY?! HUH?!!? YOU KNOW WHAT YA GONNA PUT YOUR FUCKIN’ MOTHA AND FAHTHA THROUGH WITH THIS SHIT!?! I THOUGHT YOU WERE DONE. YOUR FUCKIN’ FAHTHA TOLD ME YOU WERE DONE WITH THIS SHIT. BUT I GUESS NOT, HUH?! I GUESS FUCKIN’ NOT. THE APPLE DON’T FALL FAR FROM THE TREE, I’M TELLIN’ YA…”

An undisclosed amount of time passes and I regain consciousness. My aunt is still on the phone as she rifles through all my shit.

“WHERE THE FUCK AH YOU, JIMMY!? YOU DON’T SHOW UP IN FIVE MINUTES I’M CALLIN’ THE FUCKIN’ COPS.”

“Jesus Christ, he’s got fuckin’ cancer and you’re botherin’ him with this shit…” I say, the walls of heroin so high they’re impenetrable by such things as reason and logic.

Aunt Mary stops going through my shit and trains her gaze on me.

“You got no idea…. You got no fuckin’ idea… How bad you just fucked up… I went through this horseshit with ya fahtha, you’re outta ya fuckin’ mind you think I’m doin’ it again. Outta ya fuckin’ mind…”

Present day, y’know, the one I started this shit at.

“Name dropping no-names, glamorized Cocaine, puppets with strings of gold!!!!” –Vince Neil

Come to think of it, it does seem excessive when you look at it all together like this.

I’m about halfway through the eight ball. This has been day four of my detox week off from Subs. I’ve yet to encounter the insufferable, Hellish, withdrawal symptoms described to me from junkies in real life and on the internet alike. Maybe because I tapered down to practically nothing and jumped off right. No disrespect I just don’t like being lied to…

“Dear Slim, I wrote you but you still ain’t callin’…”

Eminem, live at Comerica Park in Jersey, summer 2014 plays over the living room TV as I sniff line after line, smoke smoke after smoke, and pound shot after shot. I was there in person for this shit. Me and Jack. Sniffin’ coke and getting money without a care in the fuckin’ world. Riding through life at 90 MPH with no seatbelt, no conscience.

“I can relate to what you’re sayin’ in your songs, so when I have a shitty day, I drift away and put ‘em on…”

These days my life is a lot more stable. I work full time. I have my own car, my own place to live, a roommate that doesn’t care about the hard drug bender I’m going on. I got a fucking savings account, I started investing money…

It’s almost…

Almost…

As if I have my shit together…

But here it is, the million dollar question…

Why the fuck am I not happy?

(TO BE CONTINUED…)

South Shore Sober

2019-06-16T16:35:00.000-07:00

“The way I see it…” I begin to tell Isaac.

I’ve been seeing this fucking guy for almost three years, and I still can’t maintain eye contact when I talk to him. I still take the same pauses, it still takes everything in me to expel the poisonous shit festering in my stomach and purge it to him, and only him, because God knows I don’t disclose this kinda shit to anyone else.

He must have child clients. His walls are adorned with various certificates, his social worker certification diploma, or whatever the fuck it’s called, is chief among them. He’s ran several different meetings over the years, and has been sober damn near 30 years now. Probably more. I don’t get much out of him when I ask about his past.

“I appreciate and understand your curiosity, Harry, and while I’m willing to disclose certain elements of my past to you, I don’t feel it’s very constructive to spend time talking about me. This is about you.” He tells me.

It’s the kid stuff that my eyes always end up settling on. That, or the carpet. There’s an episode of the The Sopranos that sums up my feelings well regarding therapy. The one after Tony’s cousin Tony B gets out of prison, and through the following episodes, we slowly learn about the circumstances surrounding Tony B’s arrest and subsequent sentencing to 20 years…

You can get the fucking summary on Wikipedia, but the gist of it is this: Tony Soprano was supposed to be on a major hijacking run with his cousin, but on the night of the job, Tony S gets into a fight with his mother. He proceeds to have a panic attack, and cracks his head open on the driveway as he’s leaving his mother’s house. Tony S concocted a story about a couple black guys that tried to steal his shoes, and his racist goombah cronies bought it. But that residual guilt haunted Tony all 20 of those years…

Anyways, he comes clean about this to Dr. Melfi. Even for a fictional sociopath like Tony Soprano, you can tell a weight has been lifted from his shoulders. He still carries substantial guilt about the whole thing, but you can tell, in that moment, there’s a slight sense of hard won relief.

“Y’know sometimes, this feels like taking a shit.” Tony S says.

“I prefer to think of it like childbirth.” Melfi replies.

I always thought Tony’s version made more sense.

Isaac’s got Connect Four, a Finding Nemo branded deck of Uno cards, puzzles, and other board games on a shelf in his room. I’ve stared at that fucking deck of cards every time I’ve come in there. Isaac is not a scary or imposing man by any stretch of the imagination. But I still can’t bring myself to meet his eyes for more than a few seconds when I’m talking to him.

It makes sense for a piece of shit like me to be here.

Boo hoo, I’m a fuckin’ drug addict.

Boo hoo, I can’t stop shootin’ dope.

Boo hoo, I’m always nervous.

Boo hoo, I’m obsessed with ruining my life.

Boo hoo, I don’t deserve anything good and I hate myself.

Lather, rinse, repeat. I make myself fucking sick. But for a junky, degenerate, career fuck-up like me, this is exactly what I deserve. I have my weekly pity party, Isaac helps me as best I can, and I try. I try my damndest not to do what 99.9% of the population had the common fucking sense not to do in the first place.

And somehow, some way, I have the balls to think it’s some sort of accomplishment. The nerve.

It makes sense for me to be here. I put myself here. But a child? A fucking kid?

It’s 2003. I’m 11 years old. My Mom and Dad are fighting a lot. More than usual. I mean, they fight every night, but this time it’s more volatile. It’s starting earlier. The words we’re not supposed to say, ever supposed to say, are being thrown around the room like super balls at each other.

“I CAN’T KEEP FUCKING DOING THIS, JIMMY! YOU AND THOSE FUCKING PILLS…” My mother screamed.

“GO TO YOUR FUCKIN’ BROTHERS YOU DON’T LIKE IT, YOU FUCKIN’ CUNT.” My Dad roared back.

I never saw either of them raise a hand to one another, but I had heard them hurl every slur, insult, or searing remark towards one another for as long as I could remember.

“WHAT THE FUCK AM I GONNA DO IF YOU GET FUCKIN’ LOCKED UP, HUH, JIMMY?! WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT ME TO DO!? YOU’RE DRIVING US FUCKIN’ CRAZY WITH THIS SHIT. I CAN’T FUCKIN’ DO THIS ANYMORE.” My mother kept on.

My Dad always scared me. When I was real young, he’d get drunk, and practice karate moves on me. He never hurt me or used even half his actual strength, but just practicing with him was enough to teach me I did not want to see him on 100%. My mother never had that problem. She’d get right in his face, and never back down, no matter how much he yelled and screamed.

“Get outta my house.” My Dad’s voice lowered as he poured himself a drink.

“I’M NOT GOIN’ FUCKIN’ ANYWHERE, JIMMY, FUCK YOU!”

“Maggie, I’m fuckin’ serious. Get. Out. Of. My. House. Go to your brother’s, wherever the fuck, just get the fuck outta here.”

My sister and I just sat on the couch, our stomachs in knots, more than usual. It was early afternoon, and they usually didn’t start fighting until six or seven, at least.

“YOUR FUCKIN’ SON FOUND A PISTOL AND A FREEZER BAG OF FUCKIN’ PILLS, YOU PROUD OF YOURSELF!? YOU THINK YOU’RE FUCKIN’ HOT SHIT!?!!? HUH?!”

My Dad took a deep breath and picked up one of the dining room chairs, his teeth grinding and the rage boiling over inside him. He was only about 5’9, with glasses that gave him a bookish appearance, but the worst thing you could ever do to my old man was underestimate him.

He picked the heavy, wooden, chair up like it was a fucking lawn chair.

“GET.”

BOOM!

“OUTTA.”

BOOM!

“MY.”

BOOM!

“FUCKIN’!”

BOOM!

“HOUSE!!!”

He swung rhythmically, on each word, reducing the entire chair to splinters with each slam against the threshold.

“Get in the car. Now. Both of you.” My mother said.

We stayed at grandma’s after that. It was there that I found out my Dad had been diagnosed with stage four Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma a few years prior. My parents had hid it from us because they didn’t want us to worry.

I don’t know how social services got involved. I was a fucking kid.

“Listen to me, Harry, and listen good. You don’t talk to anyone about this.” My grandma told me.

She was an old Dorchester lady through and through, and even though my family had moved to the suburbs shortly after I was born, she maintained her principles. You don’t say shit to nobody about nothing that isn’t their business.

“Harry, sweetie, listen to me…” My mother said after we’d moved back in.

“What, Mama?” I replied.

“There’s gonna be a lady coming over. And she’s going to talk to you.”

“Am I in trouble?”

“No, sweetie, no, you’re fine. You’ve done such a good job. But it’s very important you tell her exactly what I say. OK?”

“OK, Mama.”

I did as I was told, and the lady left satisfied. Things at home did not get better, until my Dad went to jail several years later.

I genuinely believe my parents had good intentions when they had my sister and I. Both came from fucked up homes, full of addiction and abuse and tragedy, and swore they wouldn’t carry that shit over and hand it to their kids.

But shit just don’t work that way.

But I don’t want your sympathy. Stick it up your ass. I grew up with a firsthand account of what addiction is. Dope fiends coming to my porch, asking for my father, sweaty and sick as dogs, only to get cussed out by my mother and thrown out. There was no reason for me to end up a derelict like my Dad, only somehow even more of a fuckin’ failure. Yet here we are.

Then you have my sister. I think it’s true what they say, that girls mature faster than boys. My sister knew from time she understood that her Dad was a drug addict that she didn’t wanna be that. She had to have something better. To me, my upbringing and circumstances left me no choice but to start selling drugs. The fuck else was I gonna do? I’m a fuckin’ idiot, I suck with my hands, my only skill, the only thing I ever gave myself credit for, was putting words on a sheet.

And that’s not exactly a solid career path. Especially when everything you write is ugly, vulgar, sexually charged and loaded with Cocaine and fuck words.

I do not envy my sister. I’m proud of her. I’m thankful my grandparents have her, because without her, they’d be left with me. A 27 year old fuck-up with all my Dad’s bad traits and none of the balls or charm that helped mask those less desirable aspects of his personality.

There I go, rambling again. It really fucks me up to see children here. Some of them are accompanied by single Moms, just trying their best, others are the children of junkies one bad day away from losing custody.

The Suboxone clinic I used to go to had a similar vibe. Every fucking week I went in there to drop urine and get my script, and every fucking week the doctor was late, and I’d have to sit in that God damn waiting room listening to other junkies swap war stories and parents trying to keep their kids busy. There was a basket full of toys in the corner, under the table with the magazines. Every one of them had a story about a strung out mother that wanted nothing to do with the kid, or a deadbeat Dad with identical symptoms.

It’s funny, I’m such a jaded, miserable, fuck that nothing should surprise me or disappoint me anymore. But the fucking kids, man. I look at them and I see myself. I see them growing up to be teenagers, becoming aware of their parents’ drug habits, swearing up and down it’ll never happen to them.

“How the fuck can someone do that to their children? Put that shit before their own flesh and blood?”

“That’ll never be me. With my kid, it’ll be different.”

Then, one day, they wake up, and they’re in their mid-20’s, and they got a spike prepped with a wake up shot waiting for them. Or maybe they’re not so lucky. They wake up stone sober, Hellishly dopesick, and it dawns on them.

“I’m just like my Dad.”

“I’m just like my Mom.”

What makes it even more fucked up is that I can’t stand kids. They’re annoying and I can’t relate to them on any level. But when I see one of them in the waiting room at the clinic or my therapist’s office, it breaks my heart.

I don’t believe in God. I don’t believe in karma. But I think there’s something human about believing in that shit. A sense of checks and balances that ensures the bad people have bad things happen to them when bad things happen to their good counterparts.

“Where do your thoughts go?” Isaac asks.

I realize I haven’t spoken in a while.

“I’m sorry, the fuck was I saying?” I ask.

“You said, the way you see it, and then you trailed off.”

“Right. Um… Yeah… This shit is basically carrot and the stick.”

“Explain.”

“Y’know, the thing where the guy’s riding the horse and he’s got the fuckin’ carrot dangling in the horse’s face. Only reason the horse is cooperating is because of the carrot, but he’s never gonna get the carrot, because then he’d have no incentive to keep going. That’s what this shit feels like.”

“Go on.”

I sigh in frustration. It’s really remarkable how much I suck at communicating verbally.

“Any time I wanna go out and get a bag of dope, or crank, I think ‘Just stick it out for today.’”

“Yes, one day at a time, Harry.”

“Yeah. But I don’t know. Isn’t that doing it for the wrong reasons? I should not wanna get high because it’s the right thing to do. I know shooting dope and crank ruins my life and puts everyone I love through Hell. And yet here I am, dangling the shit over my face day fuckin’ in and out.”

I look back up at Isaac, my cue that it’s his turn to start talking. Sometimes he doesn’t let me off the hook. He’s damn good at telling when I’m withholding shit and just trying to pass time. But this time his expression changes and I know he’s thinking about what I’m saying.

“Y’know, Harry, I can’t promise you anything. I can’t promise you’re gonna live happily ever after. I certainly wish that for you. You’re a very bright young man, very insightful…”

My hands tighten around the armrests of the chair I’m sitting in. Compliments never sit well with me. No matter how genuine they are, my brain will filter it as mere patronizing, a pity party on my behalf. There’s no way he actually thinks I’m intelligent. I’ve made it abundantly clear to him that my life has been a series of fuck-ups and bad decisions. No one that behaves like me could ever be intelligent, or insightful, it’s just not objectively true.

“…But one thing that I’m fairly certain will happen, provided you stay straight and keep doing what you’re doing, is that one day the idea of using will make you sick. You’ll look at it and think ‘Why on earth would I ever wanna do that?’”

I sigh. “All due respect, it’s just tough for me to ever see a day I don’t wanna get high. Even now. I’m gonna have two years off dope in a couple days, two off meth in a couple months. I’m back living on my own. I’m working full time. Paying all my bills. I got a car. I earned all that shit. So why the fuck would it even occur to me to throw it all away?”

“Because you want relief.”

I gack up a fat line of pink Cocaine, sucking it into my mucus membrane greedily as I pass the straw to my new roommate, Alex. Why the Coke is pink instead of white I couldn’t tell you, but it’s good, and that’s all that really matters.

“Aye, can I ask you something?” Alex asks, his long black hair obscuring his narrow, thin, face as he plays with the coke the way a child would their mashed potatoes at dinner time.

“Shoot.” I reply, pouring myself a shot of Jameson.

“You said your Dad was a dealer, right?”

I nod as I slug the whiskey down, beating my chest and resisting my gag reflex.

“What was that like?”

I smile. “It, uh… It made for a pretty… Turbulent home environment.”

“What was he slingin’?”

“OC’s, Xanax, Adderall, Subs, whatever he wanted, really. He had a cancer diagnosis and access to multiple doctors. Shit was different back then.”

“Right…”

“One time, right? I was like… 12 years old. It was right when I started fucking up bad in school. Until then I had really just coasted. It was easy for me to pull A’s and B’s without studying anything. But once school got actually challenging, my grades fell in everything but English. So my mother started punishing me. Y’know, stupid shit, grounding me, taking away my Game Boy…”

Alex nodded and finally sniffed a line of the pink powder.

“And we had this chair in the front hall of the house, we called it the time out chair, because if we ever had a time out…”

Alex nodded again.

“Anyways, the time out chair had a false bottom under the seat. You lift the cushion up and there’s a little stash spot. That was where my Mom used to hide my Game Boy. I knew that’s where she kept it, but she kept an eye on me enough so that I couldn’t sneak it anything like that.”

I could tell Alex was growing bored with my story, so I picked things up a bit.

“So, my Mom, she says ‘OK, Harry, you can have your Game Boy back. It’s under the seat in the time out chair. So I go and lift it…”

Alex’s interest was reignited, I could see it in his glassy eyes as they stay trained on me while his hands subconsciously played with the pile of coke in front of him.

The whiskey has been flowing all night. Emotions are running high. I would never tell this story sober. I would never verbalize my feelings, all the horseshit I’ve been through, ever, in a million years, sober. But that’s the thing about drugs. They say a drunk man’s words are a sober man’s thoughts. I don’t know about all that. When I was deep into crank, I waged a war on a colony of mice in my bedroom that didn’t even fuckin’ exist…

My heart begins to race as the Cocaine does its thing within my system. This is my house warming gift to Alex, a sign of goodwill that not only am I a good roommate, but a cool roommate, one that won’t go ape shit when he sees a bag of hard drugs on the countertop.

It’s funny. I love Cocaine. I fucking love Cocaine. I mean, it is an illicit drug, after all. But more than that, it’s a stimulant. All my bullshit, the whole reason I’m a derelict drug addicted scumbag without a single marketable skill or anything to contribute meaningfully to society, is because of self-esteem.

I do not like who I am.

Cocaine gives me confidence. It gives me the strength I need to bear my soul. Only problem is, the last thing another Cokehead wants to hear, is someone else talking, let alone someone else killing their high with their woe is me horseshit. So I have to be careful.

But when someone asks me directly to air my dirty laundry…

Who am I to deny them?

My heart’s racing, anxiety is beginning to overshadow the euphoria. I fling open the freezer door, nearly whipping Alex in the head as I grab the bottle of Jameson and pour myself a shot, slamming it, without so much as a water bottle as a chaser. Like the tried and true drunk I am.

“…And there’s my Gameboy. But there’s some other shit in there, too…” I say, leaning against the green countertop as I stare down into it.

Alex listens to me in silence, hanging on my every word. I love doing this shit, getting fucked up and telling stories. Feeling whoever’s listening hanging on to my every word, taking pregnant pauses to stroke my ego and flex the only thing I’ve ever been good at. It’s the only time I’ve ever felt power, felt control over other people.

“Y’know those freezer bags? The fuckin’ huge ones that hold like, steaks and shit?” I ask him, turning my inebriated gaze towards him.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He says hurriedly, knowing what’s about to come next but still anticipating me saying it.

“Imagine one of those, but loaded, fuckin’ loaded with orange pill bottles. Suboxone, Xanax, Adderall, OC’s, and I’m talkin’ fuckin’ 80’s here man…”

We migrate to the porch, where we both light up cigarettes. This is where I really ham it up. I light up my smoke, take a nice, long, drag, and close one eye as I exhale the smoke.

“So there’s this big fuckin’ bag of fuckin’ drugs. I’m tellin’ you right now, I sold drugs for fuckin’ years, I never seen a stash this big. And that’s not the only thing that’s down there…”

Alex is all-in by now, leaning forward in his rocking chair, which I think belonged to his grandmother or something at some point. The ash on his cigarette is approaching Syd Barrett levels as he stares at me.

“Layin’ on that bag, right against it, is a loaded nine millimeter pistol. At least, I think it was a fuckin’ nine mill. I don’t know shit about guns. Never had much interest in them. Nothin’ but extra felonies if you ask me. But I remember… I remember it looked like the one the cops carried.”

“Damn…” Alex replies.

“And… Y’know… I’m fuckin’ 12 years old, man. 11 maybe, I don’t fuckin’ know. Old enough to not know what I was looking at, but old enough to know that I wasn’t supposed to see it, y’know what I mean?”

“Well yeah, man, you were just a kid. You barely knew how to human.”

I nod and take another drag. “So… I go… And I tell my mother. I get my fuckin’ Game Boy, and I go and tell my mother. Because I was a fucking kid, man. I didn’t know…”

At this point, the plane I’ve been flying begins to rapidly drop back towards the ground, gathering more and more momentum with each moment. I almost lose it, but I pull back on the throttle just in time. Just like I always do.

“She comes stormin’ over to the fuckin’ chair, and she sees what I found, and her fuckin’ eyes go wider than I ever seen ‘em go before. And then… Fuckin’ all Hell broke loose. Fightin’, yellin’, screamin’, breakin’ furniture… And all I thought… All I could fuckin’ think… Was that it was my fault…”

“It wasn’t, though.”

“Huh?”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

Now, I know it wasn’t my fault my Dad was a drug pusher with an even bigger drug habit. But you need to know what it’s like inside my head. Any time, and I mean any fucking time I can give myself a good beating, I’m gonna take it. No matter how little sense it makes.

“You sound very guilty. Why?” Isaac asks.

“Because if I had just kept my fuckin’ mouth shut, and taken my fuckin’ Game Boy, and shut the fuck up, and not told like a little fuckin’ faggot, my Mom and Dad never woulda had that fight.” I reply, my voice quivering.

“But it wasn’t your fault. Help me understand why you think this was all because of you. Your father was a grown man, he made his own decisions, he decided to start selling drugs. He decided to start abusing drugs. You were a child. You had no idea, no concept of what you had seen. You just knew it was wrong. So you did the right thing. You did what had been taught to you, at least I’m assuming…”

“Yeah…”

“So why bear that cross? Why carry that guilt? You had nothing to do with that, Harry. Your parents never punished you for it, right?”

“Nope.”

“Then why put it on yourself? It seems you’re beating yourself up just for the sake of it. I wish you could see yourself objectively. See all the progress you’ve made. But you filter it through this… Sense of self-loathing. I really do hope one day you can step back, outside your own head, and realize what a good job you’ve been doing.”

“Yeah. Welcome to my world…”

“You’re almost two years sober.”

L-O-L…

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.” I lie.

“So now, what, you just don’t fuck with meth and dope anymore?” Alex asks me after the awkwardness has marinated long enough.

I nod. “Damn near everything else is still on the table, though.”

“Me and my brother call that South Shore Sober.”

“Haha.”

“Yeah. Drinkin’, smokin’, the occasional line of blow, tab of LSD, cap of Molly. Just doin’ the best we can.”

“I like that. South Shore Sober.”

“Mhm.”

“Y’know what the fucked up part is, though?” I ask Isaac, tears forming in my eyes.

“What?”

“If I were him? If that were me? Stage four cancer diagnoses, two small kids, a wife I’m gonna leave behind too fuckin’ early to ever make sure she was taken care of, they were taken care of, after I’m gone? I woulda done the same shit. To the tee.”

“I’m not sure where you’re going with this.”

“What I’m fuckin’ trying to tell you, Isaac, is that my Dad was a better man than me. He was stronger than me, tougher than me, been through a hundred times more shit than me. And he was a sniveling fuckin’ junky at the end of the day. Just like me. Why the fuck… Why the fuck couldn’t I be more like my sister? She had the common fuckin’ sense to know that life wasn’t for her. And here I am, runnin’ around like I’m hot shit, but I didn’t even have the fuck integrity he had. The integrity to know what he was sellin’, and advertise it as such. The integrity to stare a man in the face, and be honest with them…”

“You’re not your sister. Or your father. You’re you.”

“Fuckin’ tell me about it…”

“We gotta stop for today, Harry.”

“OK. Thanks.”

New Episode of the Podcast

2018-12-08T09:07:00.001-08:00

Harry kicks off his second episode of the podcast with an incoherent rant about dealing with the other junkies at the Suboxone clinic. After thoroughly boring his audience with his relentless yammering, he then segues into a list of rules, tips, and tricks, for anyone looking to get into the drug game, or anyone in the drug game that would like to step their game up. Misery ensues, and a good time is had by none.

You can listen right here!

So I Did a Podcast...

2018-12-01T15:46:00.000-08:00

I talked for an hour about the Opiate Roll Call, a subreddit where you could find strangers to buy heroin off of. As you can imagine, it was very short lived and very sketchy. I talk about my experiences on the sub and its eventual downfall and closure for an hour. I also say "Um" a lot, and have a really annoying voice. Let me know what you think, guys.

Here's the link.

Appetite For Dysfunction (Part III)

2018-11-28T09:58:00.001-08:00

SCRREEEEECCCCCHHHHH!!!!!

KASSSHHHHIIIIIHHHHH!!!!

SSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHH…

I half expect to hear “AGAIN?!!? WHAT THE FUCK!?!” from our neighbors, but it never comes. Whippet crackers are noisy business. Especially when you’re cracking 360 individual chargers and consuming them recreationally.

“Wooooaaaaahhh…” Jessica says, the nitrous warping her voice, making it sound several octaves lower than it normally would.

“Hahahahahaha...” We both laugh before taking another haul.

I’m playing it cool, but inside me, my organs are involved in a bloody civil war. My head, stomach, and eyes are vying for control of my body’s pain sensors, each part of me insisting they’re the one in the most agonizing pain.

“I HURT THE MOST.”

“NO, I HURT THE MOST.”

“YOU NEED ME TO SEE, I HURT THE MOST.”

Unprovoked and without warning, my stomach drops the nuke. Just as I exhale a cold hit of nitrous and render myself severely impaired.

“Oh… FUCK!” I shout, staggering to my feet and stumbling for the bathroom.

Everything twirls, swirls, and shifts as I evacuate a toxic mixture of whiskey, cocaine, cola, and stomach bile into the toilet. The high dissipates quickly as I wretch violently, dry heaving as my skull threatens to implode in on itself.

“Jesus fuck.,.”

“You alright in there?” Jessica asks.

“Yeah… Fuck...” I say as I catch my breath.

I pull myself up to the sink and run cold water over my hands, splashing it onto my face. My eyes are bloodshot and my face is pale. I hold my face down to the faucet, taking a few good gulps of disgusting tap water which I instantly regret as it all comes shooting back up.

Yellow-tinged water erupts from my stomach. I didn’t know I had any moisture left inside my body, but as tears gush from my eyes, I realize I was wrong. I dry heave for a few more minutes before staggering to my feet and stumbling out of the bathroom.

“You alright?” Jessica asks again.

“Yeah, I’m OK…”

Typically mornings like this are bittersweet. It’s like “Yeah I feel like I want to kill myself, and my body is rejecting hydration and sustenance, but at least I had a good time last night. At least I got laid last night.” This morning is nothing but shame and self-loathing. I wanna crawl into this toilet and drown.

I brush my teeth, gagging as I scrub the phlegmy bile from my tongue and nearly restart the whole process over again. I douse my eyes with eye lube in an effort to quench their red, cracked, thirst. My contacts dig into my dry retinas as I blink the sting away.

I’m always anxious. I’m always so fucking anxious. I’m anxious because I was up all night drinking and doing blow. I’m anxious because I failed my partner as a man. I’m anxious because I’m Harry Miller. I wanna do more blow, but I can’t handle the drip right now. Instead I take two tiny sips of water, feeling it drizzle all the way down my ravaged esophagus to the empty pit of my stomach.

“Does Harry want a belly rub?” Jessica asks me.

“No thank you… God I’m so fucking hungover…” I reply.

“You smell like a brewery…”

“Ha… Look, uh… About last night…”

“What about it?”

“Hahaha… Wooooooooow… OK…”

“It’s OK. Seriously! It happens.”

“Not to me it doesn’t.”

“Well hey, now you know.”

“I’ll get some dick pills next time…”

“How much gas is left?”

“Let’s see… We got… Two, four, six, eight, ten, twelve, fourteen, sixteen, eighteen, twenty… Twenty four!”

“Twelve each.”

“Listen to you! My little hippie crack head…”

“Shut up!”

“Just don’t get strung out on this shit, alright? I’d feel so bad…”

“People don’t really get addicted to this, right?”

“Ehhhhh… I suppose it can happen. But you won’t get sick if you don’t have it. Look at me. I’ve been addicted to every fuckin’ drug in the world. Except benzos. A good rule of thumb is that if I can do this shit recreationally without getting a habit, you’re good.”

When the whippets are finally killed off, we pack up our things. My stomach eventually settles to the point where I can do a line without yacking. My heart races and my emotions start to numb as the cold drip slides down my throat.

“Aw! I forgot I brought these!” Jessica gasps, holding up a pair of jeans.

“Huh?” I reply.

“These jeans are super, super, tight. I wanted to see if I could pop the button on ‘em for you…”

“Ooooh… Fuck! That would’ve been so hot…”

“Do we have time?”

“Yeah. It’s 11:30.”

“Yay! I’m gonna try ‘em on…”

Jessica peels off her leggings and slips into the jeans, the fabric already constricting tightly around her thick calves as she slides into them. Watching her jiggle and wiggle her way into the tight denim immediately excites me. I stand up, my boner bulging out of my basketball shorts obnoxiously.

“Oh, shit! Look who it is! Look who decided to join us! Hey buddy, how you been? Missed you!” I say, motioning toward my dick.

“Hahahahahahahaha, oh my God… HMMMPPPPHHH!!” Jessica laughed and grunted as she heaved her jeans over her thighs.

Jessica got the jeans all the way up to her waist before she stopped and just stood there, panting from all the exertion as her belly divorced the button and fly permanently.

“You’re really out of breath, aren’t you?” I ask.

Jessica just smiles and nods, putting a hand on her belly. Her genuine joy at outgrowing a pair of jeans, an experience that would humiliate and disgust 99.9% of women, is so sexy to me. Watching her get bigger and bigger, all the while maintaining that beautiful smile of hers, makes me so happy. All her hard work is paying off. I’m so proud of her.

Are you listening to yourself right now? What fucking planet are you on…

I shake my inner monologue from my head as Jessica sucks in her tummy and struggles to get the jeans buttoned. She grunts, huffs, and puffs, to no avail.

“They fit fine last week… You can take some pictures for your spank bank if you want…”

“Don’t mind if I do…”

I snap a few pictures of her standing and sitting with her belly hanging out triumphantly over her jeans.

“Ooooooh Dunkin Donuts…” Jessica says as we drive.

I throw the blinker on and pull in.

“Hahahaha, oh Harry, you don’t have to…”

“Mmmmm yeah I do. I’m your feeder. What do you want?”

“Hmmm… There’s so many donuts…”

“Cool, so we’ll get a dozen. You want sandwiches or bagels or…?”

“Hahaha, oh my God! No… Just the donuts, thanks.”

“Ok… God, look at how excited you are. You’re so fuckin’ cute…”

I tickle under Jessica’s double chin as she smiles.

Jessica wolfs down three donuts before we arrive at her house.

“Well… Besides the uh… Technical difficulties, I did have a good time last night.” I say.

“I had fun, too. Let it go, Harry. It’s not a big deal. You’ll get ‘em next time.” Jessica replies.

“Alright. Thanks. See you soon.”

“Bye.”

We kiss and Jessica gets out of my car, waving at me before she waddles over to the long staircase leading up to her house. She lives on the second floor, poor thing. She’s gotta haul ass up two huge flights of steps before she can relax.

I go right to bed upon returning home, waking up groggy and confused at 6:30. I have a message from Jessica on my phone. It’s a video…

I play it. It opens with a close-up of Jessica’s face just as she closes the front door to her house.

“Hey, Harry! I know you’re not feeling good, so I figured I’d make a little video to cheer you up. Whoooo… Whooooo… Sorry. I’m like, wicked out of breath, because I just had… To walk… Up… Whooo! Oh my God… Ok… I had to walk, up that flight of stairs behind me…. Whooooo… Whooooo…”

The sounds of her huffing and puffing and gasping for breath capture my attention and immediately make me stiffen up. It’s a bizarre sensation, because as much as it turns me on to see her so winded after doing something so simple (reinforcing how heavy and out of shape she’s become), it also hurts me a little. I hate seeing her have to exert herself like this. I hate seeing her struggle like this.

“I’m sure you’ve heard me complain about these stairs before, they suck… But I know how much you love seeing me get all out of breath, so… Enjoy!”

Jessica smiles as she holds the camera at the least flattering angle she can manage, from below. She pulls her t-shirt up just a bit, just enough for her belly to peek out just the way I like it.

“Whooooo… Oh my God… I fucking…. Hate… Stairs…”

Her breathing started as heavy nasal breathing, but after she’s halfway up the stairs, it has unraveled into heavy, oral, gasps. It reminds me of when I was fat, and I used to try and hide my heavy breathing around other people when walking up stairs or doing anything physical. As Jessica reaches the top, she’s smiling, but visibly very winded.

“Whooooo… Hope you… Liked that, Harry! I’m gonna go eat these donuts, now… Bye!”

Having just woken up, I already had a hard-on. Now I’m really fucking horny. I watch the video four more times before I cum. As soon as the jizz leaves my body I’m overcome with shame and self-loathing…

“So, after I dropped her off… She um… She made me a video…” I explain to Isaac a few days later.

“Mhm…” He replies, listening attentively.

“And it’s of her… And she’s um… She lives on the second floor of this house, and she has to go up these two really long flights of stairs to get to her place… And… She knows that… I… I really, really, like it when she um… When she’s out of breath. From doing something relatively easy, y’know? Because it sort of… It shows how fat she’s become and how far she’s come on this journey with me…”

I rub my hands over my face. This stuff is all so hot in my head, but when I verbalize it, it disgusts me. I have to pull the words out of me with all my strength. Jesus Christ, I’m such a piece of shit…

“So… She’s going up the steps, and she knows just what angle to film it at, to make herself look as fat as possible. And it, um… It really, y’know, gets me excited. So I, uh, I… I… Take care of myself, and almost immediately upon finishing, I just feel… Fucking terrible…”

“Why?”

“Because I’m listening to her health deteriorating… And instead of being concerned, or sad, I’m turned on.”

“What’s the whole, end game here?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, once you reach that goal, I think you said for now it’s 300 pounds… What happens after that?”

“I don’t know… I mean… I don’t think I’m gonna wanna stop. I mean… I know, I know, I’m not gonna wanna stop at 300. But… Y’know… I’m not saying… I’m not saying, that… In a way that would imply… That she doesn’t have a choice in the matter. Because like, honestly, I lose interest as soon as she doesn’t want to anymore. I don’t like the idea of her doing this just for me. I want her to want to be fat too. But the way she’s been… Y’know… Talking about it… I don’t see us stopping at 300 pounds.”

“It seems like, from what you’ve told me. She’s well aware of the potential risks and consequences that come with this.”

“I know, but… I care about her. Or at least I say I do.”

“Well… You can care about someone while you enable them. In fact, some might argue that enabling someone’s unhealthy behavior means you care about them a lot…”

“I almost feel like… Like I should stop seeing her, for her own sake. Part of me says, that if I genuinely care about her, I should stop seeing her. Because then, at least, I won’t be complicit in her killing herself. I know that’s an extreme way of looking at it, but she wouldn’t be as compelled to overeat and get bigger if I wasn’t there encouraging it.”

“How old is she again?”

“31… And y’know, that’s another thing… Like, I understand… I understand that, worrying about the health stuff, in my 20’s… Is kinda silly… But it still worries me… Like I’m not gonna be young forever. Let’s say I meet a girl and we really click, and we fall in love… And she’s also, y’know, morbidly obese. Which, if she was with me, she would pretty much have to be…”

“Right…”

“What if something happens to her? What if she… Y’know… Decides she wants to get healthy?”

“What do you think you would do, if that happened?”

I sigh, swallow, and stare at the floor. “Honestly?”

“Yeah, honestly. Harry, when you’re talking to me about this stuff, I want you to do your best not to beat yourself up. I want your actual feelings, even if you think they’re wrong or bad. So just tell me, what you would do if you met a girl and fell in love and she decided she wanted to lose weight?”

“OK… I would… Well, the first thought I would have, right off the bat, is how much.”

“As in, how much weight would she want to lose?”

“Yeah. But, but, but… I wouldn’t actually ask her that. I’d find a roundabout way to ask it, because

I’m a fuckin’ scumbag…”

“Woah, woah, woah… Explain.”

I take a deep breath. “Because, my answer should be, ‘That’s wonderful, and I support you 100%. I want you to be happy and healthy, and I think it’s great that you’ve decided to take some steps to improve yourself.’ But instead of that, I’m immediately filled with this… Dread. Like, she’s losing weight. She’s not gonna be attractive anymore. It’s so selfish…”

“So how would you respond to it? Positively or negatively?”

“I would lie. I would lie, and I would tell her, y’know, that I support her and I want her to be happy. And that it doesn’t bother me that she wants to lose weight, because I want her to be happy. And I like to think I would want her to be happy, but… Inside I would be really sad.”

“So, you would tell her you support her.”

“Yeah. I think I would tell her that she can do whatever she wants to do and that no matter I’d support her. Because the fuck else am I gonna say? But, um… Y’know, like I said before, I think I would find sneaky ways to sort of get a feel for how much weight she wants to lose… I wouldn’t sabotage her in any way, I’m not like that… I’m really, I’m not like that. I swear to God. I’m not a fucking monster…”

“Is the worry that, if she loses the weight, she’ll be more desirable? That she’ll go off and find someone else?”

“Nah. Because if she loses the weight, I won’t give a fuck if she finds someone else. Because she’s not gonna be attractive to me anymore. Which is insanely superficial, and shallow…”

“Is it, though? What if she was thin and gained weight, and you were, as you say, ‘normal?’”

“Yeah, no, you’re right… I mean, fuck, if you meet someone and you’re attracted to the and they change the way they look in a drastic way… But, here’s the thing about that. If she puts on weight, I can hide behind the whole health thing. Normies have that crutch. ‘I don’t care what size you are, but this lifestyle is horribly unhealthy.’” I say in a mocking tone.

“You’re being quiet.” Jessica says.

“Sorry. How’s your food?” I ask.

“It’s OK. Honestly not as good as I thought it’d be.”

Things have not been the same between us since New Year’s. I don’t know if I’m just looking for things to dislike about her so I can stop seeing her, or if we’re just becoming comfortable enough with one another to start being shitty towards one another.

“So you’re gonna take me out and then just not talk to me?”

I drop my fork and rub my temples.

“Y’know… When you say shit like that to me… It doesn’t make me wanna talk to you…” I say.

“What’s it make you wanna do?”

“It just kinda sends me into this anxiety loop. Like ‘I’M NOT TALKING, I HAVE TO TALK, I HAVE TO SAY THINGS, I HAVE TO TALK.’ And I panic, and I get fuckin’ nervous.”

“I didn’t mean to make you nervous.”

“I’m always nervous…”

“Yeah. You really are a bag of nerves.”

I fake a smile and sip my drink.

Things start to fall apart rather quickly. Our dates become less intimate, more transactional. We don’t talk as much. Resentment grows from within me. Never one to communicate my issues with literally anyone, I let them fester and grow into anger and rage. When this happens, it’s usually a small or inconsequential thing that sets me off and opens the flood gates of shit I’ve been mad about for a while but never had the balls to address.

“You’re being quiet.”

“Y’know that doesn’t fuckin’ help, right!?”

“What?”

“Telling me I’m being quiet. I know I’m being fucking quiet.”

“Alright, Jesus! What’s your problem?”

“I don’t know…”

We eat in awkward silence for a few minutes.

“It’s gonna be fuckin’ weird now, isn’t it?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

“Because I fuckin’ snapped at you, it’s gonna be weird the rest of the night.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, actually, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. What is it with you lately?”

“I don’t know…”

“You do know, though. You just won’t talk about it…”

She’s right. I’m being shitty.

“I’m sorry…”

“That’s OK…”

But it’s not OK. I pick at my chicken sandwich. Jessica cleans her plate. I pay the bill and take her home. We don’t talk for a long time after that. She deletes me on Facebook. I start texting other girls.

Life goes on.

“Do you regret the way you handled it?” Isaac asks me.

“Ehhhh, kinda, I guess. But it was a mutual thing. We weren’t getting along…” I reply.

“Mhm.”

“She’s still gaining, as far as I know. Which I’m kinda happy about, I guess…”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, I would feel bad if I helped this girl pack on all that weight and then just dipped. Knowing she’s happy how she is, and still wants to get bigger, makes me feel better…”

“I see.”

“I’ve been making myself sick with this shit for so long. The consequences, I mean. I think I’m ready to just say fuck it. Do what I do best.”

“And what’s that?”

“Fuck the consequences, fuck the long-term, feel good now. Feeding and fucking and fucking and feeding, going hog fuckin’ wild. Not giving a fuck about diabetes, heart disease, whatever the fuck. Those are old people problems anyway.”

“Hm. Y’know, you make that sound so easy, but something tells me it’s not.”

“No shit. But I feel like… By agonizing about this shit so much, I’m letting life pass me by. These are the prime years of my life. And I’ve already wasted most of them. If a girl’s gonna be fat, like that’s what she’s gonna do, why not fuck her? Why waste my time beating myself up over shit that I might not even live to see become a problem?”

“You’re not implying that you wanna hurt yourself, right? That’s not what I’m hearing right now?”

“Relax, I’m not gonna off myself. I’m just saying… I could relapse and die tomorrow. Who the fuck knows what’s gonna happen? If a girl’s gonna be fat as shit and wants to be fat as shit, why shouldn’t I love her while she’s fat as shit? I’m 26. I got like, what, a little less than 20 years before we’re in heart attack territory? I’ll worry about that shit then.”

“You say that. But do you believe it?”

I sigh. “No. No, I don’t…”

Appetite For Dysfunction (Part II)

2018-11-24T10:24:00.001-08:00

“It honestly, in a lot of ways… Kinda reminds me of drugs…” I say to my therapist, Isaac.

“Hm? Explain.” He replies, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he shifts in his chair.

I’ve been seeing Isaac for counseling with my drug problem since my run-in with the law a few years ago. At first I had no intention of taking it seriously and only started going to stay out of jail, but slowly, I started opening up to him. He’s seen me through several relapses and rough times and never gave up on me, regardless of how bad I’d fuck up. He’s thin, middle aged and horseshoe bald. He’s got a soft, kind, demeanor, and a voice that lends itself well to therapy.

“I just… It feels so… Fuckin’… Good. But, y’know… When I finish, I’m just… Overwhelmed…With shame, and regret, and I hate myself. More than usual.” I stammer.

I suck at talking about this shit. I don’t like talking about my problems.

“Mhm…” Isaac replies.

“She hit 250 pounds the other night. And I got her a cake. Annnnnnd I fed her the whole thing. And the whole time, I’m like, encouraging her, pushing her to finish it. And I was so proud of her when she finished it. She was sitting there, with this big belly just bulging out into her lap, gasping in this way… It was like pain and pleasure at the same time. And it just… There’s nothing like it. I can’t describe how hot it is.”

“And yet, there’s another side to it…”

“Yeah. Because it’s fucking killing her.”

“Well that’s not what you find erotic about it, right?”

“No. But… Does that even matter? At the end of the day she’s packing on weight and I’m encouraging her to do so. It turns me on that she’s shortening her lifespan. I feel like I’m a fucking monster…”

“I hear ya. It’s like you’ve found someone to indulge this part of you that feels incredible in the moment, but can have bad repercussions in the long term.”

“Exactly. I don’t know what to do. I mean I can’t say I’m in love with this girl. But… What happens if we get serious?”

Isaac nods.

“I just fuckin’ wish I could put the genie back in the bottle, y’know what I’m sayin?”

“Do you really?”

“And be rid of this horseshit? Absolutely. Of all the fucking kinks and fetishes and weird shit to be into, I gotta be into the one thing that can kill you. The one thing that has consequences outside of the bedroom. I mean, besides being like a pedophile, but you know what I mean.”

“Hmmm…”

“I feel stupid even bringing it up.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I can’t cure it. I can’t stop being attracted to fat girls.”

“Is the feeding thing like, a requirement?”

“No. But… It’s definitely a major incentive. I’d never try and push a girl into it or do any sneaky shit to try and fatten her up. But now, with Jessica… I don’t know. It’s just so fucking hot.”

“It’s tough.”

“No shit.”

“I didn’t mean to upset you…”

“No, no, I know. I’m just frustrated. What am I supposed to do, just repress my urges? Never pursue a relationship, never have sex again?”

“Well, as your therapist, I think it’s counterproductive to suggest things to you. My opinion on this is, really, irrelevant. I think it’s great that you’re getting back out there and pursuing women, but as you’ve said, the lifestyle changes she’s been making can have some bad consequences.”

“And it’s like, these people in the community, they’re just like ‘Fuck it! Here for a good time, not a long one!’ and it’s like, that’s all well and good, until someone gets diabetes, or has a stroke, or a heart attack. Those aren’t always quick and clean ways to go. And to do that to someone you’re supposed to really care about?”

Isaac sighs and nods.

“And I wonder, how the fuck is this gonna play out? If we stop seeing one another, I go on, my life is pretty much fine. Meanwhile, she’s… significantly heavier than when we started going out. Is she gonna resent me? Are her friends gonna resent me if it gets serious? Imagine watching your friend gets fat as shit, and there, on the sidelines, there’s their partner, cheering them on. And I can’t… I can’t… I can’t fucking do anything about it.”

“It’s a lot to grapple with.”

“That’s kinda one of the things I miss about dope. It pretty much made me asexual.”

“Well, sex, and masturbation, and pornography, those can all lead to addictive behavior as well. But the thing that makes that particular vice tricky is that you can’t really completely abstain from it. Well, you can, but… It’s not healthy.”

“Right.”

“Have you considered maybe cutting back on the porn?”

“I tried. But… My fucking imagination. If I don’t watch it I fantasize about it.”

“I see…”

“You met a girl, Harry? That’s great!” Mary, my friend Rich’s girlfriend, says as she loads a bong.

Jack, Rich, Mary, and I are hanging out in Rich’s living room watching Rick and Morty. I smile as I sip an empty beer, anxious.

“Where’d you guys meet?” Rich asks.

“Well…” I begin.

“Go on, man. Nobody’s gonna care.” Jack says.

“It’s uh… It’s a site called Feabie. For guys that like… Fat girls.” I say shyly.

“Yeah, how big is she?” Rich asks.

“She’s around 250 last we checked.” I reply.

“She actually tells you how much she weighs?” Mary says.

“Well, that’s the thing… She’s uh… What they call a feedee.” I explain nervously.

“A Phoebe?” Rich asks.

“No, no, a feedee. Like, a signee. Basically she’s actively trying to gain weight, and I’m helping her.” I reply.

“So she wantsto be fat?” Mary asks, puzzled.

“Yeah… It’s weird, but… What’re you gonna do, y’know?” I reply.

“Well hey man, as long as she consents to it and you guys are happy…” Rich says.

“How big does she wanna get?” Mary asks.

“Right now we’re shooting for 300. But we’re gonna see how she feels.” I reply.

Mary nods, but I can tell she’s concerned.

“What is it about fatties that you love so much?” Rich asks bluntly.

“I’m just obsessed with gluttony and excess and doing too much of everything I like to do. I mean I’m a fucking drug addict. So I take everything to the extreme...” I reply.

“You’re being quiet.” Jessica says to me over, unsurprisingly, dinner.

“I’m sorry…” I reply, staring disinterested at my chicken parm.

“Can I try some of your chicken?”

“Absolutely.”

Jessica smiles as I cut a piece of chicken breast and bring it to her lips.

“Mmmmm… That’s good.” She says.

“Haha. And nobody has any idea…” I trail off.

“Ha! Right?”

“Hey, so… I was thinking… You got any plans for new year’s?”

Jessica shakes her head.

“Well… I was thinking… Me and you could get a room somewhere and party. A nice place, like a Hilton or something.”

“That could be fun!”

“I could get us a little blow, some nitrous… You ever do nitrous?”

“No, that’s like the balloons, right?”

“Yep.”

“That sounds like fun, Harry.”

“Cool. I’ll make the reservation and arrange for our party favors…”

I order a couple of cases of whipped cream chargers and some full-sized punch balloons, the ones with the rubber band that kids play with. I also arrange for a delivery of one gram of fishscale, premium, Cocaine. With New Year ’s Eve landing on a Sunday this year I don’t even have to request it off work. I make the reservation and wait.

The Cocaine arrives on time, as well as the whippets. The blow is a beautiful sparkly white, and one bump from my snuff bullet is almost too much to handle. With all the party favors acquired, we’re ready to go. Jessica sends me a picture of her wearing a pink pig snout and I become erect.

On the big night, we start off at the Cheesecake Factory. Overrated in my opinion, but Jessica likes it. We do a line each before we go in, and I’m taken aback by Jessica’s ability to eat while on coke. I pick at my sandwich and barely manage to get half of it down, but Jessica cleans her plate like a good little piggy.

“This is really good shit, wow…” Jessica says, checking her nose in the fold-down mirror in my car.

“Hehe, told ya. Genuine fishscale. I’m surprised you can eat on it. Not that I’m complaining…” I say, smiling as I poke her belly through her coat.

“Yeah, you know you’re a fat girl when you can eat on coke, right?”

“Haha, right. Now where we headed? Back to the hotel, right?”

“You said you’d take me to Torrid!”

“Haha, I know, I’m just fucking around…”

This evening was a very expensive undertaking. I get off on spoiling her. I bring Jessica to Torrid, a plus sized women’s clothing store, and let her pick out a few outfits. I gasp audibly at the sight of a big, big, biiiiiiig, girl standing behind the cash register, her enormous breasts sagging onto the counter as she leans forward on it. She’s a big’un alright, must be around 450-500 pounds, if I’d hazard a guess. She’s wearing a tight, form-fitting hot pink dress that shows off her big, flabby, bingo wings and expansive cleavage.

She’s gorgeous.

“Excuse me? Could you unlock the fitting room for me?” One of the customers asks her.

“Of course, honey! Right this way… Ooooooooof! Haha… You’d think they’d make this area a bit bigger for girls like us…” My titanic dream girl jokes as she squeezes her frame through a swinging door that separates the counter from the customers.

Gigantic ass cheeks shake and jiggle with each step she takes. Her face is oddly slim and very pretty, with beautiful brown eyes and shoulder-length black hair with red highlights. Watching her approach the fitting room it’s apparent that her hips are wider than the doorframe, and if that’s not just the most adorable god damn thing in the world, I don’t know what is.

“There you are, sweetie! Let me know if there’s anything else I can help you with!” She says as she opens the door.

“Thank you so much.” The customer replies.

“How do you think this looks?” Jessica asks me, snapping me from my trance.

“Uh, I like it.” I reply stupidly.

Jessica arches her eyebrow and realizes the corpulent cashier has captured my attention since we stepped into the store. She giggles and shakes her head.

I quickly resume unapologetically perving out on the cashier. It’s rare you find women over 300 pounds in my neck of the woods, let alone a white whale of this size and beauty. She goes back to leaning on the counter, holding her head in her chubby hand as she scrolls on her smart phone with the other. As Jessica slowly makes her way through the store I get a side profile, which is even more impressive. Such a big belly. 10/10, would rub. At one point she looks up unexpectedly and catches me staring, but just smiles at me.

“You guys find everything you’re looking for OK?” She asks us as Jessica finally checks out.

“Yes, thank you.” Jessica replies.

“Alright, your total is gonna be… $85.68.”

Jessica looks at me and I put my card through the reader.

“Aw, look at you spoiling your girlfriend!”

“Hey, I try.”

The cash register drawer pops open by default, bouncing against the cashier’s belly and shutting again.

“Haha! You guys have a good night now!” She says cheerily, giving her stomach a few pats.

I pick my jaw up off the floor and leave with Jessica.

“Your face when she closed the drawer with her belly, Harry, oh my God…” Jessica says as we walk to the car.

“I almost came right then and there. She was… God damn… Just incredible.” I reply.

“I didn’t know closing a cash register with your belly was a fetish…”

“It just reinforces how big she is, I don’ t know. I love shit like that. Like when a big girl gets into a

car and honks the horn with her belly? Oh baby…”

“You’re a fuckin’ weirdo.”

“Just wait, you play your cards right and we’ll get you that big in no time…”

“Ha! Maybe…”

We each do another bump and drive to the hotel. The room is beautiful, with a full couch, TV, kitchen area, and bed. I make myself a Jameson and coke and do a line while Jessica gets naked. The weight she’s put on is more noticeable without clothes on, her big belly and tits jiggling with each step.

“I’m not putting clothes back on for the rest of the night.” She says while I chop coke on the granite countertop.

“Ok.” I reply.

We each do a line and I break out the cracker, inhaling a cartridge straight from the nozzle before attaching a balloon to it. I giggle as I exhale the cold nitrous and Jessica looks on next to me. I get a rhythm down quickly, filling the balloon with eight or so chargers before taking it off the nozzle and handing it to Jessica.

“Hold the mouthpiece shut. Don’t let any out.” I instruct her.

“What’s it feel like?” She replies.

“It’s kinda like Ketamine. You ever do Ketamine?”

“No.”

“Don’t be nervous, it’s fun.”

“OK…”

After filling my own balloon I take it off the nozzle and ready it for inhalation.

“Alright, take a deep breath, and exhale. Clear your lungs. Then inhale as much of this as you can, and hold it for as long as you can.” I tell her.

“OK.”

I take a big haul off the balloon and hold it in for several seconds, the lightheadedness seeping in as I exhale. I look at Jessica, who exhales at the same time, and we both start laughing.

“Wow…” She says.

“Right?”

For the next hour or so, we sit there, leaning on each other, huffing balloons and zoning out like a couple of dope fiends. Jessica quickly picks up how to properly inhale the food grade gas, and I watch her get more fucked up with each haul. A few balloons in and I’ve reached peak disassociation, unable to make words anymore as my body and mind divorce and I lose motor function. I can’t articulate it verbally, but I feel myself lift off of the couch and levitate in mid-air, turning over and over while still in a seated position. I look at Jessica, wide-eyed and desperate to explain what’s happening to me, but the elevator that brings words from my brain to my lips is out of service.

They don’t call it hippie crack for nothin’. I could do this shit all day. Then again, when it comes to me and drugs, that really isn’t saying much. The high quickly dissipates and I stand up, legs still a bit wobbly as I go to the counter for more coke. I smirk as I sniff a line and fix myself a stiff drink.

Jessica is on another planet, and looks like an escaped mental patient, a vacant look in her eyes as she sits there on couch, completely nude. She stares unblinkingly ahead as she brings the balloon to her lips and inhales. When it hits her, she loses track of her entire world, and her pinching grip on the balloon’s mouthpiece relaxes, sending it flying around the room. She has no idea, though. She’s preoccupied with other things.

“What the fuck just happened… Hahahahaha…” She gasps.

“Pretty cool, huh?” I reply, taking a seat next to her.

“Yeah. I really like this stuff…”

“I had a feeling you would.”

“I’m hungry…”

“Well then let’s get you some food. Can’t have you wasting away now can we?”

“God, Harry, look at me… I’m so big!”

“I know… You’ve been working very hard to get here, and I’m proud of you.”

He said, without a hint of irony.

I give Jessica a kiss and she hoists herself up off the couch, jiggling all the way as she waddles over to the counter for more coke.

“What do you want to eat?” I ask her.

“I don’t know, open up Grubhub and see what’s around.” She replies.

“Chinese?”

“Sure.”

“Order what you want.”

“You gonna get anything?”

“Nah, I can’t eat right now.”

“More for me!”

We do a couple more balloons while we wait for the food to arrive. Jessica scampers off to the bathroom to spare the delivery guy from seeing her naked. I pay him and she comes out of the bathroom, this time wearing a novelty pig snout. I don’t know why this turns me on. It’s so silly. But I love it.

“Get over here. It’s feeding time.” I say.

Jessica snorts and oinks and sits down next to me. I pick up a chicken finger and bring it to her mouth. She opens wide and takes most of it down in one bite.

“That’s a girl. My big piggy…” I say.

Jessica smiles as she chews.

I have a hard-on that could cut glass as I feed her, feeling a sense of relief that the cocaine hasn’t robbed me of my ability to have erections.

I hate how much I love this. I hate how much this excites me and turns me on…

“We should get you a pink sweatsuit or something, go all out with it.” I say.

“You really like this, huh? Me being your big, fat, prized, sow?” She replies.

“Oh I do, I do, I doo-ooooohhhh… We gotta get you good and fat for the state fair!”

“Hahahaha, you’re so fuckin’ weird.”

“Does this technically make me a furry? Pretending you’re a pig?”

“Hahahaha, I don’t know… Maybe you are a furry… I want more food! Feed me!”

“Yes ma’am!”

Jessica puts away an order of crab Rangoon and chicken fingers before tapping out halfway through her beef teriyaki.

“I won’t hold you to the clean plate club standard tonight, seeing as how you’re on coke.” I tell her.

Jessica rolls her eyes. “So generous of you.”

“You nice and full?”

“Yes… Rub my belly, Harry, pleeeeaaaaaasssseee..”

“With pleasure.”

“Ooooh that feels good…” Jessica moans.

I kiss her as I massage her bloated, distended, belly, easing the ache from her excessive gluttony. I go slow, in little circles, punctuated by a couple of light pats and jiggles. I don’t know what it is about rubbing a fat girl’s belly that drives me fucking insane.

“You mentioned your mother was overweight.” Isaac said.

“No, no, no, no, no. I don’t wanna fuck my mother. Don’t even…” I replied.

“That’s not what I’m implying, Harry. Are you familiar with the expression ‘every man marries his mother?’”

“Yeah…”

Jessica reaches for my crotch and fondles my erection with her chubby hand.

“What have we here?!” She says.

It’s nearing midnight as Jessica unzips my jeans and pulls my dick out. I take my snuff bullet from my pocket and prepare a bump as she gets on her knees and starts blowing me. I snort, making horrid noises as I get all the yack up my nostril and down my throat. I lean back and sip my drink as she gives me head. She’s damn good at it, too.

There’s an old stereotype…

After several minutes, Jessica loses patience with me. She pulls my dick from her mouth.

“Are you gonna cum?”

“I don’t think so. The fuckin’ coke makes it really hard for me to nut.”

“I don’t wanna give you blue balls but I’m getting sore from kneeling…”

“That’s fine, you don’t have to.”

I gave up on the Zoloft within a week of seeing Jessica regularly. I didn’t look back. Like I said, I don’t have a chemical imbalance. A 25 year old drug addict and career fuck-up with no discernible skills to offer to the work force and no drive or ambition to change that, one that lives at home in their childhood room, frankly, should be depressed. I made my fuckin’ bed.

Jessica gets up and goes to the bathroom while I put a pair of basketball shorts on. I do another line, which leaves me jittery and on edge, so I choke down more whiskey, nearly vomiting as the coke drip and alcohol violate my esophagus. I fill another balloon. Jessica comes out of the bathroom and sits down next to me.

“Make me one.” She says.

“As you wish.” I reply.

After a few more balloons we do a couple of lines and a few shots. Too much is never enough. Finally, we start kissing and make our way to the bed. I pull my clothes off and…

“What’s wrong?” Jessica asks.

“Fuck…” I mumble.

My worst nightmare comes to life before my eyes as my dick sits limp and lifeless.

What the fuck!?!? It was fine before! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…

“This normally never happens…” I stammer.

“Shhh… Relax. Come sit with me.” Jessica says soothingly.

“Fuck. Fuck!” I growl.

“You gotta relax, Harry. If you think about it it’s not gonna work.” She replies.

Embarrassment and shame consume me as I sit down on the bed.

Hello darkness my old friend…

“It’s OK… Just relax. You wanna play with my belly? That usually gets you going…”

I sigh and rub her belly, but my mind can’t help but fixate on my absolute failure as a man.

I can’t get a boner, I can’t get a boner, I can’t get a boner, I can’t get a boner, I can’t get a boner, I can’t get a boner, I can’t get a boner.

Cocaine and whiskey, two of my favorite things, have betrayed me. I’ve whacked off drunk and on coke countless times before, with no issue. Why has God forsaken me?

“I’m sorry…” I say, defeated.

“Just relax, it’ll happen. You want me to put the nose back on? Maybe that’ll help…”

Jessica puts the pig snout back on and has herself a piece of beef teriyaki. She eats it sensually, accentuating her satisfaction to try and turn me on. It doesn’t work. She goes to suck my dick, but forgets she’s wearing a pig nose. She rolls her eyes and tears it off, putting my awful limp dick in her mouth like she’s giving it CPR. It doesn’t work.

YOU CAN’T GET A BONER, YOU CAN’T GET A BONER, YOU’RE A FAILURE AS A MAN AND YOU CAN’T GET A BONER. WHAT ARE YOU, 80 YEARS OLD? YOU NEED A VIAGRA, GRANDPA? THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU!? YOU CAN’T GET A BONER, YOU CAN’T GET A BONER…

“Fuck it.” I mumble, getting out of bed and marching over to the counter and chopping up a line. I’m so fucking predictable. Back to my security blanket that actually makes everything worse.

Like fucking clockwork…

“Yeah, ‘cuz that’ll fuckin’ give you a boner…” Jessica says sarcastically.

Her words shatter my fragile masculinity like a sledgehammer in a glass sliding door during a PCP home invasion. I need more drugs to feel less things. It’s almost 4 AM at this point. It’s safe to assume my dick has left the building.

GOD FUCKING DAMN IT…

A less self-absorbed man might offer to pleasure their partner orally, or at least improvise, in an effort to make up for their drastic shortcomings. But such men are rarely on Cocaine, and such men seldom have as fragile egos as our hero did that night. Instead, he sulked, and he drank, and huffed nitrous, in awkward silence.

This isn’t about her, it’s about me!!

“Well… At least you learned a lesson…” Jessica says, smiling.

“I’m fuckin’ sorry… I don’t even… I feel like a fuckin’ old man…” I slur as the Cocaine wears off and the whiskey takes hold.

“Well… For what it’s worth, I did have fun tonight…” She replies.

“You’re just saying that.”

“Yeah, that’s right, fuck me for being nice. I’m going to sleep…”

I am in full-tilt self-pity mode as I down another glass of whiskey and put a Suboxone strip under my tongue. I reckon that these last 12 hours of non-stop Cocaine and alcohol abuse, now combined with a prescription opioid, will lead to one motherfucker of a hangover…

“Harry… Harry… Wake up…” Jessica says, poking and prodding me.

“What… Oh my fuck…” I croak, my tongue and the inside of my mouth like sand.

BOOM! HEADACHE.

BOOM! MY CHEST! FUCK!

BOOM! MY FUCKIN’ STOMACH, FUCK!

BOOM! A FAST-MOTION REPLAY OF YOU NOT GETTING A BONER, PUSSY!

BOOM! ANXIETY! IT’S 8 AM. YOU HAVE TO FACE THE REST OF THE WORLD SOON, AND

SOBER, NO LESS! BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!

“What?!” I moan.

“You wanna go get breakfast?”

“OK…”

I stumble out of the room looking like reheated French fries covered in dog shit. Jessica is decidedly more perky and optimistic than I am. Thank fuck for sunglasses…

I make a plate, some pancakes, sausages, a muffin. I barely get through half of it before my stomach rejects it. I choke down some coffee, although when you’ve been up all night doing real drugs, caffeine is… A complete fucking joke. A disgrace to the word “stimulant.”

“Did you do all the balloons?” Jessica asks as she chows down.

“Ha, no… There’s still some left.” I reply.

“When’s check-out?”

“Noon…”

“OK…”

(To be continued…)

Appetite For Dysfunction (Part I)

2018-11-21T09:25:00.001-08:00

I’m drunk as fuck browsing Feabie, a dating site for feeders, feedees, chubby chasers, and fat admirers. Dudes that like fat girls. Girls that like fat dudes. Fat people that like fat people. Skinny girls that, for some fucking reason, genuinely want to become fat. Guys that like making these skinny women monstrously fat…

My life is shit. I’m back at home. I’m 25. My parents hate me. I’m 25. I’m living at home. I’m just a few months clean from heroin and crank. I’m fucking miserable. Every night I eat a handful of melatonin and chase it with a night cap of Evan Williams, dreaming of having the balls to chase my entire Suboxone script with a fifth of that bottom shelf swill and do my parents a favor for once…

“You can drink, Harry, but no more fuckin’ drugs, understand me?!” My mother’s words swim around in my head as I pour myself a shot of fire water, pounding my chest as it burns my esophagus and numbs my cravings for the finer things. Spikes, spoons, and Nike shoes.

I’m so fucking lonely. I absolutely deserve to be lonely, though. I’d never try and argue otherwise. I deserve every inch of this tiny, congested, room I swore I’d never go back to when I was 19. And yet now, here I am. Halfway to 30 and I’m back. What. The. Fuck…

I have no business being in the dating scene. My life is in fucking shambles. There are so many obstacles one must accept when they try to date me…

“Haha, well, actually, I’m not exactly in school right now… I uh, I kinda dropped out…”

“What did I do in the mean time, exactly? Hm, well, um, that’s a good question…”

“Soooooo, I used to have a drug problem…”

“Well I’m kinda living at home right now…”

“I’ll be honest with you, if it weren’t for the state, I wouldn’t even have health insurance! You got the bill, right?”

“Yeah I have a cat, that’s why I have so many scars up and down my arms. He’s a mean little bastard.”

“Eye contact? What do you mean?”

BING!

“Oh shit…”

Several inches of dust and cobwebs dissipate into the air as they’re shaken off my inbox.

What’d I say to her again?

“Hey, you seem fun. If you ever wanna get shithouse drunk and fed a proper meal, get at me.”

“Hehe, OK, that does sound fun…”

I chuckle and pour another shot as I browse her profile. She’s in her early 30’s, and her profile says she weighs 220 pounds. A bit slight for my tastes, but she identifies as a feedee, which means she’s willing to change for the right man…

I don’t know why I love fat women the way I do. I’ve always been this way. The big bellies, the big tits that sit on top of them, the big fat asses and thighs that rub together with each awkward, labored, waddle, good gravy do I fucking love that shit. I sound like I’m being shitty, I know. I don’t go for them because I think they’re easy (I’ve actually been shot down a fair amount by women more than double my size), I have a genuine sexual attraction to them. I don’t really have a limit as to how big I’ll go…

Cumming makes me feel good. Like most things that make me feel good, I feel a compulsion from within to do it as frequently as humanly possible, and take it to its most destructive extreme. I think this is where the feedism stuff comes in. I always told myself I’d never get into it, but I also told myself I’d never snort coke…

I’d never do meth…

I’d never do heroin…

Yeah…

Her name is Jessica. She’s cute, with a bookish sort of look to her that I don’t usually go for. Talking to her I quickly realize that she’s anything but bookish. This girl has been around, not that I give a fuck. Her sexual history is as lengthy and perverted as my drug history. Swingers parties, threesomes, ass eating, all sorts of crazy shit. So you know she’s got some crazy stories.

I haven’t been with a woman in a very long time…

We make plans to go out the following Friday night. I’m nervous. I’ve never been with a feedee before. I should explain for those who have properly working genitals: a feeder (me), is an individual who derives sexual pleasure from the process of feeding and fattening their partner. A feedee is the individual they feed and fatten. The feedee derives sexual gratification from overeating, or “stuffing”, as we in the community refer to it as. The feeder will encourage his or her feedee to eat until they’re literally about to pop or vomit, and are congratulated and showered in praise when they clean their plate.

I trim my beard and put on my most flattering button down shirt and jeans on, along with some cologne from an ancient bottle I haven’t used in years. I hate the way I look. I used to be fat (ironic, huh?), and I hated it. Now I’m skinny fat from not doing drugs anymore. My head is oversized and shaped like a lima bean. I have pointy ears and I can’t see. Contacts are the only thing that keep me from looking like a pedophile. Regardless of what any woman says about me, I know the truth, that I’m completely revolting physically, and not much different from an emotional or personality standpoint…

I sure could use a bump of crank right now. Something, anything, to convince me that I’m not literal trash. I sigh and hop in my car…

“Hey!” Jessica squeals as she wraps me in a hug.

“Hey, how ya doin’?” I ask, smiling.

She’s bigger in person. Very nice…

We drive to a southern themed steakhouse in a neighboring town. I am treading water conversationally as my heart races around in my chest like I just pumped a quarter gram shard into my vein.

“I’ll take a Jameson and coke.” I tell the waiter.

Jessica orders some kind of fruity gimmick drink. We’re sitting in a booth, and her tits are resting heavily against the table, demanding my attention.

“So, you wanna get an appetizer?” She asks sensuously.

“Anything you want, get it. I don’t give a shit how expensive it is. Only rule is you buy it, you eat it. OK?” I reply with a smile.

“Ok!”

I love to provide for my woman. I guess I’m kinda old fashioned in that regard. As the feeder, as the male, it’s my duty to bring home the bacon (LOL). I don’t want my woman lifting a finger. She needs her calories, she needs her food, she needs my encouragement to get bigger and bigger.

Fatter…

Heavier…

Sexier…

“So, have you always been…” I smile as my voice trails off.

“Fat?!” Jessica replies.

We both laugh as the waiter puts our drinks down on the table.

“Can I get you folks some appetizers or anything?” He asks.

“Yes, we’re gonna get an order of fried pickles, some nachos, and one of the samplers, please.” Jessica says.

I raise my eyebrows as my dick starts to stiffen up in my jeans.

“Alrighty! Coming right up!” The waiter says.

“Where were we?” Jessica asks, pulling her wavy black hair out of her big brown eyes.

“Um… We were talking about how you’ve always been big…” I say back, draining my whiskey at an alarming rate.

“Oh yeah! Yeah, I’ve always been a big girl. At my heaviest I was around… 350?”

“Ok. How big do you wanna get?”

Jessica smiles, exposing her adorable little double chin. “Well, my first goal is 300. But I think it would be cool to get over 400… Maybe 420, ‘cause I’m a pothead…”

“Pot? As in, reefer!? You degenerate!”

“Hahahaha, fuck you!”

“Nah, I’m just kiddin’.”

“You don’t smoke?”

“Ehhhh I used to. It just doesn’t do it for me anymore. I get anxious when I smoke now, it’s weird. It’s good that you smoke, though. Gotta keep that appetite going…”

“Mhm…”

The whiskey melts away my social anxiety and I’m able to make and maintain eye contact. Jittery sober Harry has been overthrown in favor of the smoother and less self-loathing Harry the Drunk.

“Aren’t you gonna have some?!” Jessica asks me, pointing to the appetizers in front of us.

“Ha! Yeah… I’m sorry, I just…”

“Got distracted?”

Jessica smiles, winks, and pops a fried pickle into her mouth seductively. “Mmmm… I fuckin’ LOVE fried pickles, oh my God…”

I smile and dunk a buffalo wing into blue cheese dressing. Jessica’s confidence radiates from her body, I love it. She doesn’t give a fuck what people think. I love that kind of energy, it’s so sexy.

We learn a lot about each other as the meal progresses. She’s in between jobs right now, and has a friend crashing on her bedroom floor, which makes having sex regularly rather difficult. She’s willing to forgive the fact that I’m living at home. She doesn’t care that I used to be a criminal, nor that I used to shoot heroin and meth. In fact, she’s partied quite a bit herself.

“You never had sex on coke?” She asks, mouth agape in disbelief.

“Fat girls don’t do coke!” I reply, shrugging.

“You’re not partying with the right fat girls, hahaha…”

The waiter collects our plates and brings out our food. For me, a bacon cheeseburger and French fries. For her, a porterhouse steak with a baked potato. The spark of excitement in her eyes as she looks down at her food is just the most adorable god damn thing I’ve ever seen. The gusto with which she tears into the juicy steak and brings a big piece to her plump lips is just… Sigh…

“Ugh…” She grunts as she finishes off her baked potato.

“You got this, c’mon, I believe in you.” I encourage her.

“I know, I know. I’m a woman of my word. I’ll finish. But I’m gonna need a good, thorough, belly rub after this…”

“You got it.”

Her belly is so full, but she keeps eating. Partly because she wants to please me, partly because it pleases her. Gluttony, hedonism, excess, too much is never enough. All pleasure, all the time. My dick drools against my inner thigh as I watch her chow down, struggling against her body’s instincts as she closes in on the last few bites.

CLINK!

“Atta girl! I knew you could do it!” I say.

“Ugh… Oh my God… I need a belly rub, stat.” She moans.

“Soon as I pay the check…”

Once I pay the tab she gets up, her belly just barely visible from underneath her tight t-shirt. She catches me staring and smiles as she pulls it back down.

“Do you mind if I smoke in your car?” She asks.

“Not at all.” I reply.

“You’re the best…”

Jessica cracks the window and ashes her cigarette as she puts her seat all the way back. She smiles and uses her free hand to roll down her tight leggings and free her belly, allowing it to spill out into her lap, expanding with each heavy breath she takes. She pulls her t-shirt up and pins it underneath her tits, smiling as it just sits there, bloated and stuffed to the brim.

Begging to be touched, begging to be rubbed…

“You wanna touch my belly, Harry?” She whispers.

I just smile, reach over, and start massaging the soft, warm, flesh while she smokes. She moans and puts her head back as she exhales smoke. My dick pulses in my jeans as I jiggle, pat, and play with her belly. We lock eyes, close them, and start to kiss. Groping and grabbing every inch of her bountiful figure, I feel a sense of sexual freedom I’ve never felt before. I’ve never indulged this side of me outside of porn.

“Is that a Five Guys?” She says, squinting through her glasses across the parking lot.

“Indeed it is. Who wants ice cream!? Huh?” I ask, jiggling her belly playfully.

“Mmmm I think I do…”

She leans on me as we wait in line, and we trade a few chuckling glances as we stand there.

“You have beautiful eyes. They remind me of… Blueberry pancakes.” She says.

“Always with the food, Jessica…” I reply.

“Hahahaha, wow, OK… Fuck you too…”

“Ah I’m just fuckin’ around…”

“I know. You’re funny.”

“What can I get you?” The kid behind the counter asks.

“I’ll have a large vanilla shake… And a small fry…” Jessica says.

“Small?” I whisper.

“Yes, small. I just ate three fucking appetizers and a steak. And you didn’t even help me!”

“I’m just the supplier…”

“Hahahahaha…”

After getting Jessica her food we return to my car, and she once again pulls her belly out from the confines of her leggings. She smiles as she grabs her tummy from each side, letting it all hang out with pride.

“You make some room in here, or what?” I ask, patting her stomach as I open the paper bag of fries.

Jessica nods eagerly.

My dick is like a fucking St. Bernard, slobbering pre-cum on the inside of my boxer shorts as Jessica relaxes, hands on her belly, waiting to be fed. I realize the windows are in my car are all fogged up now, and that I’m breathing like an asthmatic Michael Myers as my trembling hands pull a few fries out of the bag.

“You want me to dip ‘em?” I ask, motioning to the shake with the fries.

Jessica nods.

Dipping the fries into the ice cream is a new level of gluttony.

“Mmmmmm…” She moans as I bring them to her lips and hand feed her. There’s a tingly, electric, sensation going through my body that I’ve never felt before. I don’t know if I’m ever gonna be able to fuck a regular fat girl again. This is like going from snorting heroin to shooting.

“That’s a girl… Such a big piggy…” I say in a tone that can only be described as pornographic and off-putting.

HICCUP!

“You make the cutest god damn noises when you hiccup, you know that?” I tell her as she swallows yet another couple of fries.

“HICCUP! Aw, thank you!” She replies.

“C’mon… Just a few more bites…” I say as we near the end of the ice cream and fries.

“Ooooh my God, I’m so fucking full… HICCUP!” She replies.

“I know, I know. But you only got a few more bites, c’mon…”

She sighs and smiles at me. “OK, OK. Just for you…”

When she finally finishes, she’s ready to burst. “Ooooooh Harry I’m so full… I can’t put my belly back in my pants, hahahahaha…”

“I knew you could do it. I’m so proud of you.”

Jessica lets out a moan that sounds like a 60/40 mixture of pleasure and pain. Her eyes are glazed over in ecstasy as she lounges back in the seat, belly bulging out shamelessly in front of her. Big, heavy, breasts sit atop it, sloppy and round. We start making out again, and I run my coarse, calloused, hands all over her soft body. After that she lights another cigarette and I put the defogger on.

“How quick can you cum?” She asks me.

“I don’t cum.” I reply.

“Pfft, yeah, OK, Superman…”

“No seriously. The meds I’m on, I can’t cum.”

“What? The heroin pills or whatever you take…”

“Nah, Zoloft. It’s an anti-depressant.”

“Oh! Well I know all about those… What’s the problem? You can’t get hard? You don’t wanna get hard?”

“I can’t cum. I get hard, but my dick is like… Numb. Trust me, I’ve tried. It doesn’t work.”

“Hmmm… Well, I don’t wanna give you blue balls. Or get stuck sucking your dick for an hour…”

In an effort to appease my parents, I got on Zoloft. Thing is, I’m not depressed. Well, I am depressed, but not due to a chemical imbalance in my brain. I’m depressed because I’m 25 and broke and a loser and a (non-using) junky and a career fuck-up that hasn’t made a good decision in well over a decade. It makes sense for me to be depressed. I deserve to be depressed. Somehow my parents can’t wrap their mind around that. I think it’s because I’ve been such a monumental and catastrophic fuck-up, particularly as of late, that they can’t process that they produced a shit kid. They need something to pin this on.

That’s not to say I’m blaming my parents for me being a terrible person. They did produce my sister, after all, who is the complete opposite of me. She’s successful, she finished school, and she’s tougher than me. She refuses to take no for an answer and is focused on her goals. Unlike me, who sucks.

Jessica and I quickly start going out regularly. We text every day, and she tells me what she’s eating and how much. Our dates begin at a restaurant and evolve into tours of different fast food joints, stuffing her with whatever she wants until she’s short of breath and can hardly move. Having embraced my role as her feeder, I start bringing her bags of her favorite snacks and treats to munch on when we’re apart.

I take her to Torrid so she can get new clothes. It’s all so hot. She’s blowing up right in front of me. Within a few months she creeps up to 250 pounds. A new milestone.

This calls for a celebration…

After a good stuffing at the same steakhouse we had our first date at, we get back into the car and head over to a bakery.

“Where we going?” She asks me.

“I’m getting you a cake. For hitting 250.” I reply.

The look of childlike joy on her face at the mention of cake warms my frigid, black, heart.

“Oooooooh can we get a tres leches cake?”

“Absolutely. Whatever that is…”

“It’s so good, oh my God I’m so excited! Thank you, Harry!”

“You’ve earned it. My big piggy…”

I jiggle her belly as I drive to the bakery. Jessica is quite literally like a kid in a candy store as she browses all the desserts. She ends up going with the tres leches cake. I pay for it and we leave.

Jessica doesn’t have much privacy at her place, and neither do I, so we find a secluded parking lot and I open up the cake. It’s a caramel colored sponge cake sitting in a pool of milk and cream. Jessica wastes no time getting her belly out, giving it room to breathe as I take the top off and dig in with a plastic spoon. I start hand feeding her, smiling as my dick threatens to tear through my jeans.

“That’s a girl… Eat, eat, eat, eat… My hungry, hungry, hippo…” I say as I pick up a spoonful of cake and bring it to her lips.

“Ooooh it’s so good but it’s so filling…” She moans before taking another bite.

I smile as I bring another bite to her mouth and yank it away right before she can eat it.

“Hey!” She yelps.

“Hahaha, I’m only joking. Here…” I reply.

We take a break as she nears the last quarter of the cake. I rub her belly, massaging it until she lets out a few satisfied burps, freeing up some much needed space in her gullet. She smokes, huffing and puffing and bloated to the brim.

“We’re at the home stretch… Think you can finish?” I ask her.

“I think so.” She replies, her voice subdued from her overindulgence.

“Oh Jessica, Jessica, Jessica. 250 pounds! 250 god damn pounds! I’m so proud of you!”

“Next stop 300!”

“That’s the spirit!”

“Oooooooh, Harry… I’m so full!”

“You can’t stop now, you’re so close!”

“Mmmmm…”

“There we go… You did it!”

I open the car door and throw the empty cake container out into the parking lot before turning back to Jessica and kissing her, rubbing and grabbing her soft flesh as we make out. She’s getting so big, I’m so proud of her. Looking at her, gut spilling out in her lap, smoking a cigarette, I should be repulsed. Biologically, I should be repulsed. Socially, she should be embarrassed to be this way. What we’re doing right now defies nature. It’s not good. But it feels good.

“I love how confident you are…” I say as I gently rub circles over her belly.

“Aw, thank you! It’s taken me a long time to get here…” She replies.

“You’re getting so big… What are we gonna do with you, huh? Huh?!”

Jessica chuckles as I jiggle her belly. “I know! These are my last leggings that fit. Being fat is very expensive…”

“I’ll take you to Torrid this weekend. You’ve earned it.”

“Yay!”

“So, has anyone commented on your weight? Friends? Family?”

“Well, my family is used to me being fat. My friends… A couple of them have expressed concern…”

“Yeah?”

“Well, y’know, not in a mean way. But… When you tell someone you’re gaining weight on purpose…”

“Right…”

My boner begins to wilt as reality sinks in.

“You know that if you ever get uncomfortable about this you can stop, right?” I say abruptly.

“Yeah, of course!” Jessica replies, shooting me a strange look.

“Ok.”

“I must say, I’ve taken to the feedee lifestyle. I literally just sit around and eat all day. I know I should be looking for work, but…”

“Ah, you don’t have to do that! You got me… I’ll take care of you. No matter how big and fat and sexy and huge you get…”

“Haha! I’ll be like one of those fat people on Oprah that can’t even get out of bed.”

“Hahahaha, wouldn’t that be crazy and totally not sexy?”

“You’re a sick fuck, Harry.”

“Takes one to know one.”

“Wow, breaking out the Dad jokes…”

We giggle and make out a bit more before I bring her home, kissing her one last time before she waddles back to her apartment. It’s not until I’m back on the highway that I realize how absurd this whole arrangement is.

Yeah you know you’re getting off to the fact that you’re killing her, right?

No… No, I’m not. I’m getting off to how big and fat she’s getting.

And being big and fat is scientifically proven to kill you.

Yeah, well… She’s a grown woman, and she can make her own choices.

That doesn’t make it right, though. What you’re doing is essentially enabling her to make horrible choices that will have catastrophic consequences on her health in the future. Without your participation and encouragement, her ability to continue on with this destructive behavior would be severely impacted.

Fuck off…

I’m actually not gonna fuck off. Because you claim to really like this girl, and yet you’re deriving sexual pleasure from her declining health. It’s like enabling a junky and masturbating when she shoots heroin. It’s literally the exact same thing as that. You’re a piece of shit, you’re a piece of shit, you’re a piece of shit, and you’re a murderer. A horny murderer. You’re a piece of shit.

ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT, SHUT THE FUCK UP!

What happens if you really fall for her? What happens if you guys end up in love? Are you gonna keep killing her? Encouraging her to kill herself? What the fuck is wrong with you?

I don’t know…

Aw yeah, baby, show me your insulin pump. Oh, that’s right, after the stroke your right arm don’t work so good no more. No matter, we don’t even have to have sex, because I’m such a fucking weirdo that I’d rather tend to an immobile pile of lard than have sex and reproduce with a fit and attractive young lady…

You’re not making me feel any better.

Good. You shouldn’t feel good.

So I should just not be intimate with anyone? Just be asexual?

How about you just be fucking normal? You ever think of that?

Once or twice…

(To be continued.)

Pet the Kitty

2017-04-30T15:24:00.001-07:00

I can feel myself grow more and more socially retarded with each rotation. This has been a terrible mistake. Jack is the only one I know at this party, at least until Evan gets here. I don’t know if I’ve said anything besides “Hey, I’m Harry, nice to meet you.” And “Who’s lighter is this?” since we got here over an hour ago. I feel like I should be saying more things, being normal, not being weird. But all I can do is laugh when everyone else laughs and sip this empty beer uncomfortably.

Where the fuck is Evan?!!?!

This beer was complimentary, and I don’t dare ask for another. Most of us won’t turn 21 until next year, so alcohol is precious, at least until everyone goes back to school. I thought about getting some beforehand, but I didn’t want to spoil my appetite for tonight’s entrée: the Kizzle. I don’t know what to expect.

“It’s a game changer.” Was the only way Evan could describe it.

\I follow Keith back into his parents’ house and mumble something about him being fucking loaded as I shut the back door. Jack used to work with Keith and some of the other kids here, who all seem to go to the same party school out west. We go back to the basement where a few other strangers have shown up, but no sign of Evan.

Keith has new recording software to show Jack, leaving me adrift in a sea of unnecessary social anxiety. I’m not blaming him, I did sort of bring this on myself with all that god damn grass. I assume the position and scroll through my Facebook feed over and over, keeping both ears open for the sound of Evan and his Ketamine life-raft.

“Sirs?!!?!” A familiar voice calls downstairs.

YES! YES! DOWN HERE! S-O-S! S-O-S!

Evan comes downstairs like the complete opposite of me. He grabs hold of the room right away and starts shaking hands and kissing babies. Behind him are his girlfriend Catherine and his buddy Greg, who I’ve actually met and talked to before! Now that my brain’s bizarre demands have been met, the hostages have been released, and all is right with the cosmos.

Evan serves a couple of people before finally greeting Jack and I. He’s insanely charismatic, so much so that you can’t even be irritated by it. Not in the drug dealer disingenuous kind of way, either. You could walk in on him fucking your mother and an hour later you’ll be drinking craft beer together, yucking it up like best friends. As he takes off his backpack, Keith’s girlfriend approaches him with a beer.

“Oh, no thanks, I’m good.” Evan says.

“Oh, what’re you guys tripping or something?” Keith’s girlfriend replies.

“Ehhhh, we’ll see where the night takes us, you know, hehehe.”

“You sure you don’t want one?”

“Yeah, I can be kind of a beer snob unless I’m trying to get shitfaced, you know? I only drink like, the headies of beers.”

“Sorry our Rolling Rock isn’t to your standards, sir.”

“I’ll let it slide this time, hahahaha…”

Evan’s the only guy that can say something like “the headies of beers” and not sound like a douchebag. He looks around the basement and thinks before putting his backpack back on.

“Where are we doing this?” Catherine asks him anxiously.

“I don’t wanna get mobbed for this shit, you know what I mean? Hmmm… What do you say we go outside for a board meeting, sirs?” Evan suggests. He motions towards the basement stairs and we head up.

“So have you ever done this shit before?” I ask Greg.

“Yeah, I’ve done it a couple of times. It’s really hard to describe, dude… It’s just… Different form anything I’ve done before. Even like Acid and shit.” Greg replies.

“That’s what I’ve been hearing, sounds like a mind fuck.” I say.

“You guys are the only ones I know that go on three day acid benders, I think you can handle it.” Catherine reassures us.

FREE AT LAST, FREE AT LAST, THANK GOD ALMIGHTY, WE’RE FREE AT LAST!!

The five of us cram into Greg’s car and Evan gets to work. Greg pulls a heavily scratched copy of Creed’s Human Clay from the dashboard and hands it to Evan, who dumps a small pile of powder onto it. Using his student ID, he chops the pile into five portions that look more like bumps than lines.

“I think it’s only right that our new cadets go first. Which one of you sirs would like to do the honors?” Evan asks.

I look over at Jack, who gives me a nod. I’m in the middle seat and closer to Evan by default. I take a deep breath as I carefully grab the CD and the straw. I’ve snorted a little bit of Molly and Adderall in my time, but this ritual still feels kind of taboo to me. I take my bump in one quick sniff, arching my head back as I pass the CD over to Jack. My eyes well up with tears as my nostril burns. I fight through it, blocking my left nostril and pulling the skin by my right one to the side. I take a few hard, painful, snorts before it breaks through the mucus membrane and shit starts to feel weird…

“Yo, Harry…” Jack says between gags. I take the CD from him and pass it to Catherine before zoning out again.

“Are you feeling it Mr. Krabs? Hahaha…” She says as she straightens out the bumps and pulls her hair back. I feel like I’m blackout drunk but somehow still in control. I watch Catherine do her bump like a god damn champion. She shivers slightly, blinks away the tears, and gulps down the drip like a shot of whiskey.

Oh fuck, that’s right…

The drip.

GULP!!

A slug made of mucus and street-grade cat tranquilizer slides down the back of my throat without warning. It’s worse than I expected, and Catherine seems to pick up on it. I cover my mouth as she opens her door and gets out of the car.

“Probably shoulda warned you, K drips are horrible.” She says.

I gulp down another slug and suppress the revolt in my stomach. I take a deep breath and my body begins to settle. “False alarm, I’m good!” I say as I lean back in my seat.

“Ugh, fuck! Euck! Aw that is fucking awful, dude! Worse than Molly!” Jack says in disgust.

“It grows on you.” Catherine mumbles sarcastically as she lights a cigarette.

“I think you sirs will find that the end justifies the means, hehehe…” Evan says.

“Yeah… Yeah I think you’re right… Hahahaha…” I mumble back.

“It feels like I’m really drunk… But better…” Jack says.

“You guys up for a little late-night stroll around the neighborhood?” Evan suggests.

Jack and I nod like zombies. Evan, Greg, and Catherine do another bump each before we get moving. Greg stumbles a bit before getting his bearings, laughing as he leans up against a tree.

“Get your sea legs, sailor! All aboard the SS Kizzle!” Evan laughs.

“I fuckin… You know how like, in Halo, when you jump, it feels like you’re fuckin’ floating?” I ask in the most retarded tone possible.

“Haha, dude! I said that exact same thing the first time I tried it!” Greg says, validating an observation that barely deserved an awkward silence. Greg’s not a dick like me and Jack. Come to think of it, most people aren’t…

The ground feels much softer now, and my limbs feel lighter. I’m functional, but spacey. They were right, it’s a bitch to try to explain. I might even say it’s a game changer.

“I’ve never really fucked with downers before. Is this what opiates feel like?” Jack asks the group.

“What, you mean like Oxy?” Catherine replies.

“Perc’s, oxy, whatever, I guess. I’ve never done any of those ‘cause of all the stories, y’know?” Jack says.

“Oh, yeah, totally. I was never big into them for the same reasons, but I dabbled a bit in high school. I don’t think you can really compare them, honestly. They’re both downers, but K is way weirder, haha.” She explains.

“Plus, it’s like who gets addicted to Ketamine? I never see it around here, even at school it’s rare.” Evan says.

“Can we chill on the corner for a minute? I gotta get the hang of walking and smoking at the same time.” Catherine asks.

“Yeah, sure.” Evan replies.

We all sit down on the curb and zone out as Evan roots through his backpack. Catherine starts playing music from her phone, Tiesto, Maximal Crazy. It’s been heavy in my rotation lately because I have awful taste in music. It’s like six minutes of my favorite part of another song looped over and over again.

“Yo, this is the DJ playing at school in a few weeks, right?” Evan asks.

“You’ve asked me that like three times this week. You know we have tickets, right?” Catherine replies.

“You sirs going to that show?” Evan asks Jack and I.

“I didn’t even know he was playing.” I reply.

“Yeah.” Jack says.

“Well you’re welcome to crash at my place if you want. I don’t know if you’re into that EDM shit but it’ll be a good time either way. I’m gonna make so much fucking money, dude, I can’t wait.” Evan replies.

“Word, if I can get work off I’m down.” I say.

“Yeah just keep me posted, no worries. How you guys feeling? Anyone want more?” Evan asks.

“Yup.”

“Mhm.”

“OK.”

“Word.”

“Words!! Haha. Coming right up…” Evan replies.

“You brought Molly, right?” Catherine asks him.

“Would you like to buy some?” Evan asks sarcastically.

“I only want like a point…” She says.

“I’ve got it all bagged up into halves, though. If you really want it I’ll weigh it out but then I’m gonna have a .4 bag and we’ll end up doing it ourselves or ripping somebody off.” Evan says.

“I don’t suppose any of you guys want to buy any Molly?” Catherine asks us.

My wallet has been out since I heard the word Molly.

“Yup! What do you want for .4?” I ask.

“30 sound good?” Evan asks.

“Sold! Does it go well with this shit?” I ask as I hand Evan the money.

“Oh, dude… It’s unreal.” Catherine says.

“Word. I definitely wanna try that then.” I reply.

“You want me to throw a point in each of your lines then?” Evan asks.

“You down?” I ask Jack.

“Ehhhh… We’ve been rolling a lot lately… You’re gonna do it either way, aren’t you?” Jack asks me.

“Absolutely.” I reply.

“Alright, fuck it, yeah.” Jack says.

“Every time I chill with you guys we end up going wicked hard.” I say.

“Wait, were you guys trying to lay off the M for a while or something? I know how that goes, I don’t wanna give it to you if you’re trying to take a break, y’know?” Evan asks.

“Oh, no, it’s cool man. I was just saying how every time we chill it’s an adventure.” I reply.

“Yeah, I was thinking about that too. Every time I get a call from Evan I have to brace myself almost. Like I look over at the clock and then back at my phone, knowing if I pick it up I’m not gonna be able to say no. ‘Cause if I say no I’m gonna miss out on some crazy shit that only happens when you chill with Evan.” Greg says.

“This kid is the same way, dude. I swear it’s like a fuckin’ sitcom every time I get into his truck.” I say, pointing to Jack.

“Yeah, last time I got into Jack’s truck he was driving with a bowl in one hand, texting with the other, he had a beer between his legs, and was driving with his elbows. I was laughing too hard to be scared, it was weird.” Greg replies.

“Yeah he’s like one of those guys that rides a unicycle while juggling chainsaws and balancing a ladder on his nose. But when he sends a text he has to drop everything and have complete silence like he’s taking the fucking SAT’s.” I joke.

“I don’t need silence, that’s just me telling you to shut the fuck up. But you’re retarded and can’t take a hint so you just keep going. And you left half the SAT blank you fuckin’ idiot. Tell ‘em about how you bought Concerta from one of our friends because you thought it’d make you smart.” Jack says.

“First of all, that was the ACT’s, which don’t even count. I left the science section blank because I’m badass and cool, same reason I was on drugs when I did it.” I reply.

“You paid for Concerta? That sucks, dude! They can’t even give that shit away at my school.” Greg says.

“I don’t know why I thought it would help, half our lunch table was prescribed it and they were all retarded like Jack.” I reply.

“You know he took two years to pass algebra one?” Jack says.

“It was three, actually. I have a learning disability too, y’know. You should be more compassionate.” I reply.

“Wait do you really have like…” Greg begins, not wanting to offend me.

“Oh yeah dude, I’m dumb as shit. That’s the clinical term for learning disability, but I’m not a teacher or Jack’s mother so I just call it what it is.” I reply.

“Well, you’re half right…” Jack says.

“If Jack was better at school he’d be one of those potheads that think depression and ADD don’t exist. Can’t you picture him on Joe Rogan like ‘Hey maaaannnn, it’s natural for kids not to give a shit about school, it’s all big pharma maaaan, they put fluoride in your water to make you retarded but if you smoke weed you won’t even notice.’” I say in my half-assed Jack impression.

“Keep going Harry, come on, run it into the ground until everyone’s uncomfortable. You’re on a roll, fuck it up, you can do it! You make me wanna k-hole just to get away from your stupid bullshit.” Jack replies.

“Whatever, faggot!” I say, putting the final nail in the coffin and proving once and for all that my razor-sharp wit is unmatched in verbal fisticuffs. Evan is caught off guard by my stunning ignorance and nearly wipes out his assortment of powdered narcotics with his laughter.

“Woah, woah, woah, woah, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like faggot I meant like, y’know, the Louis CK bit where he doesn’t throw away my drugs please?” I say jokingly but not really. Evan has to put the CD down and collect himself. Where the fuck was this me when I was sperging out in the basement earlier?

“Oooohhhh fuck… Oh, fuck. Ok!” I say as the K and Molly synergize beautifully in my head. They play so perfectly together, yin and yang. It’s like I’m rolling in space and I don’t really give a shit because I’m just so fucking happy. That’s all I got. Holy fuck stretching feels really good.

We go back to Keith’s house and pile into Greg’s car to smoke weed until one of us coughs up blood and/or loses consciousness. More lines are passed around, millions of brain cells are killed, and no good points are made by anyone. But it’s OK man, ‘cause like, we’re rolling!

“You guys wanna do some coke raps?! Let’s get some coke freestyles going, c’mon…” Evan says as he chops lines on an old leather book he took from Keith’s living room. It’s 2 AM and we’re sitting around a table on Keith’s back deck smoking weed and deviating our septums. I forget how Cocaine entered the discussion, since none of us have any and most of us haven’t even tried it yet. But that doesn’t stop Evan from laying down a beat with his hands and becoming a rapper before our very eyes.

“Cruisin’ down the street, lookin’ for that yay… Yo, it makes me cray!!” He spits with the confidence of a master composer that’s just finished his masterpiece. Everyone is too much of a pussy to step to him after he relinquishes the mic, but I strongly consider it, and I don’t even rap.

“Yo, you would be a good politician, dude.” I say to Evan.

“See!? I fucking told you, dude, everyone says that about him!” Greg says.

“He’s right, I do get that a lot, but I honestly don’t see it, haha…” Evan replies.

“The only thing holding you back is that you have a soul. You get rid of that and get used to lying you could be the fucking president, dude.” I argue.

“That’s exactly I’d never do it, though!” Evan laughs.

“Can you just humor me and say some politician shit? Then we can see how believable you are.” I ask.

“YEAH EVAN CAN YOU JUST LIKE, DO SOME PRESIDENT STUFF FOR ME FOR MY ENTERTAINMENT?! I DUNNO WHAT THE FUCK IT’S CALLED, YOU FIGURE IT OUT.” Jack says in a sickeningly accurate impression of me.

“You know what I fuckin’ mean, just say something like… I have never, ever, said the n-word. Nor do I ever plan to. My fellow Americans.” It’s the most solid sentence my verbal diarrhea can come up with right now, but it confuses the rest of the table.

“I have never, ever, said the n-word. Nor do I ever plan to. My fellow Americans.” Evan says. I giggle childishly in approval. “I’d vote for that.”

As I suck cat tranquilizer off an expensive piece of literature through a dirty fast food straw into my nasal cavity where it isn’t supposed to go, a wonkiness overwhelms me, pushing me back into my chair and disrupting the connection from my brain to my limbs. If this isn’t the K-Hole it’s gotta be pretty damn close. Shit’s starting to look weird, everybody’s starting to sound distant. I stare up at the sky as I slump down in my chair. I don’t even notice Evan tapping Jack on the shoulder and pointing at me. I slide myself back up into a seated position, which requires more motor function than I apparently have. I hope I don’t have to stand up any time soon.

“Yo! Harry! Fuckface! You down there?” Jack yells from what sounds like thousands of miles away.

Jesus Christ I am fuuuuucked uuuuppp…. I know I have to answer him, but I think I forgot how to make words with my face hole. I feel like a stroke victim learning to speak again as my jaw refuses to cooperate. I take a deep breath and concentrate.

“What up…” I mumble weakly.

“Eat this.” Jack says, putting something in my hand. A tab of acid. I slam it into my mouth awkwardly, immediately feeling as if I’ve jumped the gun. Jack sticks his tongue out and shows me his tab. I weigh my options silently to myself.

I don’t think I can get this out of my mouth right now. I could spit it out like a fuckin’ retard but that’d be disrespectful to Keith’s parents’ home and Evan’s business. If I could get my hand in my mouth right now I’d still have to fish around for a tiny piece of paper with fingers that may or may not comply with my orders…

Catherine checks her phone and I see the time: 3:15 AM. I swallow the tab. No sense in turning back now. All I can do is hope I regain control of my body before it kicks in. Worst case Ontario, I’ll have Jack hit me with an emergency bump of Molly to clear my head.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have just given that to him. I don’t think he realized what kinda commitment he was making when he did that.” Jack says as if I can’t hear him.

“You guys do this shit all the time though, right?” Greg asks.

“Haha, yeah…Yo Harry, you good?” Jack asks me.

I nod slowly like my neck is rusted. I can feel myself floating back into the real world slowly but surely. I clear my throat and smack my dry tongue around my dry mouth.

“I got this…” I say as I regain lucidity.

“You working today?” Jack asks nervously.

Oh fuck me, am I? Absolutely not, obviously. But was I supposed to? Shit…OK ,that’s right, I am off today. Thank fuck.

“Nah, I’m off.” I reply.

“Word, that’s good. Can I ask you one more question?” Jack asks.

I nod.

“What the fuck are we gonna do!?”

I sigh and laugh to myself as Jack and the rest of the table start to crack up. I haven’t eaten since hopefully yesterday, yeah, definitely yesterday. I can already feel the butterflies, I’ll be coming up soon. The K is beginning to fade more and more quickly, releasing its grip on my brain in what has to be the smoothest comedown of any drug I’ve ever done. As the K wears off and the L kicks in, I realize I’m fucking exhausted, dehydrated, and should be hungry. I rub my eyes in frustration and sigh before sitting back in my chair. Jack stares at me with a goofy smile that implies even he might regret this one.

“We’re really doing this, huh?” I ask, chuckling.

“Mhm…” Jack replies.

“Jesus Christ, hahahahaha… Aw, boy. This is gonna be a weird one. I can fuckin’ feel it.” I say.

“We should get back to your place before I start peaking.”

“Good call.”

As we rush to McDonald’s and the sky becomes a hypnotic, shifting, sea of color, Jack hands me the adapter to hook my iPod up to his stereo. I scowl at it and sigh.

“I might break this fucking thing if it doesn’t cooperate. Fair warning.” I say to Jack.

“Just try it, if it doesn’t work I got CD’s. I just need music right now, dude.” Jack replies.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS!?!?”

“What? Cop?”

“No, no, no cops, sorry dude. But look at my fucking iPod!! When the fuck did that happen!?”

The screen on my iPod Touch is smashed, though still useable to a degree.

“Whoah, what the fuck? When’d you drop it?”

“I don’t remember ever dropping it!”

“Does it still work!?”

“Yeah… Fuck, dude!”

I leave it face down on the dash board and try to relax. I’ll deal with it once I’m finally off all these drugs. Shit is very much weird as I open the door to my living room and grab a couple of beers from the fridge. I sit down on the couch and put on Wanderlustwhile I can still read the TV. I sigh and crack my beer open.

“Awww here it goes!”