Disposable People

“We do not throw him away.”

I am looking at a person who looks like so many people I have known in my life: discarded by the rest of us for an acute failure to conform to the standards of existence that have been arbitrarily ascribed to us via capitalism. I have tasted the madness in the world, and so has he, but for some reason I get to parade around, declaring that I am better, because the wounds that I wear are more palatable for the rest of the world to look at. Him? He is decaying.

It’s easy to throw people away. Fuck, I throw people away all the time, in grandiose, public displays of humiliation. Over and over again. The feeling of superiority is fun, and the thought of hanging onto people who will eventually hurt and disappoint me seems like a waste of time. I only want to invest in people whose friendships benefit me, and when that benefit is lost, so is our friendship.

Perhaps that isn’t a great way to live. I admit that I have been starkly afraid of watching people die slowly over time, and it’s easier to walk away at the first sign of trouble than to use all my strength to drag all of us out of hell. So I throw people away and tell the world that it is “the moral high ground,” even though the only reason I can call it that is because I never stick around to see what happens after a person is thrown away.

“Everyone else has thrown him away, but we do not throw him away.”

Having recently gone through the emotional roller coaster of outing and suing a predator in the #metoo movement, it was easy to point at the defenders of my abuser and call them stupid and cruel for sticking by a man who hurt me. There is something grotesque about the public display of defending a fallen man, but white men are generally not discarded by society, and that is not what I am talking about here. I am talking about those private moments, behind closed doors, when you do not have to defend your love to anyone: do you discard him, or do you keep him?

I discarded him because I thought that he was using me as a crutch when he could still secretly run. That I had to shoulder all the weight of a burden he could full well carry on his own, and now that I am gone, the supports have given way, and he is crawling on the ground. Which is why I have to ask: why do we like to watch certain people crawl on the ground?

No, that’s a lie. I never look back. I never look back at the people I used to love and watch them crawl on the ground. I pretend that they are flying just beyond my peripheral vision, and I am crawling in my own way.

But that’s not true, either. Even when everyone else told me to throw him away, I kept him. There were lots of good reasons to throw him away, but I didn’t because I loved him, and I’d like to think that my love isn’t that cheap. Even when it made sense to throw him away, even when it hurt to keep him – I couldn’t do it. My friends told me I would have been better off without him, that I should have gotten rid of him years ago. I guess that’s just relationships nowadays – we demand perfection, but never give it. We insist on moral purity even in the midst of our own sinfulness.

It’s easy to throw people away, because to keep them is to risk looking like a fool. Getting played. It’s easier to throw someone away and watch them crumble just to save face than to muscle through the madness with no end in sight.

But I have been disposable, too, and I have been thrown away, and I should know better than to abandon someone whom I claim to love, because I know the pain of being deserted in the dark with no one left to find me. Loneliness is a calamity, and it is slowly killing all of us.

So I turn to him, and I tell him, “You are safe here with me. I will protect you.” I will protect him from his demons, even though he is his demons and his demons are him. There’s no separating one from the other, but I close my eyes and kiss him anyways. I will sit here in the darkness and the screaming silence for as long as it takes, and when he doesn’t need me anymore, he can throw me away.



We fuck so much that it almost feels unmanageable, but then I remember that, oh, yeah, my body can endure an almost limitless amount of sex. All I need is sleep and food and water, and I’m good to go for as long as we can take it. So we just don’t stop.

After he leaves, I am imbued with this strange sense of not knowing what the fuck is going on if I’m not fucking. His dick isn’t in me, and I don’t really know what I’m doing. I guess I’m just waiting for him to come back, and in the interim I will go to work, pay my bills, use my favorite charcoal mask twice a week, do the dishes, and online shop. All of which feels fairly empty, because all I need in this life is to be naked with him.

I press my cheeks against these pillows and wait for sleep so I can dream of him when he’s not here. I think of ways that I can be better so the next time he sees me, he will love me more. I think of ways I can run away from all of this with him. I would abandon all of this, if only I could, but the world like a demon is always at my heels. So I bury myself in the hurt of having to be here, like this, and my rage at my skin for being the last thing that stops me from falling into him and dissolving there, together, forever. Pain is knowing that he is right there, just within reach, but that until the day I die we will always be separate. And to be separate is to be too far away for my heart to ever bear.

Love is chaos, I wouldn’t ever live without it.

All About Your Hopes and Dreams

I want to ask him. So many things. As we sit here in this sun soaked bedroom, yet another day passing through us. I want to know him, but I am afraid to ask, because what if knowing him is the scariest thing of all.

I want to ask him why. Or, who did he want to be before he became this person, and why is he this person now? Has he ever been whole? I want to ask him what he wants out of life. I would also like to know if he wants me in that life, but I am not in the mood to hear that I am just a passing fancy, so I keep my mouth shut.

Who were you before you were here, with me. I want to tell him that I used to be angel, but I have fallen down to earth, and in the mud and the soot and among everyone around me, I no longer recognize the angel I once used to be. I want to know if he was ever an angel, too. If there was every anything sweet and innocent about him before he became the devil. If there had ever been any hope for him, if he ever could have been anyone other than this person.

The reason I want to know is because I wonder if we could have been better people, and if we were ever better people, would we have found each other and loved each other then, too? Before he was broken, and when I was still beautiful, would we have found each other? Or is this just happenstance, and we are the sad victims.

If I had known him before he had been hurt, could I have saved him. I can’t save him now, and we are beyond hope, but when we die and go to heaven, will we still need each other? Who is he when he is at his best? And will we ever be our best again?

What is his paradise, and am I in it. Or is are we just in hell together for right now, and as soon as we can escape this place, we will not want to be together. Am I just a convenience, or is this love he has for me an attempt at permanence. Are we really the bad people other people claim that we should be, or are we capable of something better than that when no one is looking.

And what about the future? We are sitting here, rotting, and we have nothing to look forward to except our own decay. But what about the future? Is there ever any way that we could find our way into a better looking life, together? Can we wheedle our way into someone else’s dream? With the wedding and the house and the babies and in old age we will be sitting on some porch, sipping lemonade, holding hands? Or is this just it. Would he try if he thought it were possible? Would I?

I don’t ask him any of these questions. It would feel foolish to think that we are anything beyond the monsters we are right now. I do not wish to whisper about false hopes and ten million could have beens. I accept that I am suffering here with him, and all we can do is move forward, from moment to moment, like a leap of faith, and he will hold my hand as long as he can. And then, when he can no longer hold my hand, I will be here alone, and having the answers to any of those questions means nothing, either way.

The Other Lovers

“I have already impressed all the people that were worth impressing.” I’m sitting in this bar in the company of some man who for some reason wants a piece of me. I realize that words rolling out of my mouth are unbelievably cocky, but that doesn’t stop me. Nothing can stop me.

I shrug my shoulders and eventually walk away because this man in this bar is not the right now that I want. None of them have been the right now that I want, which is why I constantly find myself in this situation: always searching. Always wanting.

I fixate on a heart break because sometimes that’s the only thing that I have to hang onto. I am standing in the bathroom, dabbing on make up, while he sits on the toilet, and we talk like old friends. We are both broken beasts who have clawed their way together, and we moan over our lost loves mere moments after loving each other. We don’t seem to mind.

What does it mean to love someone who only loves you for the person that you could be and not the animal you are?

“He loved me, but he didn’t like me.” He stands up and hugs me and kisses me on the mouth. “Me, too,” he murmurs, and as we stand naked in the bathroom, I wonder: are we really our true selves with each other? Or is this a momentary lapse before we return to being the people that we aren’t because someone we love told us that it was the only way we are worthy of being loved? Are only monsters for a moment before running back home again, full of guilt and despair?

We crawl back to bed and listen to sad songs, and I cry softly for the first time in a long time because this song reminds me: I had lost a friend. I have chosen to be this person in this place, and because of this indulgence I have lost the friend who was supposed to be the love of my life. I am wet on his pillows as I think about that someone else, which is okay, but why does it hurt to just be me.

Because when I am me, I am always discarded. Which is why I am here, because this is the only place I can come to, where I can be myself, and I won’t be thrown away because of the soot and lies inside me. My little demons come trotting out, looking lovely in my skin and filling me with sin, and here that is an okay thing to do. I let my little demons run feral in this room, where they are free, just for now, before packing them back up inside me and hiding them from the world.

I walk back out through the rain, where I parade around, pretending to want to be the person that the world is telling me I should be. I go to my job, I am nice to my friends, I ride the bus downtown and buy groceries. I try to be the human that I’m not really sure I am, and I hope that one day someone will love me for at least trying, even though I will eventually be failing.

And these demons inside me are scratching there way out, and some day soon I will bleed out this devil, with my skin unfurled, and the truth like a puddle spilled on the ground and swept away down the gutter where it will dissolve and disappear like your memories of me.

The Lightness of Being in Love

He shakes me awake, turns me over, and slides inside me. I am in between dreaming and heaven with him, while both of us wonder, “Where the fuck are we?” But we are here together, so we hang onto that while we hip thrust and huff in this middle of night. I have no idea who I am or why I am in this world whenever he’s not with me. I was lost without him, but now we are lost together, and that makes so much more sense. I am departing from the guideposts of life that have told me to look good, be thin, make money, get married – because all of that felt empty and worthless without him. With him, I can be anything and it will always be right. I can be naked and crying, or careening crazy through city streets, so long as I am with him – everything will be all right. I wish he could never stop fucking me. That he would never have to pull away, that I would never have to leave. That I could live inside these moments forever and the rest of reality could melt away around us. I don’t care about anything else. Not a god damn thing. I care about him and me and us and are we together, and is he close to me, and are we connected in every possible moment. I am intoxicated. I am in delirium. I am in love. I want to be perfect for him, because he is perfect for me, as we sleep in these sheets with no clothes on and no care for the rest of the world. I have lost sight of anything that is beyond him. I have lost sight of myself because I am lost inside him. We are Adam and Eve fucking in Eden, and we do not eat, and we do not sleep, and there are no snakes. Just the trees and the wind and us, in love.

The Man, The Myth, The Monster

He fucks me.

He fucks me, he fucks me, he fucks me. He fucks me until I can’t fuck anymore, and then he fucks me again. He splits my legs open sweetly and sticks his dick inside me, and he fucks me, and he fucks me, and he fucks me.

I writhe in something that is beyond agony and beyond ecstasy, because by this time of daybreak I am so done with cumming and I am so done with hurting, but he fucks me anyways. I am beyond feeling, and I am beyond screaming, I just am. I am here, and I am his. I belong to him. I am his pet, and if I try to leave him, he will kill me. Not because he wants to hurt me, even though he hurts me, but because he knows I would rather die in his arms than live without him.

He holds me in the quiet, and even on the verge of collapse, he holds me here, with his dick inside me, and we are silent for a moment. Do not move, do not speak, just be here with me. He tells me everything will be okay. He tells me I am a good girl. When I die, I would like to be buried inside him, and if I died right now, I would be in heaven.

He fucks me into dust, and then the next day I get up and pretend like none of this has happened. I pull up my panties and put on my lipstick, and I brave my way out into the rest of the world. I sit calmly at tables with friends whom I have known for years. They tell me that we are getting older now, and that things have changed, and that maybe now that we’re older we don’t do the same crazy things that we used to. They tell me that the party is over, and I slyly smile and nod in agreement, knowing full well that at any moment I will be fleeing back to my baby so he can fuck me and he can hurt me and he can love me. I lie to my friends with glee because they have long ago abandoned the dream of being a woman like me, dangling at the end of a stick and laid out to waste in the doldrums of some other person’s pleasure.

No one loves me quite like he loves me. No one would fucking dare. I grin with my teeth, and I bite with my lips, and when I need him, he is there for me, too. The man, the myth, the monster. The mayhem, the madness, the end of fucking days.

Sex in San Francisco

I feel like I’m teetering on the edge of the world, naked in this studio that is slowly filling with dirt and discarded liquor bottles in Nob Hill. Like this entire apartment could break out of this building and go spinning into space, beyond time, into another dimension, and none of us would really notice. Everything is otherworldly in this tangle of flesh and knotted blankets, the accoutrements of fucking strewn haphazardly here and there, discarded garments in disarrayed piles, a sense of disquiet and disorder in every corner.

I came here to fuck. I look around at my companions in chaos, and I know what brought them here, too. This, like an abandoned outpost on our way into the grand journey of death, a slight reprieve, a place to hide in plain sight, a god damn flop house.

At first I felt like I didn’t belong. This is a den of addiction and demise, and I tell myself I am pretty and too perfect to belong in a place like this, but I keep coming back nonetheless. I am not drunk beyond recognition or high on meth, so I am not like the rest of them. But I am here. I have come here to scratch my unscratchable itch, to bury myself in the synthesized sensations of dick beyond the drudgery of my quotidian lifestyle. This is an indulgence. A bender. I am a bad girl in a bad place.

He sinks himself into me and wraps himself around me. I cannot breath, I cannot move, I cannot escape. But I didn’t come here to feel human, I came here to fuck. To make love. To have sex. To feel loved. Like a god damn drug, and I am sneaking around this city finding love in all the wrong places. Even as I lie there, naked and ashamed, I know: this is the only place I could come to find love, anyways. There is no love in all the right places. I know because I have looked. I have experienced love in all its paltry, meager expressions, but here, in this hell, love is real.

He grips my face and pours his eyes into my eyes. I am hanging on with all my heart, and I would like to never let go, to never have to leave this place, to never leave him. I want to be here, where I am safe with him, forever. I want to perish with him between these walls without the rest of the world clawing its way back in remind me that the person I am outside of this room is the person that I never want to be again but will always be as soon as I leave.

He licks my lips and tells me he loves me. I can’t remember the last time I came so close to a sense satisfaction in this life, but between fits of sleep and being devoured by his dick, I almost start to feel complete.

“Do I belong to you?”

“You belong to me. You are my pet.”

“I am yours, and you are the devil.”