Wasted Youth

My youth is over. I realized this last night when Gangsta Boo & I were driving back from Jack In The Box, and he said, “I think I’m too fucked up to be driving.” I had been gripping my seat as we occasionally veered through the mostly empty streets of Berkeley. “If there were more cars out, we’d be in trouble,” he said.

I immediately launched into a state of panic even though I knew we were just fine. It occurred to me that I must have a death wish because this is the second time in a week that we’ve been in this situation, and I’ve just let it happen. But all I could say was, “You shouldn’t be driving, this is really scary.”

Back in the day, I had no problem riding shot gun with a drunk driver. This was, of course, incredibly stupid, yet here I still am. A good friend of mine used to drive drunk every time he went out, and he’d give me rides places. Over time, I realized that this was bad, bad, bad. So I stopped because that sense of immorality has started to evade me. Or, maybe what I mean to say: my youth is over because my stupidity is waning.

This is very uninteresting to me. I kinda wanna sigh and roll my eyes. Sure, I am in no way excited by the idea of sleeping with multiple strangers every weekend or getting black out drunk all the time or spending all my money on sequined booty shorts that disintegrate after you wear them one time. But I guess I haven’t found a new thrill to supplant the old ones. Mortality is settling in, and I’m having trouble recreating that sense of endless possibility.

Instead, I’m sitting in the car, realizing that this could be it, and if this is it, then that’s it, and it’s all over. Even though I know we’ll get home fine, I’ve lost that sense of assurance that we’ll get home fine. The risks are ever increasing, the rewards remain the same.

Regular People

“Yeah, but you’re a regular person. I’ll never be a regular person.”

I’m peeling myself out of bed after waking up too late and fucking too long. I’m late for work, which isn’t surprising because I’m usually late for work when he’s around. It’s a bad habit I’ve developed – I’d rather be in his arms all week than working. Of course, I don’t know if I’d rather be in his arms and broke than working. I like to tell myself in moments of romance that, yes, of course I could be destitute so long as I had his love, but let’s be real – I’m never going to test that theory, and even though I’m running late, I’ll still show up to work today, and tomorrow, and the rest of the week, and the rest of the month.

This is what he means by “regular person.” I’m a regular person because I go to work despite all of that. I’m functional these days. I have a steady income. I’m not so bowled over by my own emotions that I can’t get out of bed. Part of me wants to bristle at his accusation that I am a “regular person,” but nowadays I can’t really argue with it. Sure, when we first met, he never would have dared call me a “regular person” because I worked sporadically and drank consistently and was wrecked most of the time. I’m not sure why I want to bristle at the accusation that I’m a regular person – I have always, always wanted to have a regular job and regular income because to me that seemed to equate to peace of mind. I’ve been trying to achieve this for my entire life.

But perhaps there’s something lonely about it. At least in this moment as the big, long divide of normalcy separates us even as we lie in each others’ arms. I’m a regular person. I have a regular job. I have a future. I have a career. I have opportunities. I have privilege. But I didn’t always have all of this, so as I look at him after he popped that revelation out of his mouth, I feel a pang of nostalgia. Perhaps because before I was a regular person, he and I were both misfits together. Fuck ups. Weirdos. We held each others’ hands as we marched through reality in all our weirdness. Now? Now he feels miles away, and I can’t reach out and grab his hand, and I can’t pull him into normalcy, and I can’t make him be a regular person.

I realize how dangerous this is because despite the fact that we’re both in our 30’s, he’s a man and I’m a woman. He can keep partying for another fifteen years and look exactly the same because, well, black don’t crack. Me? Three more nights of binge drinking and I’ll look 52. Which is why I had to become a regular person – being the freak of the week or a creep at night wasn’t going to look good for too much longer.

It’s not that I envy him. I don’t envy him at all. Of course I’d rather be a regular person. I’m lucky – I got to fuck off my 20’s being a slut and a lush, and now I blend in with everyone else. It’s more that…I feel wistful. These are the last days that we make sense together. Another five years down our separate paths, and we’ll be total strangers. We won’t recognize each other in five years. We’ll be so far apart. Which is probably why I’m hanging onto him for dear life – I want as much of him as I can have while I still can. Before the astute life choices of my 30’s supplant the wild fancies of my 20’s.

New Normal

The funny thing is: all of this feels normal. I know it’s not, but this fuckery feels mundane. Almost. I guess I’ve just been doing it so long that I don’t really know any other way to be.

Yeah, I drank his piss, and I’ll do it again soon, and it’s pretty whatever. I guess it just goes to show that I’m so deeply nested inside this “lifestyle” that no one really cares. I was with Kelsey and her sugar daddy at dinner when I blurted it out, and they both looked at me with what I can only characterize as deep indifference.

“Oh, you drank his piss, did you? It was crazy, was it?” Okay, Kelsey, I get it, nothing shocks a seasoned dominatrix. Which is probably why I felt inspired with the feeling of, “I wonder if there’s anything crazy I can do that would shock Kelsey.” I have a feeling that this is not a very safe game to play.

Adventures in Intimacy

“Men can be such ugly creatures.” I’m sitting on Gangsta Boo’s lap in the bathroom as we’re doing our nightly dental routine. I look at him, wide eyed and with a mouth full of toothpaste, trying to give an enthusiastic nod to his statement without messing up the tooth brushing.

“How can you lie next to someone and not give a fuck about their heart or their health? It’s so ugly.”

I spit in the sink and pipe up, “I think being drunk has a lot to do with it.”

“Americans don’t know how to have sex sober.” I give a half nod again as he sticks the toothbrush back in my mouth.

“People are just afraid to be close to each other,” he continues as he brushes my teeth. “I would do this for any of my friends.”

I smile at that, too. He probably would, although when he shouts to his friend in the living room, “Hey! Want me to brush your teeth for you?” His friend politely declines. I guess that’s the thing – you can offer to brush your friends’ teeth, but you can’t make them do it.

 

Godless Complex

He is convinced of his own greatness. He’s a narcissist – an admission made of his own volition but also something anyone who knows him can corroborate. As he sits completely naked in my bed, telling me about the way the world works. I find something comforting in it, even if I’m not entirely sure how much of it I believe.
I want to see the world the way he sees it, with him as the dark horse hero in a somewhat sinister plot line. I want him to save the world, too, even if by the end of the story he doesn’t save anything or anyone, not even himself. But I like the stories he tells me, because in those stories he can save the world. He does save the world.
There’s a part of me that has a voice that sounds like the nagging insecurities of the world around me, and that voice tells me that none of this could possibly be true. That voice tells me to snap back to reality, to read through the lies, to confront the situation with the usual stark and uninteresting reality that I already live in. But I don’t like that reality. I like the reality that he paints for me, which is brilliant and vivid and full of magic and fasscinating beasts. I want the reality that he lives in, and I want to live there with him. Because me in my reality is cold and lonely. I’d rather be in a hell that could never be real with him than anywhere else alone.

Love and Pain

He is in agony, and I am in his arms, not quite sure what is going on, but hanging on for dear life because what else can I do. I hang on for his dear life, which seems weary and thin, more faded than the last time I saw him, and I close my eyes because I do not want to watch his war against the world, with me in his arms.
I surrender myself to him and his pain, which is eating him alive even as I try to keep his other, bitter demons at bay. I throw myself into the ring, even though I know that certain doom is waiting there for both of us, because I don’t want him to suffer alone. I am here because I love him, and to love him means I can never leave him, especially not in moments like this.
We used to brilliant. And beautiful. All over this fucking city. And now we are hunkered down, under blankets and in pain, waiting for a sense of finality to finish this chapter that is filled with less of the glitter and the orges and more with darkness. The devil. Destruction. Despair.
This never could have been avoided, but I still didn’t see it coming because I didn’t believe in the future. The future was a lie all those years ago, and now that it’s here, it is ugly, and there’s nothing we can do about it but let it wash over us. As we writhe in each other’s arms, we tell each other that we have each other, and that’s the most meaningful thing we could have in this our moment of pain or in any other better, brighter moment. We have each other. That’s all that matters.
Hold onto me in the night. Soon the day will break, and you’ll float out into the sea without me, where you will find your peace, which is without me, but I would rather set you to drift into peace alone than make you sit here in violence with me for any minute longer than you have to. Because I love you, and I am trying as hard as I can to take this pain away from you, and love is pain.

Old Party Girls

We stumble back in the door at 9 am and dive immediately back into bed. I’m too tired to dwell on the fact that when we first met, crawling into bed at 9 am generally meant that we had been out the whole night partying, fucking, doing blow, getting drunk, fighting people. But today we’re retreating back to bed and away from a different kind of demon. A less glamorous demon. A demon that licks its lips and says, “You’re getting older, guys.”

It’s true, we are getting older. He’s still wearing his hospital gown, and gesturing to it, he says to me, “I kept this on for you. I know you’d be into it.”

I can’t help but laugh. He’s right – I am into it. But he’s too sick to fuck and I’m too tired to fuck, so soon after laughing we drift back into sleep. We haven’t even fucked all week. Not that fucking is a barometer for the success or happiness of a relationship, but I can’t help but take note of it. We used to fuck nonstop, all the time, whenever we could. Now I wrap my arms around him at night and never let go.

We wake up later that day. He asks me to help him fill his prescriptions. It’s a different type of medicine for a different type of life.