BENEATH MY SKIN

During my times of drug use and sobriety, I abused sex like a drug. I used it to mask feelings and kill pain not caring about who I hurt, or hurting myself. I had sex recklessly and cared not about consequences, but from whom I could get more. The physical intimacy of a female; any female, healed my emptiness and frailty on a short term basis. An average man could read this and laugh about the idea of a”sex addiction” theory, but when you start having sex not for the pleasure, but for the pain; the humor dissipates.

I used to get high with a professor from Case Western Reserve University. A tall man in his late 30’s with short, and shaggy brown hair. He wore small black eye glasses that helped depict his intellectual appearance. He was smart, but at the same time, extremely strange. He would often have a coffee table full of loaded syringes filled with cocaine. He was also a mumbling freak who muffled sentences under his breath quite often. Sometimes he would mumble useless facts about famous historians or behaviors of tribes in some third world country. He would mumble these strange statements while searching behind couches, or under chairs for lost bags of drugs. You would think he is crazy or paranoid by his actions, but he really would find hidden stashes. Usually some insane amount of marijuana hidden under a floor board, or liquid cocaine in vials that fell beneath couch cushions. I think he often had so many drugs that he would either hide or lose them in the process of his neurotic binges. Somehow, amongst all the chaos, he would still hold up wonderful conversations, or even quote the most eloquent of literature. I guess he wasn’t a college professor for nothing. Very generous indeed, but his strange behaviors could make you not even care about free drugs; only as to what he was going to do next. He was a bisexual speed-freak, that at certain times you could walk downstairs in his huge Cleveland Heights home and catch him masturbating openly to porn on his laptop in the middle of the living room. He had a closet where he kept his drug paraphernalia. Sometimes I would have to go in his closet to get a bag of new syringes or find a new stash of cocaine. While searching through a disarray of clothing. I would often come across large dildos and strap-ons. I must say that I saw some fascinating things at this man’s house.

He had an enormous home in Cleveland Heights that was both extraordinary and magnificent. It had many rooms. Some rooms filled with miscellaneous junk, and others decorated elegantly with oakwood bedroom sets and the finest of fabrics. There was an open and wide atrium that was well lit by the sunlight during the day. It held different plants, as well as marijuana that produced a sweet scented aroma throughout the room. But what I loved most was the large study. It held a computer and a large desk with a flat surface that was filled with art supplies. The wide variety of books that surrounded the room in shelves was the most intriguing to me. It held anything from Aristotle to Nietzsche, to Hemingway, Shakespeare, or Melville. It was a room that held a wonderful theme of art, philosophy, and even poetry. This was the room I spent most of my time in. That’s where I was the night I sat in a heroin nod looking through a book of ancient Roman art when the girl found me.

It was an attractive black girl. With a gentle approach, she opened the wooden door. This girl had been there the few days that I had crashed at the professor’s house, but I never really spoke with her except for the few times we got high together. It appeared as if she had an aesthetic uniqueness of Indian descent. She had light skin, a round voluptuous ass, and big breasts that she flaunted well through a tight black shirt. She was somewhat thin from her apparent drug use, but it didn’t interfere with her exotic beauty. She was still beautiful with an exceptional magnetism.

She moved in close towards me to the point I could smell the scent of her feminine lotions and perfume from her skin. With a curious tone she asked “what are you reading?” She put her hand on the outside of my pants rubbing my inner thigh. She started to rub me slowly as she said with a soft inquiring voice, “why don’t you come downstairs? There are a lot of people down there.” She wanted me to join the party. The party that the professor often facilitated. Usually a big orgy of ecstasy induced sex fiends who took the occasional break to shoot cocaine or do a hit of whatever drug they preferred. It was a shooting gallery and union of degenerates over-indulging in sexual madness. A fascinating sight to see, but never something I wanted to participate in.

It was a time in my life that virtue played a very small role. However, there was something inside of me that felt I would be robbed of what values and morals I had left. There were two things that turned me off from participating: One, being the fact that the professor was bisexual and often had more men than women. Considering that I couldn’t do the homosexual thing because there was no desire in the thought or appearance, I would’ve had to exclude myself from most of went on. Secondly, for much as a sex fiend that I was, I still preferred one on one intimacy. Sure, being with two or more girls was always nice, but the sheer feeling of pure lust between a female and I was what fulfilled me the most. The sacred intimacy that brought upon me an inner lens to see within her soul. Exposing insecurities, fears, and inhibitions. That specific bridge of closeness was my preference and comfort. Even though my intentions were always good within that comfort, it was still a lustful hunt at which females became my prey.

At that time in the large study, I told the girl that I didn’t want to go downstairs. She said something to me that significantly stuck in my head since that night. She said with an observant curiosity, “you like being alone don’t you?” I replied turning the pages of the art book “Yeah, I do.” Standing up, she began to roam around the room looking at all the books. With a curious face like she was thinking of something to say, she stopped and looked back at me. “Do you want to get high?” she said softly. I looked up and said “sure.”

She pulled two syringes out of her purse and gave me both. She told me with a pleading, yet controlling voice, that I had to shoot her before I even do my own. Her puppy dog eyes and smile weakened my aloof character. I pulled the orange cap off of the syringe. She tied a black leather belt around her upper arm just above her elbow. The bottom half of her arm lay on a wooden desk platform in front of me, set for whatever I needed to do. I saw a vein and pushed on it a couple of times to confirm it was a good one to hit. I stuck the needle in her arm, pulled the plunger, and moved the needle back. I watched the blood shoot into the liquid like a bloody torpedo cloud. I then pushed the plunger in, exiting all the liquid into her veins. I pulled the needle out of her skin and grinned.

As I struggled to find a vein to shoot, the intoxicated and attractive black girl smiled at me with a sense of desire in her eyes. As I began to hit my vein and push the cocaine inside of me, the girl slowly dropped on her knees and unzipped my jeans. She pulled me half erect out of my pants and put it in her mouth. I stood motionless, wondering why it hasn’t hit me. Usually cocaine came quick. Real quick.

Suddenly, a surge of numbing warmth ran through my body. My taste buds and throat breathed the taste of cocaine. My hearing became amplified by all the noise around me and I felt deaf. I looked down as the girl stroked me while in her mouth. I could see her soft, light skin face trying to work away the drug induced impotency. She then reached her hand up my shirt. As her head bobbed back and forth in front of me, she scratched me hard on my lower chest and stomach with her long fingernails. They felt like knives. With the sweat of my skin absorbing into the wound, the sting was of incredible pain. The physical pain then suddenly turned to pleasure and aroused me. I stood half numb in a cocaine shock, and half stinging from what felt like knives in my body. With a rock hard erection in the girl’s mouth, she looked up at me while giving me small, but passionate strides with her tongue. Her nails still scratching me, stinging me… feeding me.

The pain made my eyes flutter in a sexual bliss. As I stood in this state of mind, visions flowed through my head. Flashing one by one. Bright. Bold. Fierce pictures of my past. Flashing. One by one. Through my head. Bright. Bold. Fierce. It was the pain. The self destruction. The immoral and wanton act that I was getting off on. My bold flashing visions fed the hunger for painful lust. A physical pain and familiar internal pain. The poignant inflictions of my past flashed like bright white lights beneath my eyes.

I saw my father, my family, and the looks of scorn. I saw HER, and a pale-faced memory of Jon. I saw the beatings, the twisted Catholicism, and the homosexual priests. I saw Jesus Christ, the Virgin Mary, and calloused scars that crawled up my arms. With branded skin, I proceeded to kill my father and shoot my family one by one. SHE kissed me and smiled before I was beaten once again. Jon’s face turned into my own before I revealed myself in a casket. Two priests engaged in sodomy before raping a young boy. They all then hung by a noose. Lifeless. I looked down and saw her lips on me. Back and forth. Closing my eyes, I came onto the crucifix and Jesus Christ wept tears of blood. Everything went blank. No smiles, no death, no loved ones or emotions. I looked down once again to see her lips. Swallowing me.

She swallowed the drugs, the sex, and the loneliness. She swallowed me and a part of my soul. For another short moment, I could burn away the self contemptuous hatred and maelstrom of my own fears and insecurities. I could mask my demons within her flesh; hide within her womb and cry like a child at infancy. I could hide behind an orgasm, a needle, or an empty room. If I had a weapon of justification and frivolous anticdotes, I could be alone for an eternity. That was the sum of my existence and ignorance at its finest. I was blind and illiterate towards my pain, and it was within short term gratification that I tried so hard to fight it.

Self gratifying behaviors can become detrimental to your mind and spirit. At that time in my life I was lost and searched for love and a sense of security within a shadow of my own loneliness. The only cure for my internal wounds was by a needle or between a female’s legs. I thrived off of the feeling of control when I looked into their eyes. They let their guards down and gave me a piece of them. I used those pieces to fill voids in myself. Now in pieces, I’m trying to put together my own created puzzle to become whole again.

2006

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