Chapter 18

Hooker In Vitro (part 1)

06/26/07

So here I am, dick-deep, in the middle of an orgy and I’m feeling it—that rush of whatever. I’m about to bust a semi-truck sized load into this beautiful bohemian when I look over and realize this guy is staring at me. He’s drilling this bitch that’s hooking up with the slut that I’m fucking from behind, and he’s staring right into my eyes. I quickly look away, but I can still feel his lurid eyes looming over my entire design. My finger movements and thrusts start to slow down until I’m just standing there with wet fingers and a droopy dick. One girl keeps shouting for me to thrust harder, and the other girl is slapping me because she’s about to climax and my fingers are politely suspended inside of her. And he’s still staring at me.

I stop everything entirely and I begin to look at him. He has this eerie smirk that swathes his face as he continues to drill that bitch. And I’m angry as fuck.

“Whatcha lookin’ at buddy?” I say as I look away from the chaos that is beneath me. And taunting him I continue, “You want some of this. You want my big cock in your fuckin’ ass?” Is that what you want, you fuckin’ fanook?” And I use that term only because the word fag just isn’t kosher to me. There are times when I can be PC.

“Whoa buddy—relax,” he says as if everything is copasetic.
“No you fuckin’ relax!” My anger manifests into something that I don’t understand, something I’ve never seen or felt before. “I don’t appreciate you oglin’ my goods while you’re dick-deep inside of some bitch. You’re makin’ me feel real uncomfortable right now. So I suggest you close your eyes or focus on that whore you’re fuckin’ or I’m going to come over there and beat the shit out of you till all the blood that’s in your dick is pouring from your fuckin’ nose.”

And the girl looks up, sweaty and winded, and says, “Who you calling a whore?”
And spent from the situation, I slip out of her gracefully. The sound of bodily juices escaping her vagina silences the room as I say, “You know what? Fuck this shit; I don’t need this queero peepin’ at my masculinity while I’m trying to get off. I’m leaving.”

The girl I was fucking looks up at me and says, “Fine, we don’t need you.”
I bend down, look her in the eyes and say, “Fine, but don’t forget who made you come. A fuckin’ dildo can’t hit the spots my dick can.” And I bend down even lower until my eyes are fixed on her sagging breasts—victims to gravity—and say, “I control your orgasms, so keep screaming, but it won’t drown out the daunting shriek of insecurity.”

Mike, Allison, Casey, Alexandra, and Sara, they’re all recovering sex addicts. Every Wednesday night after their meeting they all meet up at Casey’s and collectively fuck until they’re spent. Their second pole, Matt, moved to Phoenix so I’ve been filling in for the last two months, if you know what I mean. It wasn’t much of a commitment since Casey lives right down the hall from me. She’s the one who invited me in the first place.

Casey’s been going to SA meetings for the last year now and says she’s really making improvements. She’s been trying to get me to come for months…to the meeting that is. But, I know, I’m no sex addict. What I have is different than what anyone there has. They’re all just a bunch of sad, lonely saps looking for answers in pubic holes. They’re unable to control their desires, so they attend these senseless gatherings in an effort to acquire some sort of sexual salvation. No, what I have is different. It can’t be cured with prayers and a thirty second hug. I’m curing my illness; the process is what gets me off.

I walk into my room and trip over a suitcase; it’s Greta’s money. I pick it up and lay it on my bed. I open the suitcase full of cash, put on my gloves, and begin to lay it, vertically, on top of my satin sheets. Fives and tens, twenties and hundreds—dead presidents just staring me in the face. Thousands of eyes just looking into my soul.

I close my eyes and I can see her—Greta; she’s nailed to a cross. Her only garments are a crown of thorns and a light sheath that covers her frame. A beam of light stretches from behind the hills and shines directly upon her design. Her breasts, unable to hide, begin to perk up as a gust of wind swims smoothly through the air, and envelops her body. And I’m starting to get hard again. It all seems so symbolic. And I know what I have to do now.

All of a sudden, I hear a knock at the door. It’s Casey; she’s naked. So I let her in.
Still winded she says, “Sorry about what happened back there. Mike can get really into it sometimes.”

“No worries,” I say assuredly. “I’m just a tired as hell and I want to get some sleep.”
“Oh, oh definitely. Right. Sure. I completely understand; it’s just—” She pauses for a moment and waits for me to say something, but as I continue to look at her, she spastically persists, attempting to drown out the effects of our awkward silence, “Well it’s just I really needed someone to talk to and well—you know—the only talking that really goes on in there is a cacophony of moans and a few oh babies.”

And I’m staring at the cash on the bed, then I’m looking into her eyes—they’re blue. I give her a long t-shirt so she can cover up as she strips down.

“Whoa…what’s with all the cash? Did you just rob a bank or something?” she asks half-jokingly.
“You could say that.”
She pauses for a moment to determine whether I am just being facetious and says, “And the furry cuffs?”
“Long story,” I say, keeping my mask on for insecurity purposes.
“You’re quite a peculiar one, aren’t you Hayden?”
“I’m different than most people, if that’s what you mean. So…what’s on your mind?” I ask, alluding to the fact that I want to be left alone, but doing so in a civil manner.

And she pauses. She wants to articulate this the best way she can. She takes a deep breath and says, “Well…it’s just…I’m sick of lying to myself. I’m going to these SA meetings and I’m listening to all these people talk about how they fuck anything that moves. They have sex in airplane bathrooms and Cadillac Devilles and confession boxes. And it all just seems endless to me. A bit pointless,” she says slurring her words, talking like a Valley girl. “When does it stop? When do they get better? They never explain their motives for doing such things. It’s always because they’re horny. They can’t control their urges and they fuck and they fuck and they fuck. It just seems more like a drug than anything. And I’ve tried going cold turkey; I’ve tried fucking in moderation, but nothing seems to work. I can’t go to bed at night without a special friend to keep me company, whether that be some random guy I picked up at a bar or a six-speed vibrator. I keep a pocket rocket with me at all times. I mean, if I’m on a train, alone, I’ll take him out and get off,” she adds in an attempt to show me show her depth. But I know that everyone is just a prime number, having no common factor except one. And she pleads, “I need to know why people do this. I need to know why I do this. Then and only then can I be cured…I think.”

And I respond, “Find the reason and then kill it at the source.”
“Yes! Exactly!” she shouts, now unreservedly excited. “And I know you never go to the meetings. You seem to be handling things differently. And I dunno…maybe I need a change in perspective. Maybe I need to find another way of going about things.”

She’s a quirky girl, overwrought with anxiety. Her words tend to spit out at a cheetah’s pace.
And I solemnly respond, “That’s exactly what you need.”

“So indulge me for a minute,” she says eagerly. “Give me perspective.”
“Well…it’s not that simple. I can’t just pinpoint a specific reason for why I do what I do.”
“But you know why?”
“Yea.”
“So just tell me how you...I dunno, came to that discovery. Just tell me anything that’ll point me in the right direction.”

“Just have a seat right next to Benjamin Franklin and I’ll explain everything.”
I head over to my desk and pop in a few methamphetamines; it’s going to be a long night. Then, I grab a dutch and a few nugs of Jack Herer and start to roll a blunt.

“You see—” I take the plastic wrapper off the blunt and continue, “I’m writing a book.”
“What about?” she asks as she rests her head on her hands.
“I’ll get to that,” I say. “Now listen, before you can fully grasp my mental workings I’m going to have to tell you a little bit about my past. I’m going to explain to you every sexual experience I’ve indulged in that has given me perspective—that has had a significant impact on me as a being, as an individual.” I unravel the cancer paper from the blunt, lick the edge of the outer leaf, take it off, lay it on my desk, and continue, “I need you to understand that the things I’m about to tell you might be a bit shocking, a bit gruesome,” I say, trying to scare her as I unravel the second leaf, sprinkle in two grams of weed and a quarter gram of coke, rewrap the blunt, and lick it closed. “I need to know that you aren’t going to freak out and call the police or anything. You understand? You can’t tell anyone else about this.”
“I understand.”

And here we are, sitting amongst our founding fathers, smoking a fat woobanger, discussing perspective, discussing control. I’m telling her every single detail, every fucking occurrence; I’m paraphrasing my book. I’m testing the waters. And she doesn’t seem to be bothered. She’s unaffected. Fuck, she’s intrigued. And it is at this moment that I feel alive. I feel the same way I felt after telling my story to my late roommate; I feel eternal.
Infinite.

Now imagine this feeling on a massive scale. Imagine: the moment I publish this book, people all around the world are gaining perspective. Not a different one, not a new viewpoint—they’re gaining perspective. It is unique. It is absolute. After understanding this, people will know that it merely stands alone. There are no other ways of viewing life. There’s the wrong way and then there’s truth, not truths, but truth. And then all will feel eternal.
Infinite.

And we’re fucking and talking until that great burning ball of nothing swaggers across the sky and obnoxiously threatens our pupils, giving us nothing but a brief realization that the night is over. And we both know these sorts of deviances can’t be done in broad daylight.
Another sleepless night.

When you have no problems sleeping, you constantly witness the death of each day's life. But when you have insomnia, you are always present for its rebirth. Ay! There is nothing more galvanizing than a sunrise, even when you are too exhausted to move.

She scurries off wearing nothing but my Led Zeppelin t-shirt and a newfound perspective on life. I head over to my computer and begin to type—

And death seems, at this point, so innocent to me. It hides in the shadows as to not show its vulnerability. And yet, I have found such an innocent peace, which burrows its way 6ft in the ground to drown the sound of the deceased. Now, I control the very fucking soul of this irreparable beast. Death be not proud, at my presence, you bowed, for my vengeance is loud to say the least. Death, your effect is trite, for you do not fright even in the thickness of night. But I will live on, eternally, in the words that I write. Death, you cannot hide from that swaggering ball in the sky. Your creator’s a whore, you shall be no more; death thou shalt die.