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wanderingsoul
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Abuse and Addiction - A Tale of Dale (NC-17) FINISHIED!
Ok...giving warnings here. First of all, sex, violance and drugs. Second, it's in progress. May take some time to finish. Read about the concept of repressionif you get a chance. Apparently we begin to learn how to repress bad experiences from the time we are about 10 weeks old. Our mind and body do this for our self-protection. We can't deal with something right now, so we push it back where we are safe from it. The catch is, of course, that things repressed find their way out later--when your mind is somehow convinced into believing that you can handle things. And sometimes they come out at odd times.
This story is one of those repressed things. Oh, I have never buried this part of my life completely. Just pushed it to the background. Ignored it. But last night I was talking to Mark and started typing while waiting for his replies. This is what came out. Never meant to write this. Never meant to explore these memories in detail. Never meant to subject them to scrutiny by myself or others. Much easier to just let them float around in the background. But apparently it was time for them to get out and be examined. And this bit of writing is apparently how I am going to examine and deal with that part of my life. Oh well... could be worse.
*sighs* I haven't changed any names. If I ever decide to do anything with this "story" I will. But for now, it is a memory being examined. The names are real because that is how they come to my head. Really cannot be bothered to make the effort to change them. Would interrupt the flow of this from my head. Which might be a good thing--but which would impede any progress I am likely to make writing this.
Oh well, read at your own risk.
12/31/03: Well, the deed is done, the tale is told. Found a lot of repressed memories while writing this. Some were very bad--had me reacting very physically, had me breathing into a paper bag. Some were actually good. I feel certain that I have unearthed all the repressed memories and feelings about this time in my life. There are a couple of issues that were referred to in this tale that I have yet to address and resolve. They are for another round of "writing therapy."
There is no moral to this story. It's only purpose was to get me to examine some things in my life more closely--and to attempt to get myself to understand why I did what I did. But it may also serve a purpose beyond me. Maybe it will give someone--even just one person--some understanding of abuse and what it is like to be on the inside of that type of relationship. People are often quick to judge the victim of abuse--often more quickly than they judge the abuser.
Last edited by wanderingsoul, 12/31/2003, 7:28 am
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And by and by my Soul returned to me, And answered "I Myself amd Heav'n and Hell"
Omar Khayyam
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10/28/2003, 4:16 am
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wanderingsoul
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Re: Abuse and Addiction - A Tale of Dale (NC-17)
I hated that part. Hated tying the band around my arm. Hated sticking the needle in my vein. Always had a vague fear of doing it wrong, of sending a bubble of air to my heart or breaking the needle off in my arm. But I loved the feeling of the heroin as it moved from the syringe through the needle into my arm. Loved the hot feeling as it hit my blood. Not everyone feels it like that, I’m told. Dale never did. But then, I don’t think Dale ever felt much of anything. But to me it was a sharp burn that spread outwards. And for a moment I felt as if I were on fire. It only lasted a moment or two. Probably not even long enough to notice, really—except that I always looked for that feeling, expected it, anticipated it. I wanted it to consume me, I think. I think I wanted that to be the entire experience—just let me burst into flames and have it done with.
Well, that was true at that moment anyway. Until the feeling started. I say feeling, but it wasn’t really. It was a blissful lack of feeling. Or maybe just selective feeling. Feeling like everything was good, pleasant, satisfying. But not really having any sense of why. Absence of reasoning, maybe. That’s how it felt—or how I now look at it as having felt. Didn’t analyze it then. Didn’t think about it then. Just felt it, reacted to it.
Dale was like that to me. Didn’t think about him. Just felt him, reacted to him. If I had thought about him, I probably would have run straight away. But then, maybe not. I was looking for self-destruction at the time—didn’t recognize it as that, but that’s what it was. Dale was self-destruction in a bottle, and he dispensed it freely. Well, actually, with Dale NOTHING was free. Everything had a price. And I was so willing to pay it.
First time I saw him I felt his pull. Felt the black hole of him drawing me toward him, into him. Knew he would take my light, but I didn’t have much light to lose anyway. And the darkness looked so cool and comforting. Wanted to just surround myself with it, let it block out all the vestige of light that remained in me. Not much left I wanted to see anyway.
I wonder how I knew. I wonder how I knew he was like anti-matter. He was like the other end of a magnet, drawing me to him. Should have turned around. Should have let that pull reverse and push me away. Would have been better. Or would it? Not so sure, really. I would have found some other means, I suppose.
Paul had left me with a kiss and the words “Don’t be so dead set against Mark. He loves you more than I do even.” Laughed when he said it. Wasn’t funny. I know now—or think I do—that he meant that Mark loved me so very much—but what I heard was that Paul loved me less. Made me want to die. I had put my heart and soul into that man. For nearly 2 years. I had been 17—nearly 18 when he had given me back my life. I was 19 years 4 months and 6 days old when he took it back, when he left. Not that it was an important day for me or anything! Not that I marked it down on the calendar. Didn’t write it in a journal. Just chiseled it into my heart—which felt like stone. No, that was what I had wanted it to feel like. What it actually felt like was a raw, open sore. And the chisel was more a razor blade, cutting into whatever bits of flesh it could find.
I have to think that he wouldn’t have left like that if he had known. Now, I think that. He loved me. I had known it when we were together, know it now. But when he left, all that knowledge deserted me, left me to the mercy of my insecurities. And my insecurities told me he did not love me, not enough—never had loved me, not really. Wouldn’t have left if he did. Wouldn’t have left me alone. Wouldn’t have left me. And that’s just how I felt: Left. Discarded. Thrown away. Like an empty container, yesterday’s newspaper, last night’s table scraps.
It was about 3 weeks after Paul left that I first saw Dale. About… Odd… I so carefully marked the day that Paul left, but cannot quite remember the day I met Dale. Not surprising, probably. Had lost myself in a nearly non-stop alcoholic stupor. The night after Paul left, I bought a bottle of scotch (Paul’s favorite drink). Had it for dinner. Had it for breakfast the next morning also. Made most meals from that bottle—and the ones just like it that followed. Sobered up just enough to buy more. And when I ran out and the liquor store was closed, I would somehow find my way to a bar. Oh, I lived within reasonable staggering distance of a bar—which was good because even had I wanted to drive, there would have been no way I could have managed. I thank god for that now—well, not god, because I don’t believe in him—but I thank whatever forces kept me on my feet and kept me from getting behind the wheel during that time.
Don’t remember where Mark was in all this. Well, vaguely remember his face in the doorway sometimes. Vaguely remember his voice or his hand on my elbow. But seriously, I was immersed in oblivion. Or sort of oblivion. I still remembered Paul’s lips on mine. Still remembered the smell of his hair in my face. Still remembered the feel of him inside me. Those things never quite left me. Nor did “He loves you more than I do even.” That was the first sound that greeted me when my eyes opened in whatever passed for my morning. It was the last sound that left me when I finally passed out at the end of my “day.”
Was a Monday night when I met Dale. Yeah, remember that much. Remember that because the liquor store was closed on Monday and I was out of scotch and there was nothing else in the apartment. Mark had stopped putting the beer in the fridge. Ass. Had some stupid idea that I might mix the scotch and the beer and do more harm to myself that way. Should have left the beer in the fridge. Wouldn’t have gone to the bar that night then. Wouldn’t have sat down at that table (couldn’t manage the bar stool). Wouldn’t have looked across the room. Wouldn’t have seen Dale. All these wouldn’ts would have been—had only Mark left the beer in the fridge. Damned odd little twists of fate. Like that chaos theory. Like the insignificant flutter of a butterfly’s wings changing the air currents of the world and causing a major hurricane. Mark takes the beer out of the fridge and I meet Dale.
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And by and by my Soul returned to me, And answered "I Myself amd Heav'n and Hell"
Omar Khayyam
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10/28/2003, 4:23 am
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wanderingsoul
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He was playing pool with some really rough-looking guy. Not that he wasn’t a bit rough-looking himself. God, I do remember every detail of him that night! Hadn’t realized he made such an instant impression on me. His hair was blonde--dark blonde, but with lighter streaks. Looked natural, from the sun, not from the salon. God! I am imagining Dale in a salon! Would be ****ing hysterical! Anyway, it was thick and long, just past his shoulders. Didn’t really look like he had washed it that day, or the day before. He had a mustache and a little goatee thing… not much, just really looked like he hadn’t shaved in a few days in selected areas. They were very light blonde, though, like the streaks in his hair. Made me wonder if his hair was dark blonde with light streaks or light blonde with dark streaks. Yeah, actually wondered that. Was very drunk. Mind going off on tangents.
But I can still see him at that moment as clearly in my mind as if I were seeing him in front of me right now. It’s like a photograph, preserving that one moment forever to torment me. He was wearing jeans, black work boots, an old-looking white t-shirt and a black leather vest. Nothing special, but it somehow made him look rough as hell. I watched him for some time. Don’t know why, really. Wasn’t really looking for anyone. Well, all right, I was 3 weeks without sex. AT 19 that is a long time when you were used to having it whenever you wanted it. Even the alcohol didn’t quite deaden THAT. And as he bent over the pool table and positioned the cue stick, the muscles in his shoulders and arms would flex and I could see the veins in his arms riding on top of those muscles. Oh yeah… was a beautiful sight. You know, when I was with Paul I had discovered that I had a real thing for shoulders and arms. Just one of the many things I had discovered about myself while with Paul. But I still get that little ripple of warmth when picture Dale’s arms. Been 5 years with a lot of **** in between, but that still runs right through me, right down to my loins. Felt like using that word—reminds me of the historical romances I used to read and play at writing. But the truth is, that mental image of Dale still sets my **** hard, but I was trying to say that a little less crudely. No point, though. Just about everything about Dale was crude. Might as well let the memories be crude, as well.
He moved to the other side of the pool table to take his shot, he leaned over the table and his hair fell in front of him, nearly brushing the table. He was facing in my direction now and I got a really good look at his face as he lined up his shot. No one would ever call Dale handsome, probably not even attractive. His nose was a bit short and looked like it had been broken a few times. His face was thin and he had a scar that looked not that old running from the corner of his left eye down to his ear, and another one, looked a little older, that ran from the corner of his mouth down to his chin. The scars didn’t take away from his looks, though. They actually added to them. Took him from being ordinary and unattractive right to being “dangerous.” And he had an earring in each ear, silver rings with a turquoise bead on each one. I remember focusing on the earrings. For some reason they caught my eye. Have a thing for earrings, actually. Another of those things I discovered about myself while with Paul.
Then he looked up—just before taking his shot, he looked up and his eyes looked right at me. Normally I would have quickly looked away, made some pretense of examining my glass, the food menu, whatever. Would have looked away, immediately. But like I said, I was drunk as hell. And honestly, there was no way in hell I could have looked away if I had been dead sober. The man had eyes that seemed to bore right through me. Yeah, I know. I was drunk. Maybe he could have had eyes like the kind that come with the false nose and the glasses and bounced around on the end of springs and I might still have felt that. But I doubt it. They were the most incredible shade of blue—a blue I could see even as far away from him as I was. It was a blue like the Indian turquoise jewelry—and it struck me immediately that they were the same color as the beads on his earrings.
He looked at me for a moment. Seemed like a long moment, but then the alcohol was making time behave a bit relatively for me. But it seemed like our eyes met for longer than just a casual glance. Then he looked away and went back to his shot. And I suddenly felt like I had felt when I was 14 years old, when I had been in the lunchroom at school and had been staring longingly at this girl named Debra. Must have sat there staring at her most of the lunch hour. Remember seeing one of her friends nudge her with her elbow and Debra looked up and her eyes met mine. And for a moment my heart stood still and I just KNEW this was the moment our souls would meet—then she looked away as if she hadn’t even seen me. I look back now and realize that Dale was already working my head. Without even knowing me, he instinctively knew how to make the first scratch in the surface of my self-esteem.
But at the time, I just felt incredibly embarrassed. Looked away immediately. Looked at my hands. Looked at my glass—discovered it was empty and made a beeline for the bar to fix that. Beeline… hardly as graceful or as direct as that! Nearly fell over my chair as I stood up—and had to wind through people to get to the bar. Felt like a rat—a drunken rat—in an impossible maze! And of course, I kept glancing back over at him as I wound through the people (in truth, there were probably 5 or 6 people!). He was caught up in the game, though. Didn’t even notice me.
“You sure you want another, Poe Boy?” The bartender was Mark’s oldest brother Aaron. Owned the bar. Still does. Told him I was sure. He shook his head, but was apparently satisfied that I wasn’t going to pass out in the immediate future—or hurl all over his bar—and he knew I had walked there. So he went to make me another drink. Was drinking scotch with ginger ale. When Paul mixed the scotch with anything, it was ginger ale.
“Why does he call you Poe Boy?” The voice was deep and a bit scratchy, rough around the edges. Good thing I didn’t have my drink yet because I would have spilled it all over myself because I nearly jumped out of my skin. Aaron came back with my drink before I could answer.
“It’s short for Poet Boy. But Luc hates to be called that. I just like to piss him off. “Another beer?” He asked the disembodied voice. I say that because it was still a voice with no body--I hadn’t turned to see who it was. But really, I knew.
I took a sip of my drink—more of a gulp, really. My hand shook as I turned to look at him. Of course it was him. Never doubted for a moment. He nodded to Aaron and turned to me, a smile on his face. God it was one hell of a smile! “Poet Boy?” He raised an eyebrow and I noticed it was dark, while the rest of his facial hair was very light blonde. Funny the things you focus on at the oddest times—or when you are so incredibly drunk you can barely see.
I nodded and grimaced. “Used to write a lot of poetry in school.” My voice sounded like it was coming from someone else’s body.
“Why do you hate to be called that then?” He was maintaining eye contact with me, or trying to. His gaze was very direct and I kept looking down and back up. He told me later that look from under my eyelashes was what did it for him.
“Wasn’t really meant as a compliment, considering the ones calling me that were usually throwing my books at me.” I smiled self-consciously when I said it, and quickly took another drink. Why did Aaron have to call me that?
He laughed and took a drink of his beer, looking away from me at last “Kids are *****es, aren’t they?” He leaned against the bar, one foot resting on the bottom rung of the barstool. “You play pool?”
I glanced over at the pool table. It was an instinctive reaction. Wanted to see where the guy he had been playing with had gone. He wasn’t around.
“He had to go. Kicked his ass though.” He raised one of his dark brows. “Up to a game?”
I was up to any game he wanted. Almost said that. Was on the tip of my drunken tongue. But I just shrugged. “Sure. Fair warning, though… I suck.”
He looked at me and raised that eyebrow again, and—to my incredible surprise—let his eyes travel slowly down my body and back up again. He smiled slowly. “And I bet you’re damn good at it too” Then he pretended he had misunderstood. “Oh.. you mean you suck at pool!” He grinned and so did I. Was funny. I know I was drunk, and drink tends to loosen the inhibitions, but from that moment I felt instantly comfortable with him.
We played pool. As promised, I sucked. I was a mediocre player at best fully sober. As drunk as I was, I could barely hold the stick and I was lucky if I sank 3 shots. At one point, after a bit, he just laughed and leaned over me and grabbed the stick. “Going to hurt yourself with that, I think.” He put a hand on my back and I was surprised at how warm it felt—especially as he began to rub my back very slowly, back and forth. It felt very relaxing, a bit hypnotic, actually. And at that point I really realized how drunk I was. Was very near to passing out—or at the very least falling asleep.
“And just how much HAVE you had to drink tonight?” His voice was slightly teasing. And I realized we were walking to the door. I remember thinking that he was finding his way through the rat’s maze a lot easier than I had—and I was impressed. I think I said that to him. Not really sure, but he looked at me curiously and laughed.
“You are VERY drunk, aren’t you?” I nodded and grinned. He shook his head. “You hide it well—or you did until a few minutes ago. Don’t know how you got here, but you aren’t in any state to drive—and I doubt you’d make more than 15 feet walking. Come on, I’ll give you a ride.”
His truck was parked in back. When we were in the truck, he put his arm across my shoulders and leaned against me, his lips brushing my ear. “Your place or mine?” Classic line. No imagination at all. Remember actually thinking that at the time. But it worked. Amazing how alcohol effects your inhibitions. Drink enough and you have none. I had drunk enough. Took me to his apartment and ****ed me as hard and as rough as I had ever been ****ed. I remember afterwards he was so gentle, kept asking if he had hurt me. He had, but I just shook my head and said no, it was really great. And it had felt good. Damned good. But he had hurt me like Paul had NEVER hurt me. But somehow it seemed right. At some point afterwards, he told me his name was Dale.
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And by and by my Soul returned to me, And answered "I Myself amd Heav'n and Hell"
Omar Khayyam
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11/5/2003, 7:54 am
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Woke up the next morning in his bed. Had a brief panicked moment of “where the **** am I?” before I remembered everything. I looked at the clock next to the bed and saw it was 12:30 in the afternoon! I groaned and got out of bed. Had another brief panicked moment of “where the **** are my clothes?” before I found them on the radiator. It was early November and cold as hell. Didn’t remember putting my clothes on the radiator, so Dale must have done that. I remember thinking it was very thoughtful of him to make sure they were nice and warm for me.
Dale was in the kitchen drinking coffee. He grinned at me. I grinned back, a bit self-consciously. “Sorry, haven’t slept much recently,” I said apologetically.
He offered me a cup of coffee, which I took as I sat down across from him. “Surprised you woke up at all. Figured you for at least a full day.” He looked carefully at me. I remember those turquoise blue eyes searching my face. I think I blushed. “Thought you would be sick as hell.” He shook his head. “I would be puking my guts out if I had drank as much as you did.”
I grinned. “ I never get hangovers. Only had one in my life and that was when I mixed what I was drinking. Was 13. Drank everything in my friend’s house: beer, dandelion wine, sherry, Canadian whisky, vodka, you name it. Puked all over my friend’s couch! Had to call my dad to come get me. Told him I had eaten bad pizza.” I had actually forgotten that memory. But when I had started talking to Dale it had just come to my head and had just spilled out.
Dale had laughed and I remember thinking how very sexy his laugh was. It was deep and had a hard edge to it—a clear, sharp edge. There was nothing “soft” about Dale’s laugh.
We went on to talk quite a bit. He asked me why I had gotten so drunk last night and I told him all about Paul. He asked me questions, I answered him—automatically, without consideration. Just answered any question he asked. And all the while we were talking his eyes—those amazing turquoise eyes—were on my face. I didn’t even realize he had taken my hand until I stopped talking. I felt suddenly embarrassed, realized I had pretty much spilled my soul to this man I had just met last night. He picked up my hand and pulled it toward him and covered it with his other hand. “You really have managed to get yourself into some ****.” His voice was gentle.
I nodded and looked down at my coffee cup. “Yeah, I have a talent for it, I think.”
He reached over and pushed some of my hair back from my eyes—it was always falling into my eyes. “Too bad you don’t have that same talent for pool.” I looked up at him and saw his eyes were laughing. I laughed too.
Dale was like that. When there was a moment of tension, he would find a way to break it. I think, really, he hated those moments that verged on becoming intimate. Not intimate in a sexual way—Dale never shied away from sex. But intimate in a personal or connecting way. Dale lived on the surface of life, I think. Don’t think he was comfortable with anything deeper.
But I found myself really drawn to Dale. Knew immediately he was dangerous—didn’t just LOOK dangerous, he WAS dangerous. But there was something I wanted in that danger. Was a darkness, cool and soothing, like the coolness of a satin sheet against hot skin. I could just sense something in him that I needed and wanted. Didn’t know quite what it was, though. And I didn’t waste much effort trying to figure it out. I just surrendered to it.
***
Started right off spending a lot of time with Dale. I had no job then—I had lost it when I went on the three-week binge after Paul had left. Never “moved in” with Dale. Somehow that never came up. Probably was not what either of us wanted. Moving in would have implied commitment. There was nothing even remotely implying commitment in our relationship. But still, I spent a LOT of time with him. Mark kept up the expenses for the apartment. He had a good job and told me not to worry about it, he could handle it himself until I found another job.
I spent most days and most nights with Dale, though. He would have a few friends over to his apartment. Would all sit around drinking beer and smoking pot. I had smoked it before, but not often. Mark had never smoked it. He was dead against drugs of any kind. Would drink like any other 21 year old, but the good farm boy in him just didn’t see drugs as right. I used to tease him about it sometimes. He would just laugh with me. He had very strong views on drugs, but he didn’t inflict them on others—not even his best friend. And that is probably a good thing, now that I look back at it. Probably would have pushed me away from him a bit if he had gotten preachy over it. But he was always my friend, not my dad, not my keeper---well, not back then.
Have to say that sex with Dale was very good from the first time to the last time. Even got to great more than once. I suppose from my first sexual experience with Linda I had always preferred to NOT be the one in control. That had worked out well with Linda because she was 5 years older and new what SHE was doing—which I certainly had NOT when I had first met her. That and she liked to control things. Always knew exactly what she wanted and taught me exactly how to give it to her. And that worked for me, as well. Always found that more…satisfying. Even my fantasies were more of being controlled, being submissive. I suspect a person’s sexual taste is predetermined to some degree. Oh, I’m sure our experiences—especially our early ones—influence what we like. But I really think the basic instincts are programmed by our personality. Odd… considering in the non-sexual part of my life I am something of a control freak. But then, maybe that isn’t all that odd. Maybe I tend to want to control that part of my life because I can. Maybe I am making up for the part of my life, of my personality, that I don’t feel I can control—or perhaps don’t want to control? Hmm… could go ‘round and ‘round on that one for awhile.
But I guess what I am getting at here is that Dale played to my own natural tendencies. I suspect he was very good at reading people. Must have seen that in me right away. Sex with Dale was always rough as hell. Gave me exactly what I wanted—and then some. Even early on in our relationship, I could see where he really pushed that envelope, though. Really walked that line between rough and abusive. But that was what I wanted. And maybe I’m giving him too much credit. Maybe I’m reading more into him than he was. Maybe he just liked to **** hard.
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And by and by my Soul returned to me, And answered "I Myself amd Heav'n and Hell"
Omar Khayyam
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11/12/2003, 3:00 am
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The nightmares had started up again about 3 days after Paul had left. They were old nightmares, familiar faces, familiar voices. I had them nearly every night before I had met Paul. Had them nearly every night for over a year. They had started about 2 weeks after the start of my senior year of high school. Sometimes the details were very specific. Sometimes I could see the faces, hear the voices, feel the blows, taste the blood. And it would be like I was there again. I could feel myself slipping into near unconsciousness. I could hear those voices distort, see the faces start to swim. And then… I would wake up at that point. I would wake up with my arms trying to wrap around myself, trying to hold myself. And I would be shaking, but not crying. Never crying from these nightmares.
But sometimes there were no details. I would just be alone in a room that echoed. A faucet dripped and every drip of the water from that faucet would sound like an explosion. And I would stand there with my ears covered. Then it would start… The feeling of being trapped. I would try the doors. They wouldn’t open. And the windows would suddenly be gone. I would stand there and shake, tears of frustration—and terror—running down my face. I just wanted to run, wanted to get away—but there was nowhere to run, no way to escape. I was trapped.
I would wake up from those dreams, often screaming—always crying, my body nearly convulsing with fear. These were the bad ones. The ones with the details I could deal with. They were concrete. I knew the faces, remembered the incident. It was real and focused and I could put it away once I woke up, after a little while. But these… they were just generalized fear and unbearable frustration. They pumped me full of all the adrenaline needed for the fight or flight response—and then held me captive, wouldn’t let me run, wouldn’t let me escape. There was nothing I could do. Everywhere I turned there was a blank wall, a locked door, no way out. THESE stayed with me long after I woke up. THESE dosed me with a sense of anxiety that I couldn’t quite shake. These stayed with me for days.
Paul had managed to quiet the nightmares. Early on in our relationship, I still had them. But as time went on, they became less frequent. And when I did have them, Paul would comfort them away, his strong arms around me, his lips in my hair, his voice soft and soothing. And even the faceless dreams would fade. Paul had managed to make me feel safe. Don’t know quite how he did that. But from the very first time we were together he gave me a sense of safety and of peace. Only two people in my life have ever given me that. Dale was NOT one of them. But Dale managed to find a way to quiet my nightmares.
---
And by and by my Soul returned to me, And answered "I Myself amd Heav'n and Hell"
Omar Khayyam
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11/14/2003, 3:28 am
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.
Started spending nights with Dale. Not every night, but some. Most of the nights with Dale were basically the same. He would have some of his friends over and we would drink and smoke pot. He had a couple of friends that were almost always there. One was Rob—he was the rough-looking guy he had been playing pool with the night we met. Another was Chris—she was something of a girlfriend. Chris was very quiet—usually a bit strung out, I think. Didn’t know at the time what drugs she did, but even I—relatively innocent thing that I was at the time—could tell she was doing something. Rob was a pig. Had the manners of a pig. Had the mouth of a pig. No actually, a pig is much cleaner and nicer. He was crude as hell—more crude than Dale even—though at the time, I really hadn’t caught on to that side of Dale yet. He seemed to find me some hilarious joke. The pretty little toy Dale had picked up in the bar. Something for him to keep around in case Chris wouldn’t put out. Those were pretty much his words. Heard them many times. Dale would laugh and tell him to **** off. But he never contradicted him. I think I noticed that then. But I didn’t pay much conscious attention to it. Still young enough to be a little embarrassed by being called a “pretty little toy” and saying anything about it would have made me have to actually SAY it. Just not something I could really do then.
Sometimes during the evening Dale would get this look. Sent chills down my spine. Good chills. He would usually be sitting next to me, even when Chris was there. I would feel his eyes on me somehow. Or maybe I picked up on the looks I was getting from his friends, sly, smug looks mostly. Amused looks from some of them, though. I think they found Dale’s relationship with me entertaining also—if not quite as hilarious as Rob found it. Made me wonder sometimes if I was anything more to Dale than a curiosity. Like maybe he also found something entertaining in me. But I didn’t wonder that too consciously. Well, I did if he wasn’t paying attention to me. Oh yeah, I can be very whiny and jealous when the mood strikes.
But when he got that look… I would turn to see his eyes on me. They would be very intense, those turquoise blue eyes. And he would put his hand on my back and just rub gently back and forth, like he did that first night. I would feel the warmth from his hand go right through me. Would give me a hard on almost from the first touch. Hell, sometimes from the first look. Dale had no shame. He would lean over and breathe into my ear and whisper “I want to **** you.” Didn’t always whisper it that quietly either. And he would never wait for any response from me. I doubt he even thought for one second that I would say no. He would just stand up and take my hand and lead me to the bedroom…or the kitchen… or any room that was unoccupied. Of course, I wouldn’t have said no, never did say no. Don’t think I could have said no. Even if I had wanted to. Not with all his friends around. Would have felt…ungrateful? God! That is the first word that came to my head! What a WRONG word—but it is the one that applies nonetheless. I would have felt ungrateful. Was I grateful to Dale? At that point? Grateful to him for… what? Wanting me? ****ing me? Listening to me? Not leaving me behind like last night’s table scraps?
But whatever the reason, I never said no. I would just smile a little self-consciously and go with him. And he would **** me. Man would he **** me! Foreplay was not a word in Dale’s vocabulary. He hardly ever even bothered to undress me. Would just push my pants down, bend me over whatever was handy and **** the living **** out of me. And he wanted me to let him know how it felt. Wanted to hear me moan. Wanted to hear me cry out. Wanted to hear me beg him for more. And I did. Not because he wanted me to, but because I DID want more. And I wanted him to **** me harder--so hard I couldn’t tell pleasure from pain. And that was never a problem for Dale. He was always willing to give pain, always willing to put a little extra effort into that. I think he meant to give pleasure, as well. But I think he just assumed the pleasure would automatically be there. And I gave him every reason to assume the pleasure. My cries were never “Stop! You’re hurting me!” They were always, “Oh, God, Dale! Give me more, baby… **** me harder!” And when he would grab me by the hair and pull my head back and whisper harshly in my ear “You want hurt, Luc?” I would gasp and groan and say “Yes, please.” And he would make it hurt, hurt so hard the pleasure bled to pain and stayed right there.
But afterwards, when he would pull away from me and I would be clutching the bed, the counter, the chair, the wall—whatever was handy—he would come behind me and kiss the back of my neck or my ear, and run his hands gently over my shoulders. He would ask me softly if he had hurt me too much. And I would answer no, not too much. It was just right. Or sometimes, when I hurt so badly I really couldn’t speak, I would just shake my head, my eyes closed so he wouldn’t see the tears in them. And he would pat my ass and go back into the living room. I would sometimes hear their laughter, their crude comments. I would hear Dale’s voice, but never his words. Probably didn’t want to hear his words. And I would eventually join them. He would usually be sitting next to Chris by then. And I would just sit wherever and laugh at the lewd comments about Dale “giving it to me good, by the sound of things.” Dale would laugh, too. And I could see he actually enjoyed those comments. I would tell myself that it was just friends busting on each other. And I would smoke some more pot or drink some more beer.
---
And by and by my Soul returned to me, And answered "I Myself amd Heav'n and Hell"
Omar Khayyam
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11/16/2003, 8:25 am
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It was always Dale that decided whether I would stay the night. Well, it was his apartment so there wasn’t really anything odd about that. It was never a case of “Luc, I want you to stay the night.” It was more a case of sex leading to more sex with breaks in between. If Dale was in the mood for a lot of sex, I ended up spending the night. No, he never said that in words. But I figured that out after a while. But at first, I really felt he just wanted me there, wanted me close. Didn’t question his motives or his feelings. Just accepted it because I really needed to believe that I was wanted—or at the very least, needed.
Usually I slept like the dead with Dale. Would usually be a bit stoned when we went to bed, or drunk—or a bit of both. And the closeness of his body to mine gave me a warmth I needed to sleep. Paul and I had spent nearly every night together—either at his apartment or Mark’s and mine—almost from the first time. I had gotten used to that, to having someone in the bed with me. When Paul left, I found I could barely sleep. I felt alone and exposed. And the nightmares had started up again almost immediately. When I slept with Dale, I expected them to stop. And sometimes I didn’t have them. But other times I did. Fortunately, most were the specific ones and I would wake up shaking and holding myself—but not screaming. Dale was usually asleep and I would just lie back down and move closer to him. Sometimes he would stir and we would have sex—he always wanted sex when he woke up. Sometimes he would just continue to sleep. Either way, I would fall back to sleep—eventually. Sometimes, though, I would wake up and he wouldn’t be in the bed.
Once I heard voices coming from the kitchen. I got up and threw some pants on and went to the kitchen. Figured I’d get something to drink while I was awake. Dale was there with someone I didn’t know. I asked him what was up. Don’t know why I asked, really. Probably just a reflex action. Didn’t really want to know, just automatically asked. Like you might ask “How are you?” when you say hello. Not like you really want to KNOW how someone is—it is just what you say. He glared at me and told me to go back to bed and mind my own ****ing business. I just stared at him. I was still a bit disoriented from the nightmare and I couldn’t comprehend why he was yelling at me. He came over to me and backhanded me across the face. I raised my hand to my mouth. When I looked at my hand I saw blood. I looked at him and I know I must have looked shocked as hell. He pushed me from the room and shut the door behind him. He was immediately apologetic. “I’m sorry, baby. It’s just not something I want you involved in.” He wiped the blood from my lip and kissed me very gently. “Didn’t mean to do that. You know I wouldn’t want to hurt you. If you had left when I told you… But I still shouldn’t have done that. I’m very sorry, Luc.” He looked into my eyes with those turquoise eyes of his. They were concerned, contrite, convincing. I felt myself smiling and he smiled in response. “Go back to bed, baby. I’ll be there in a few minutes.” I stopped to the bathroom on the way back to the bedroom. I put some cold water on my lip. It wasn’t much. Just a little cut. I’d been hit much harder in the past. Not in a while, but still… It was nothing.
When Dale came back to bed, I pretended to be asleep. He kissed the back of my neck and started rubbing my back, his hands working their way down to my ass. Then he wrapped his arms around me, pressing his body against my back. His rubbed my chest, my stomach and then wrapped around my ****. I moaned as he started stroking me.
He laughed, a deep laugh—I could feel it vibrating in his chest as he pressed against me. “Knew you were awake, baby.” He kissed my neck again, his hand continuing to stroke my ****. “You ok, baby?”
“Yeah, I’m ok.” I was ok. It was nothing.
“I’m sorry, Luc. I just reacted. Just didn’t want you involved.” He ran his fingers through my hair as he continued to stroke my ****, a little harder now, a little less gently.
“It’s ok, Dale. I know you didn’t mean it. And it’s nothing. My own fault. I shouldn’t have barged in on you like that. None of my business.” It wasn’t any of my business. It was his apartment. I shouldn’t have been so nosey.
He pulled on my hair a little. I was sure he didn’t mean to pull it quite that hard. “You know how important you are to me.” He whispered that in my ear, his breath tickling me, sending a chill down my spine. I turned my head a little, wanting to kiss him, wanting him to kiss me. He didn’t usually kiss me, not the way Paul had kissed me. Dale’s kisses—like so many other things about Dale—were mostly on the surface, a quick brush of his lips against mine. Paul’s kisses had been deep, searching, sensual even when they were casual. But that was ok. Everyone was different. But this time Dale kissed me—truly kissed me. He slipped his tongue between my lips and slid it along my tongue as slowly and as sensually as I could have wished. I moaned and slipped my arms around him. That night we came as close as we would ever come to actually making love. He brought me to my climax very slowly, his hand rough and tight on my **** one moment, then soft and gentle the next. That alternating array of sensations had me gasping and moaning his name against his lips. Then, when I had come, he turned me over and ****ed me. Oh, he ****ed me hard—he always ****ed hard. But he wasn’t rough. There was nothing rough about it that night. And when he came, instead of just turning over and going to sleep, he held me. I lay there in his arms, my head on his chest, my swollen lip resting lightly against his nipple while he stroked my hair. He never said he loved me. And I didn’t think he did. But it felt close. And that was ok.
**
I began to stay over more frequently. It seemed Dale actually wanted my company in his bed. It seemed that maybe he wanted a little more from me than just a good ****. Oh, he still wanted that. Our evenings were still pretty much the same, with his friends coming over, drinking, smoking pot, ****ing me in the kitchen, or the bedroom or any other unoccupied room. It became a comfortable routine actually. Felt good, really, to have him make a point of taking me off to **** me while his friends were in the other room. Felt like he was showing me off to them, showing them how much he wanted me, how much I meant to him. Gave me a sense of value. Who was I actually? No one. Yet Dale would leave his friends and go off and **** me.
The nightmares still came. Expected them to die down, but they didn’t. If anything, they got worse. Couldn’t understand why. I was feeling pretty good. Had found a job at P&C. Nothing major, but it gave me enough money to pay my share of the apartment I still shared with Mark and I had enough left to drink and eat. And Dale was good, always let me smoke his pot. Never asked me for anything for it, not once. So all in all, life was pretty good. No reason I should have been having those nightmares so often. But I was. Couldn’t hide them from Dale. I tried. There were many nights I woke up in a cold sweat, holding myself, thankful that he was not in the bed because I was shaking so badly. I never made the mistake of getting up to go look for him, though, when I heard voices in one of the other rooms. Whatever was going on was none of my business. And obviously Dale didn’t want me involved in whatever it was. Just trying to protect me, he said. Protect me from what? I wondered. But I didn’t ask. Usually by the time he came back to bed I was ok, had myself under control. Sometimes he would ask about the nightmares. I had told him, that first morning, about them. But he wouldn’t push me to talk about them. Which was good, because I really didn’t want to.
But I was lucky. I hadn’t had the one that would usually wake me up screaming, not on the nights I had stayed with Dale. But one thing I have noticed in my life: luck runs out. We had gone out to dinner that night, Dale and I. Just the two of us. He was in a particularly good mood. Chris had come by earlier and my guess is she and he had enjoyed their time together. Chris was a nice girl. As I said, she was on something—was certain of that, just not sure what. And Dale didn’t really treat her that well from what I saw. But who was I to judge? What right did I have? And she kept coming over—just as I did. But whatever the reason for his good mood, I reaped the benefits of it. We went to the Best Western. They have amazing prime rib. They serve it with freshly grated horseradish, baked potato and glazed carrots. God! My mouth is positively watering right now! Had some nice red wine with it, too. Wine always relaxes me to the point of blissful idiocy. Drink too much of it and it makes me easy beyond anyone’s wildest dreams. There is NOTHING I will not do after 3 glasses of wine. Nothing. I think I had more than 3 glasses that night. But that was ok. Dale was hardly going to do anything to me he hadn’t done to me before—or make me do anything to him that I hadn’t done before. Somehow that gave me an odd measure of trust with him. But I had no reason not to trust him anyway. He had never given me a reason to not trust him. And he had given me much more than he had ever asked in return.
By the time I felt myself falling asleep, all of my senses had been taken to the limit of pleasurable tolerance. If I had been a cat I would have been purring. Not quite sure I didn’t actually purr. Might have. But I was calm, relaxed—well past the point of idiocy, and in no way expecting any nightmares to disturb my sleep. But it’s the ones that sneak up on you when you least expect them that are the ones that usually cause the most trouble.
I woke up screaming, literally screaming. My heart was racing, my body shaking uncontrollably, tears pouring from my eyes. Dale nearly jumped out of the bed. He touched my arm and I nearly went through the ceiling. Then he put his arms around me and held me tightly. I don’t know what he said to me, though I do remember hearing his voice. It was not soothing like Paul’s had been—but it was comforting enough. I did stop screaming, after a few minutes. He let go of me and went to get up. I clung to him, not wanting him to leave. I think I said as much. He kissed me lightly and said he would be right back. He was gone for the longest time. Seemed like hours. Probably was a few minutes. When he returned, I was sitting on the edge of the bed, my body still shaking. He had something in his hand, but I couldn’t see what.
He sat beside me and put his arms around me for a moment. “It’s ok, baby. I have something that will help.” He let go of me and held out his hand. He had a syringe.
I pulled instinctively away from him. “What the hell is that?”
He laughed and flicked my cheek with his finger. “Nothing terrible. Not afraid of needles, are you, baby?”
I shook my head, but eyed the syringe suspiciously. I had ideas. I had seen the marks on Dale’s arm. I wasn’t completely innocent. But I had never asked him. Figured it wasn’t my business. Things that weren’t my business were better left unasked. But I had never done anything worse than pot. “Real” drugs scared me a bit. My one brother had died from an overdose when I was 12. Was never sure what he had been doing. My other brother had said he had taken a lot of things, said he had been taking them for a long time. But I didn’t know what had actually killed him—and that made me suspicious of everything. But then… he had mixed things. Bob had said that. Not one drug had killed him. Many drugs had killed him. And part of me… well, part of me probably didn’t care.
He rubbed my arm gently. “It won’t hurt, Luc. And it will help. Trust me, baby.”
And I did trust him. No reason not to trust him. He had never given me a reason not to trust him. He pulled my left arm straight and tied a rubber-band like thing around it—as if he were tying a tourniquet to stop blood flow (I had basic first aid skills). Then he felt for a vein. Found one easily. He pushed the syringe until a small drop of the liquid came out of the needle. Then he pushed the needle into my skin, into my vein. I winced a little and he smiled a bit. He pulled back on the syringe. I remember wondering why he was doing that—wasn’t the stuff supposed to go IN my vein, not my blood go into the syringe? As soon as he saw blood enter the syringe, he untied the rubber band thing and injected the liquid into my vein.
I could feel it. I could feel it hit my blood. It felt hot, burning. But not a bad burn, just a sharp one—one that seemed to spread outwards. It felt so good. Just enough pain to make it pleasure. I felt for a moment like I was on fire, like I might just burst into flames. And then it was gone. For a second I thought: Is that all there is? And I was vaguely disappointed. But then…. I felt suddenly like everything in my head was being lifted away. I felt a sense of happiness rush through me. Well, maybe it wasn’t happiness. Maybe it was more like relief. I felt relieved of everything that troubled me. That overwhelming sense of anxiety that had swept over me, left over from the dream, was gone. Completely gone. Yet I didn’t feel “drugged” in any way. I just felt incredibly “good.” I looked at Dale and he laughed. Told me later that I had such a look of wonder on my face I had looked like a little boy at Christmas.
When I did return to sleep, no dream haunted me. And when I awoke, I felt as though I had enjoyed the most peaceful sleep of my life. I remember Dale looking at me and smiling. “Told you to trust me, baby.”
---
And by and by my Soul returned to me, And answered "I Myself amd Heav'n and Hell"
Omar Khayyam
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11/17/2003, 1:52 pm
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At first, my hands used to shake when I mixed the heroin on the spoon. I was afraid of getting it wrong, afraid of spilling it, afraid of just about everything about it. Dale was real casual about it. But then, I found out he had been using for years. Since he was 19. He was 28. That amazed me—that he had been using so long. If you looked at Dale, you might think many things about him. You would think he was rough, a bit crude, a little slippery, and you might even suspect him of criminal activity—and you would definitely suspect him of being a little dangerous to be around. But looking at him and talking to him you would NEVER suspect he was a heroin user. And as I found out, not just a user but an addict—and more. But you wouldn’t have known it by the way he acted. I suppose if you looked at his arms you might have known he used SOMETHING. He had tracks, even I recognized them for what they were. But his arms were tanned and it wasn’t something you would see if you weren’t looking for it. And even though I had noticed, I never questioned. You didn’t ask Dale questions on things like that.
He was surprisingly patient with me. He gave me the things I needed, showed me how to mix everything, reassured me when he could see me start to panic because I was afraid I would get it wrong. Really wasn’t that complex. And the proportions didn’t have to be EXACT. Explained as gently as possible that this was NOT a science project—no grades would be given—and nothing needed to be precisely measured. Just enough water to dissolve the heroin from a powder to a liquid. If it didn’t dissolve clearly, add a little of the citric acid—and that was that. But how would I know if I used too much or too little? I was so afraid of doing it wrong. He would just smile and say that it wouldn’t dissolve if I used too little. If I used too much water, the world wouldn’t end. But I should use as little of the citric acid (which he had in powdered form—easy to get, used in canning and preserving and with all the farms around, the stores always had that in ready supply) as possible. Said the darker the heroin, the more it would take, but only use it if the water didn’t dissolve the heroin completely. This had me panicked. What would happen if I used too much citric acid? Well, acid was acid… not that great for the veins. He actually smiled and kissed me at that point. Said the look in my eyes was priceless. And that I worried way too much about little things.
And he didn’t complain too much when I burned my finger on the spoon and spilled everything all over the first time I mixed it myself. My hand was shaking so much I held the spoon too far down on the handle and when I heated the spoon, it got hot…SURPRISE! And I burned my finger and dropped the spoon. I could see him biting his tongue. But he didn’t yell, didn’t hit me. Just said I needed to stop being so nervous and maybe I should use a metal coffee scoop if I couldn’t control the spoon. I laughed a bit, since I had already considered a small pan and the stove. He laughed when I told him that. Said too bad I couldn’t make it up in batches ahead of time. And really, that had occurred to me as well. Said he could see I was going to be expensive as hell if I kept spilling it all over myself. Then he smiled and flicked my nose with his finger, not hard but it stung a bit. “But you can make it up to me.”
But it didn’t take me long to get comfortable with the mixing. Took me a lot longer to get comfortable with shooting up. Always had a vague fear of doing it wrong. Was never that good with tying that band around my arm. Most of the time I didn’t. Managed to find a vein without it. It wasn’t that the needle bothered me. I really had no fear of needles. But that part of my head that apparently really fears “doing something wrong” worried about accidentally putting a bubble of air into my vein and sending it to my heart. Mind you, I don’t even know if that is possible. I think I heard that on a TV program once. My dad used to watch a lot of medical dramas… might have picked that up from them. And every time I pushed the needle into my skin, I thought of it breaking. Of all the things I might have worried about, that should have been the last. But odd thoughts have always been my curse.
But I managed to get past that also. Amazing what you get used to and the fears you can put aside when something feels good. And it did feel good. Felt so incredibly good. It was an immediate rush of well-being. And that sense of well-being stayed with me for hours. Not that I walked around grinning from ear to ear. But I felt… It wasn’t so much what I felt, but what I didn’t feel. I didn’t feel the anxiety. I didn’t feel like something was hanging over my head like the sword of Damocles. I felt calm, almost sedated—but not in an impairing way. Just sedated enough to feel nothing unpleasant. But then, heroin is a wonderful pain killer. Has other effects, too, but it is designed to kill pain. And it did. Killed a lot of pain. And made me not even realize there was pain to kill. It just put all those things that “bothered” me off into a side room and shut the door, locked it and tossed the key into the bushes. It was a nice feeling.
Dale never asked for any money. At the time I really believed it was because he just wanted to help, to make me feel better. He said that more or less on a few occasions. Not directly, but when he would give me a bag he would kiss me and tell me it was good to see me happy. And first thing in the morning, when he would wake me up to have sex—he would say it was nice to sleep a whole night for a change. Good the nightmares weren’t bothering me. I did ask him once, offered to pay him, said I didn’t expect him to just give it to me, that I knew HE had to pay for it. He just smiled and said if he needed the money, he would ask me for it. And he grinned and said it was a small price to pay for not being jarred out of a sound sleep by my screaming.
He never shot up in front of me. Don’t know why. Especially since he usually insisted that I do it while he was there. And at first, that was easy enough. I only used at night at first, just to get me past that anxiety, to numb me enough to sleep without nightmares. But then, I would notice that when I woke up in the morning I still felt not quite right. Like there was something at the back of my mind, something I couldn’t quite remember but something that was nagging at me. But I found if I did a hit first thing in the morning, that feeling would go away. Dale would make me wait until after he ****ed me or after I sucked him off. He would smile and say it was my reward for good behavior. I always thought that was a bit funny: rewarding me for something I really enjoyed. Was sweet of him. Just another way he showed that he truly did care about me.
---
And by and by my Soul returned to me, And answered "I Myself amd Heav'n and Hell"
Omar Khayyam
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11/24/2003, 5:03 am
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Things were pretty good for a while. The nightmares were just about gone. Oh, they popped up once in a while, but when they did I just took an extra hit and away they would go again. My job at P&C was going well. It wasn’t much of a job, really. But then, I had no real skills. I had once wanted to be a writer, but I wasn’t really any good at it. And my poetry… well, no one made any money at poetry. Even if it was good poetry. I didn’t write anymore. Couldn’t see the point, really. My free time was spent living instead of sitting in front of a computer or sitting alone with a notebook. There were always people around at Dale’s. Would have been so rude of me to go off by myself. And Dale liked having me around. And I owed Dale so much.
The job didn’t pay much. I managed to pay my share of the rent for the apartment I still shared with Mark. And I managed to have enough money to drink and eat. Dale would occasionally ask me for a little money—when he was short. I gave it to him as eagerly as a puppy giving his master his slippers. Practically wagged my tail while giving it to him. Made me incredibly happy to give something to Dale in return for all he had given me.
Mark wouldn’t let me give him money towards the groceries. Said I hardly ate anything anyway so I should just buy whatever I wanted if I wanted something special he hadn’t bought. He would ask me about that sometimes, about my not eating much. He was a firm believer in eating. Had to have his meat and veggies—good farm boy that he was. He was raised to feed his body at regular intervals and a missed meal was just NOT something that could be allowed. He would look at me and shake his head and say that if I ever wanted to get my clothes from the men’s department I would have to actually eat from time to time. I would just roll my eyes at him and say that even if I ate as much as he did—which would mean I would have to eat from the moment my eyes were open to the moment they were closed—I would never grow to be as big and strong as he was. I would make a sort of joke out of it. Would play with the muscles in his arms and look impressed. He would blush, and I knew he actually liked it when I did that. And he would leave the subject alone for a while.
But Dale never let anything good go on for long. Seems he had a way with that. We would be having the most intense sex. I would give him head—and I mean a nice, long, slow blow job that would make his body shake—then I would suck him hard again and he would **** me. He would **** me hard and rough and I would be trembling all over from the pleasure and pain…and he would suddenly stop, leaving me groaning in frustration. If I said anything, if I made a move to pull him back to me, he would just say he had had enough, had other things to do. Didn’t I EVER get enough? What a ****ing slut I was sometimes! No wonder Paul got tired of me. I was never satisfied with anything, was I?
And I knew he was right, really. I wanted more from Dale than he could give me. And that was wrong, unfair of me. Because I knew that I couldn’t give Dale everything he needed. And he was always so kind about that, really. He would sometimes stop me in the middle of a blow job, say it wasn’t what he needed right then. Said he needed some pussy. He would smile at me and tell me it was ok. He still cared about me. Didn’t I know that? Didn’t he take care of me? I just wasn’t everything he needed. Wasn’t my fault.
That was why I tried not to let Chris bother me. She was more or less Dale’s girlfriend. Or seemed to be. Well, he would **** her anyway—not sure if it went much beyond that. I tried talking to her a few times, when she was over and Dale was doing something else with Rob or one of his other friends. She would never meet my eyes. She would answer me, head down, her soft voice barely audible. Once or twice I would catch her smiling a little, when I tried to be funny, tried to get her to actually talk to me. But it seemed Dale would always come back at that moment. He would glance at both of us and then would choose which one of us he wanted and ignore the other. I usually hoped he would choose Chris, because when he didn’t, when he motioned me to his side she would sit there with the most lost look in her pretty, glazed brown eyes. And I could tell she felt pretty much the same way about Dale as I did.
**
When I spent the night with Dale, I would always wake up as soon as he moved. I would lie there, pretending to still be asleep, waiting for whatever Dale was going to do. If it was sex Dale wanted, he liked me to still be asleep when he started things. Occasionally he liked to wake me up easily, gently. But more often than not he liked to get right to whatever he wanted. Would grab my hair and put my head to his ****, or would push me over roughly and just start ****ing me. After the first few times of being startled awake, of having a feeling of panic as he held me down and pushed himself inside me, I learned to wake up as soon as he moved. But sometimes he would just get out of bed and leave the room. I would listen, but wouldn’t get up—not after that first time. None of my business what Dale was doing. But I would still listen. Sometimes I couldn’t help but hear.
Chris would come over in the night sometimes. Never knew whether it was prearranged. But when she showed up I could hear Dale ****ing her in the living room. Or, really, I would hear her being ****ed. Dale was pretty much the same with her as he was with me. Liked to hear her scream, liked to hear her beg for more. Dale liked having his performance critiqued—liked to hear how good he was. And he was, very. But sometimes I heard something else in her voice. Sometimes I heard fear. And usually when I heard fear, I would hear the sound of blows, of his hands slapping her—of his hands more than slapping her. And I would hear her crying. Not while Dale was with her. But afterwards, when he had come back to bed and I heard her getting her things together, leaving. I would hear her crying. Dale never seemed to notice. That bothered me. It was one thing for Dale to hit me. I could take it. I was a man. But she was a woman, little more than a girl, really. It was wrong for a man to hit a woman. Everything in my being cried out against that.
I occasionally made the mistake of letting my feelings rule my better judgement. I never actually accused Dale of hitting Chris, or even asked him directly if he had hit Chris. But once or twice I said I thought I heard her crying. The first time I said that, Dale just growled at me and told me to mind my own ****ing business—it had nothing to do with me. The second time, he told me, again, to mind my own ****ing business—but this time backhanded me across the mouth. What was my problem? Did I want her? Did I want a little pussy for myself? Of course, he was immediately sorry. Said he and Chris were having a few problems and that he hadn’t meant to take it out on me. He looked into my eyes with those turquoise eyes of his. As always, they were concerned, contrite, convincing. And it really wasn’t any of my business. Chris wouldn’t keep coming here if it really bothered her.
But one time I just couldn’t keep my mouth shut. I hadn’t had a hit before bed and I was a feeling a bit in need, a bit on edge. Dale knew I was out and he hadn’t offered me any more. I didn’t ask for any. He had been in a mood all day. I didn’t know why, didn’t ask about that either. But I heard him with her. Being rougher than usual. Heard his hand hit her face—knew it was her face. Heard her words stop in the middle as I heard the slap. When he came back into the bedroom, I opened my mouth. “Why do you hit her like that, Dale? She’s just a girl for god’s sake.” The words were out of my mouth before my brain realized they were even formed. Dale stormed out of the bedroom. For a second I thought that I had gotten off lightly. He hadn’t yelled. He hadn’t hit me. Didn’t question why. Just breathed a little, thinking I had gotten lucky. Wrong. Within a minute Dale was back, dragging Chris behind him. “You’re so worried about her. Here she is. You want her for yourself? Is that why you are so ****ing worried about her?” He threw her on the bed. I just stared at him. I couldn’t even speak. Chris just sprawled out across the bed, shaking and crying. “How long has it been since you had pussy, Luc? Hmm? You want pussy? Tired of having my **** up your ass? Fine! You want pussy, here’s some pussy. **** her!”
“I don’t want to **** her, Dale…” I started to tell him.
But he grabbed her by her hair. He suddenly had a knife in his hand. Pulled it from somewhere—didn’t see him do it. He held it to her neck—not her throat, her neck. “Sure you do. I can see it in your eyes, you ****ing *****. Go ahead. **** her or I’ll ****ing kill her!”
I couldn’t believe he would actually kill her. But then, I wasn’t quite sure. Never quite sure of anything with Dale. But if I wasn't sure, it seemed Chris was sure. She begged me to **** her, looked at me with those pretty brown eyes and pleaded with me.
“Do it!” Dale’s voice was hard and held something I hadn’t heard before.
“Please, Luc…” she pleaded with me. She took my **** in her hands and started stroking it. “Please Luc, **** me.”
I ****ed her. Felt like **** for doing it. Amazed now that I even could. But maybe he had a point, I thought. I wanted pussy. Wanted his girlfriend. Man, I was really low. I was never satisfied, was I? I was worse than he said I was.
But before I came he pulled me off her and threw me to the floor and ****ed her himself. He told me I was a ****ing piece of **** and to get the **** out of his sight.
Of course, the next day he called me. Told me he was sorry. Told me to come over, that he had something for me, something he knew I needed. He wanted to make it up to me. Would I please let him make it up to me? His voice was concerned, contrite, convincing. And of course, I went.
---
And by and by my Soul returned to me, And answered "I Myself amd Heav'n and Hell"
Omar Khayyam
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11/28/2003, 6:50 pm
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It wasn’t long afterwards that I noticed Chris hadn’t been around in a few days. I asked Dale about it. I tried to make it sound casual, like it was just something I had noticed but really didn’t give a **** about. But Dale pounced on it. Did I miss her so much? Miss that pussy? No, of course not, I was just curious. A quick cuff to the side of my head reminded me that curiosity had killed the cat and wouldn’t do me much good either. But then he smiled so sweetly and told me he and she were finished. Told me she was a ***** and not to bother my pretty little head about it. He didn’t need her anyway—not with my sweet ass around. He kissed my lips, his fingers in my hair. I could tell by the way his fingers were in my hair, by they way they were gripping tightly, twisting, pulling—that I wasn’t supposed to ask any more questions. I didn’t.
Funny how things are going well one minute and then the next… Makes me wonder if the universe does NOT simply operate by random chance, but whether there might just be some perverse divine power behind it all. Some puppet master toying with our strings and laughing at us as he snips those strings and we fall flat on our faces. Wasn’t a week after the whole thing with Chris that P&C decided to do random drug testing. Never had a chance to get clean before my random chance came up. Not that it was likely I would have made much of an effort in that area anyway. I was already pretty dependant, needing at least the hit at night and the one as soon as I got up and one in the middle of the day just to feel “normal.” And even if I had stopped cold, it would have taken a while to get the heroin out of my system. Needless to say, I failed the test and found myself without a job once again.
So, there I was, my strings cut, flat on my face, listening to the evil laughter of the puppet master. But the puppet master had not counted on Dale.
I told Dale about the drug test and about losing my job. Dale was very sympathetic. He smiled and told me it was most likely the only test I had ever failed in my life. Told me things would be ok. I was despondent. How could they be ok? Let me see… I had been fired from this job for failing a drug test. I was fired from my last job for going on a 3-week drunken binge. Oh yeah, that made me a real find! ALL the local employers would be holding their doors open just waiting for me to show up—so they could laugh their ****ing heads off! And what would Mark say? How could I tell Mark that I was once AGAIN without a job and couldn’t pay my share of the apartment?
Dale just put an arm across my shoulders and gave me a squeeze. “I know you don’t want to keep sponging off of Mark.” That really hit me. No, I did NOT want to keep sponging off of Mark. Oh, he would understand. He would help me out, would never turn his back on me. But I didn’t want him to find out WHY I had lost my job.
“But I can help you out, sweetheart.” Dale’s tone was cheerful as he kissed me on the ear.
“Don’t want to sponge off you either, Dale.” Even I could hear the sullen pout in my voice.
Dale laughed and squeezed my shoulders a little harder. I’m sure he didn’t mean to make me wince. “Won’t be sponging, baby. Chris, the *****, left me in a bit of a bind. She was supposed to pick up something for me. Actually been picking things up for me regularly. Depended on her and she goes and runs off on me. Ungrateful little *****.” Something in his tone suggested I shouldn’t be similarly ungrateful.
I didn’t immediately answer. I was trying to get a handle on a few things at once. Was thinking how Mark would react if he found out I had lost my job, and why. Was thinking about Chris and how she had been there one moment and not the next. And my mind was racing ahead through all the possible things Dale might be going to ask me to do for him. I had a feeling in the pit of my stomach. It was a feeling that almost told me what it was. Almost, but not quite. I think, honestly, I probably knew outright—but somehow just didn’t want to put it to words, didn’t want to quite make it—and all its implications—real. Stupid avoidance, really. But I always had an instinct to run from things that disturbed me. Even ran in my own head.
My silence irritated Dale. I know he probably expected me to jump at any offer of help from him. And when I didn’t, it pissed him off. “Well? You going to do me a favor, or what? Not like I haven’t done any for you. Or have you forgotten how you used to wake up screaming?”
“No, I haven’t forgotten, Dale.” I was quick to respond now. Could hear the tone in his voice. Could feel the blow coming. “I was just thinking, that’s all. Sorry, I’m a bit out of it. Really need a hit, I guess.” I shook my head, trying to look as though I were clearing cobwebs. Needing a hit was something Dale would understand. Trying to avoid finding out more truth about Dale was NOT something he would have understood.
I looked at him and gave him a slight smile, trying to make it as grateful a smile as possible. “What do you need me to do?”
He smiled back, a satisfied smile. “Nothing hard. Just take an envelope to some people and pick up a package and bring it back to me. Couldn’t be simpler.”
“What will be in the package?” I cursed myself as soon as the words left my lips. Hadn’t meant to ask. Really didn’t need to ask. Had pretty much guessed. But the words were out. I braced myself for what I knew would come next.
Dale pushed me roughly away from him, nearly knocking me off the couch. “What the **** does it matter what’s in the package? Do you always have to know everything? Always have to poke your ****ing nose into everyone’s ****ing business?” He glared at me and I could see his hand start to raise, knew it would soon find my face. But it didn’t.
Dale sighed and sat back down. “Look, it’s heroin. Big surprise, right? Did you think I got it from the ****ing Tooth Fairy?”
I looked down. Knew that. Really didn’t need to have asked. Oh ****. Really wish I hadn’t asked. And really wish my tongue had fallen out of my mouth before I spoke again. “ I don’t know, Dale, I’m not sure…”
He was up and ranting again before I could even say what it was I wasn’t sure of.
“Who the **** do you think you are? Who are YOU to be so damned high and mighty about this? Don’t have a problem using the ****ing **** but ****ing god forbid I ask you to help out, ask you to get your pretty hands a little dirty.” He was inches away from me, well within striking distance. I didn’t move, didn’t raise my eyes, didn’t look at him.
“What do you think your options are? Hmm? What the **** can you actually do? No one is going to hire a two-time loser with no ****ing skills. Oh, I forgot, you write poetry. A lot of call for THAT around here. You know, I’m trying to do you a ****ing favor, you little ****. I can get a dozen other people to do this for me. Not like I’m asking you to do it for free. I’ll give you $100 a pickup and all the **** you need. You’ll have more than enough to pay Mark what you owe him and keep him from asking you questions.” He played that card. He had an unerring instinct for knowing just exactly which card to play and when to play it.
And he was right. What could I do? I had no real prospects. No one would want me. Paul hadn’t wanted me. Yet somehow Dale still did. Even though I never quite satisfied him, here he was still offering to help me, to do me a favor.
He sat down beside me once again, his arm across my shoulders again. “Come on, Luc. You’d be doing me a big favor.” And I owed him so much. And what was the big deal? How could I refuse to help him when he needed me?
“Ok, Dale. You know I’ll help you in any way I can.”
Dale smiled at me, a satisfied smile, a victorious smile. “Knew I could count on you, Luc.” He kissed me and within minutes we were ****ing on the couch.
Afterwards, as I lay awake that night, staring at the ceiling—my head too busy, even, for my usual bedtime hit to quiet—it occurred to me that if he could get a dozen people to do this for him, how was I doing him a favor?
---
And by and by my Soul returned to me, And answered "I Myself amd Heav'n and Hell"
Omar Khayyam
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11/30/2003, 8:17 pm
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