ex-millennial girl

Harold

The phone rang. “Hello?”

“Hey. It’s Harold. Remember me?”

Oh my God! Harold, the guitarist from the band that always visited New York Dolls! Harold, who I fucked, but only after puking five times from our moving cab! And yes, the Harold who I offered to boil my toothbrush for. I never planned to hear from him again, accepting to remember him only during painful half-seconds when embarrassed.

As in: “I dropped my box of tampons right in the middle of 57th Street, how embarrassing! - and oh yeah, one-time-I-offered-to-boil-my-toothbrush-for-that-guy-Harold-augggghh [approximate sound of eyes rolling back in head and foam forming at corners of mouth.] The all-purpose cherry, fit to top any personal humiliation sundae.

“How you doin, sexy?” he purred.

You know, I didn’t care that Harold was calling simply to get laid. I was so relieved, and so ready to put the toothbrush experience behind me and gee, I wanted to get laid, too! - that we agreed to meet later that week.

That’s how it started with Harold. I saw him maybe once a month if I was lucky. I wanted him everyday, I loved to call him when he was at work and talk dirty. He said it drove him nuts. I paged him three times a week, hoping for his call. He was so busy, he said. His band was in the studio recording their album.

On our very first date, he didn’t know about the opium. On the second, I introduced him to opium and let him smoke a little. He said he liked it, but I could tell he wasn’t thrilled by it. On our third date, he showed up at my place before I had a chance to get fixed. Leila was late that day, and I didn’t get back to my apartment with my bag until maybe thirty minutes before Harold arrived.

As soon as he walked through my front door, I pounced on him. We kissed like fucking animals and I dragged him to my bed. He laid there, cock hard, ever-present condom on. As horny as I was, I was getting dope sick. My nose was threatening to run and my skin felt a little dead and a little too alive at the same time. He caressed my shoulder and I wanted to slap him for it. It took restraint not to.

Here’s a downside to dope: you can’t orgasm when you’re high. You can fuck for hours, literally, but you’ll never come. Not unless you get dopesick. Here’s an upside to being dopesick: you can orgasm practically at will. Your body has stored up all sexual feeling, and even though you’re a miserable dope-sick fiend, you can orgasm so many times, your calves ache. William Burroughs was right-on when he described, among the misery of dopesickness, how sexual organs sprout anywhere, spontaneously.

So when I got on top of Harold that night, as soon as I sat on his cock, no, before I even sat, I came. Hard. “Oh shit I just came.” I blurted. His eyebrows wrinkled. “Really?”
“Yeah, you’re that good,” I joked. We fucked for a few minutes, but then sickness descended on me.

“Uh, can we just wait a minute?” I asked. I hopped off of him, walked over to my table and office chair, brought the tinfoil and dope out from a hiding place, and sat. I smoked hurriedly, just wanting to get fixed so I could get back to fucking Harold. “So this is opium again,” I said. “I’m addicted. Like, you don’t have to worry, okay? It’s not your problem. But I need to smoke some, like, right now, or I’ll get sick. Just hold on.”

My only concern was I didn’t want Harold to think I was drawing him into any drama. Like, “support me, I’m an addict.” I’m sure I could have used someone’s support, but not this gigolo or whatever he was.

Harold watched passively, from my bed, kneading his cock so he wouldn’t lose his erection. He didn’t seem to care.

“Good,” I thought, I didn’t want to lose him. Since leaving Florida, I’d gotten too many notches on my belt, and for what? Sex with a stranger usually sucks. Harold and I got to know each other in bed. I thought he was dead-sexy, even though he sported long hair, which I usually hate on a guy. I enjoyed the feeling of monogamy with Harold, even though he was out fucking anything with two tits, a hole, and a heartbeat. Monogamy on my side felt more natural. Comfortable for me.

Harold would meet me at my apartment, so that meant at least once per month, I had to clean my room - the spent foils, the dirty clothes, the deli cartons, the dirty dishes, the receipts and bags from mini shopping sprees and Duane Reade. I’d even make my bed for him.

After sex, remnants of my relationship with Brit made me sentimental. I wanted to cuddle a bit with Harold, but I knew he’d get paranoid about intimacy. So I’d practically jump out of bed after sex.

If he slept over, by the crack of dawn, I’d be raring to smoke dope. He’d roll around, barely awake, and I’d stand next to his head, his clothes gathered in my hands, whispering “Get up, time to go, …”

posted by Stefanie at 10/26/2006 01:47:00 PM