URBAN_HOMOSEXUAL
#karmaisabitchandsoami
Despite my attempts at slow-release charm to win favour with @robotic_hunk, even at the end of a three week stay all I got coming back was a frosty efficiency, tinged with judgement. And I would like to think just a little sexual tension. Mind you, I could have felt sexual tension with Shrek at this point. For those of you who have just tuned in to the latest trilogy of trials, I am in re-hab. At a place called the Last Resort. Arriving here just as I’d received the knowledge that I was riddled with venereal disease. All stimulants forcibly removed upon arrival. @robotic_hunk being my dedicated case worker. I had anticipated being there a little over a week. The only way out being a release form signed by @robotic_hunk. Hence my impetus in trying to win him over. Even after 10 days, however, my suggestion that I might be ready to leave was cut short with a very firm shake of the head. And let me tell you what I had been through in those 10 days. A diet of the blandest of foods. No sugar. At all. Water and decaffeinated coffee the only liquids to pass my lips. Combined with the first completely nicotinefree period to which I had subjected my weary system in over a decade. The first four days of which had me in such a heightened state of anxiety that I was constantly on the brink of a volcanic temper tantrum. I did in fact erupt several times. One such eruption being sufficiently terrifying for patients and staff alike that I had to be restrained by two bouncer-like nurses, and then ‘soothed’ with a massage that left me unable to move. The other drugs, including alcohol, although having been administered at dangerously high and constant levels were surprisingly easy to get over. Well, relatively. Three days of pounding headache accompanied my caffeine withdrawals. And despite feeling exhausted at a level I had never previously experienced, sleep evaded me for the entire first week. And then when it did finally come, I slept like a baby. Fitfully. And waking every 3 hours. Crying. And needing to be fed. But as I was locked in my room until @ robotic_hunk released me at 6am every day there was no food to be had. And I haven’t even started on what happened when I was released at 6am. Because I am not sure what was worse: forced abstinence and the ensuing consequences, or the activities devised to supposedly assist in coping with those consequences. The brisk walk around the lake in the picturesque grounds of the facility sounds like a lovely way to start a day. But it finished at a meeting place where all the interned addicts would converge. We would have to hug each other. All of us. The idea being to show support, and thereby give strength to our fellow abstainers. These hugs were closely monitored by all our case workers to ensure that none of the hugs morphed into anything approaching inappropriate touching. @robotic_hunk was particularly vigilant in his monitoring. Maddeningly so. And creepily close at all times. He needn’t have had any concerns: I am not much of a hugger. For unless I’m pissed or shitfaced and about to get some, I don’t like being touched. And it is particularly awkward having to hug somebody you humiliated the previous day in a group therapy session. I blamed my nicotine withdrawals. They still hated me. And I hated them back. Particularly after my shock treatment. Or as they now like to call it ‘electro therapy’. Yes, that’s right. It still happens. Solitary confinement, which makes me think of every American prison film I’ve ever seen, was particularly harrowing. Although to be honest they called it Alone Time in the Alone Space. Call it what you will, it is solitary confinement. Which on some days was only mildly worse than all the group activities. And possibly on equal par with the intensive therapy sessions, involving everything from rebirthing to re-living obliterated experiences. In my ongoing attempts to earn an early departure by impressing @robotic_hunk with my progress, I even created a totally fraudulent, yet artfully crafted, tale of extreme abuse at the hands of a much loved uncle. Joltingly delivered through spurting sobs and flowing tears I mustered from somewhere. So convincing was the emotion in my performance that even I momentarily questioned whether the event was indeed fictitious or not. I was commended on my courage. And indeed it was even noted the next day that I had turned a real corner. So between the above mentioned moments, some art therapy classes and the occasional rocking back and forth in a dark corner, hugging my knees to my chest, my ability to function stimulant-free advanced. And as is evidenced by my writing this, I was eventually deemed cured, and returned free. The greatest reward being the re-claiming of my iphone. Which, after being neglected for 3 weeks, contained 427 text messages. Many from my employer. Who I’d told I was on jury duty. And who’d expected me back after a week. And who had subsequently terminated my employment upon hearing that not only had I lied, but that I’d had a drug problem. So I called @beloved_uncle, explaining that I had left work due to unbearable treatment from a homophobic HR officer. @beloved_uncle offered me what is officially known as a ‘Great Job’, thereby proving that a drug-free existence does improve your life, and doubling the guilt that I’d felt at making him the perpetrator in my fictitious trauma. Also amongst the text messages were numerous requests from @cute_cousin and @ couture_high_top begging my attendance at the I Remember House party. They assured me repeatedly that this would be a drug free event, and that I would therefore be removed from all temptation. Ignoring my own advice of “if you’re old enough to remember it the first time around, you’re too old to embrace it the second time around” (usually applied to fashion) I attended. And was gratified to see that most of those who did attend were in fact older than me. And as far as I could see, were, like me, stimulant-free. Except for that one man. Yes, that one very handsome and well built, kind of ar yan master race guy. He was off his fucking chops. And OMG it was @robotic_hunk. Shirtless. And trashed. And beckoning me into the toilets. Where he offered me coke. And a blow job. I have no idea whether he recognised me. But I dutifully accepted. Keeping the news of my as-yet-untreated STIs to myself. Hoping that he too, upon resultant infection, would enjoy his ensuing Alone Time in Alone Space.