Pussyboy

Gigi

There comes in life, a passion you want to do for the rest of your life. Something that makes everything light up like it was sparked by some shitty firework piece or a taser on gunpowder. It's expected that every man, woman, child, or illegal immigrant had to have one. And if you didn't have one, were you ever okay to begin with?

Was I okay?

The only thing that lit my life up was sex but nothing was felt — at least for me — when it happened. Sparks might've some time but nothing to the point of ecstasy.

To the brink of what is humanly conceivable —

God, what the hell did they put in this medication?

I'm becoming those Russians who wrote to be depressed and not depressed that they write. Makes sense to some idiot homo like me sedated by basically a long prescription of pills.

There were pink ones, white ones — there was a yellow one too, but I don't really see it anymore or was it just the drugs they give me that made me see those?

Supposedly, I'm medicated so casually.

Meaning —

I'm just given meds and shit and it should all be good to go for me.

What a wonderful system we have taking care of the hopelessly ill.

Hopelessly ill is what I call people like me now. If the problem is outside the brain, it can be fixed most of the time. If it's inside —

Good luck, and may the odds be in your favor.

"Why don't you drink more water?"

That nurse always comes to interrupt me in the deepest of my thoughts. He was black, tattooed, and really muscular. I'd have sex with him but I think he wasn't much of a fucker. More like a husband.

I needed those types.

But preferably and only when those shitheads are coupled with money.

He wasn't.

He kept telling me that he finally saved up for a house. How much they got to pay?

Who has a fucking clue?

I don't wanna have one.

I might get jealous because I earn less and I do the humping and jumping on dick.

Or I might feel bad for him and I already have my own shit life to feel bad for.

"You miss him, huh?"

"Not a fucking chance," I retorted. I stared through that fogged-up window with snow outside blinding the shit outta my eyes. "I hope he stops coming to visit."

I hope he can cum inside though.

"Well," he started as he arranged my bed again. He does that all the time he is here. Arranging my sheets, and tidying up anything on the table to the left of the head of the bed. Such a nice man. I sighed again.

"He asks around for you a lot," he had a slight grin when he said that. He was looking in my direction but I wasn't. Tough luck for his gaze. "And you just ignore the shit outta him."

"That's the point," I stated. "So, he doesn't come back."

"You really hate him, huh?"

I looked towards him, "what do you think?"

"I don't," he said simply, stretching his arms under the mattress to even out the sheet cover. "Just curious, you grumpy shit."

I snorted lightly.