Milked

Loren | make more regrets.

After giving half my stash of Percocets to Meg, and then running out of the rest of them, I needed some more happiness. I called Texas, who said he only had Oxy, which was fine with me. Oxy made me feel even more euphoric than Percocet, putting me into a dreamlike state where I was still awake and aware, though not fully—just enough to make it through the day.

He said he'd meet me at Hazed and Dazed. It was just after noon, and the place would feel like more than a restaurant than a club, but I consented.

When I got there, I found him in the bathroom. We exchanged the money for the pills, and then I took three right there in the bathroom, swallowing them dry.

Texas looked at me funny. "Loren, Loren, I never woulda guessed."

"Guessed what?"

His eyes seemed to twinkle. "That you're famous."

I didn't need to ask for clarification, because his expression showcased that he knew: he knew who I was and what I did for money. I looked down at the floor.

"I didn't know you were gay either. I'm not judging, man, I'm just surprised."

"Gay for pay," I lied, probably because his Texan accent made me assume that he really did judge.

"We all gotta make that cash somehow, am I right?" he said.

Feeling relieved he seemed to buy my lie, I said, "For sure. How did you find out?" I tried to ask casually, like I wasn't as concerned as I actually was.

"A friend of a friend. Now, you call me if you need any more, aight?"

"Sure man," I said, disappointed that he wouldn't just tell me, and we did our handshake.

As Texas turned to leave, I went into full on panic mode. He wasn't gay, so how did he find out about Logan Smash? How much had my recent vid with Bjorn pushed me into the kind of fame I didn't want? Or did that Scary Jock Guy finally decide to out me?

I sat at a table and ordered a beer, a tremendously stupid decision. Everyone knew painkillers mixed with alcohol was the worst polysubstance combination, one that sometimes proved fatal. I must have had a death wish, though, because I drank my beer, and wondered and wondered about my life choices, until finally I existed in that oxy-induced state, dreaming while awake.

Suddenly someone familiar was in my direct line of vision, saying, "You look really fucked up." I looked at him for a few moments, trying to place him even though his face looked fuzzy and my thinking capabilities had slowed down, and then I realized who it was. Creepy Vanilla Mint Guy. He looked super posh, with expensive clothing and perfectly combed blonde hair. Even though I'd been scared of another chance encounter with him, he didn't seem so scary now. Even when he told me, "You found me again. Remember what we talked about this morning?" I still didn't feel scared, but I didn't answer his question.

"Can I give you a ride home?" he asked; I think that's what he asked, anyway.

Realizing I didn't want to be in a place like Hazed and Dazed looking the way I probably looked, I nodded.

The car ride to my place must have been unmemorable, because I didn't remember it. I didn't even remember giving him my address, but I must have, because we ended up at my place. Suddenly, my couch was beneath me, and posh guy sat beside me.

He kept talking to me, and his voice was far away, even though his lips moved so close to my face. 

I tried to figure out what he was saying but couldn't.

His face continued to float there, so close to my own, and I wondered if he would kiss me, but he pulled away. Maybe he hadn't been close to me; maybe I'd imagined it. He continued talking, so much talking, so many words, and I couldn't comprehend them. Lots of stuff about me and him, you, you, me, you, me, he kept saying. I tried to muster my own words to tell him I had no idea what in the actual fuck he was talking about, but putting together so many words seemed like an enormous challenge; even making a sound seemed like a challenge.

I closed my eyes.

? ? ?

As my mind came back to reality, I wondered how I got here, on the carpet and under one of the three scariest people in my life.

I remembered what I had told Meg about getting through situations like this. I grin and bear it. Mind over matter. I make myself enjoy it. And if I can't, I distract myself until it's over. The carpet. The carpet. How many microbes existed in this carpet, existed under the weight of my body, warmed by the friction of my knees and palms? I felt so sick, like I might throw up, and I remembered I was drunk and high on a dangerous polysubstance combination.

Suddenly, Shane stood there, and Creepy Vanilla Mint Guy got up and gathered his things quicker than I could make sense of, leaving the two of us—Shane and I—alone.

Shane looked baffled, disgusted, angry, hurt; I had a hard time assessing his expression with my inability to focus well on it. "I just came in because I'm worried about you. I didn't see your car, but I heard yelling, so I used the spare key you keep hidden on your porch." He started to back away towards the door.

Still clutching the carpet, I finally found my voice. "Shane, I—"

He closed his eyes, putting his right hand over his head. "Don't bother, Loren. We're nothing more than a thing, right? I think we're probably less than a thing now, because apparently you want partners who don't care about you, who call you comedumpster over and over and shove your face into the carpet. I can't give you that, Loren. I won't."

He left before I managed to say his name again.

I threw up on my carpet, wishing the polysubstance combination would just prove fatal.