you've really done it

I can only jerk off to escort classifieds now because they’re more real to me than regular porn. there’s something about the listing, the tryst.com girl who is 5 miles away, who I could technically reach out to that moment. the process of picking them out of the digital lineup, like ordering some shitty uber eats. But then I always cum and she’s instantly unappealing and generic like normal porn. and after the orgasm comes another type of relief - the “thank god I didn’t call” and won’t have to stomach any of that in person. and then, like clockwork after both hits (orgasm, relief) my heart once again feels so much physical pain that I have to punch myself in the chest and make a pathetic noise, that people only make when they’re alone. It sounds like a goat, or a coughing dog.

but everything is finally about to change.

the meetings take place in a little white room behind the church, there's always the same mosquito there, always biting me on my hands making me anxious, and itchy. and there’s always that one girl I keep looking at. there’s the grey haired guy with the refrigerator chest and tight black shirt, the tattoos from when he was younger. there’s the curly haired mexican kid who sits in the back, always with this dumb look of surprise in his face. there’s the french looking handsome guy, who is always about to cry. with the tight acne jeans and bright white shoes, and perfectly shaped beard. there’s the one girl who I keep looking at, that reminds me of my disease every time I look at her. I study her face and look for flaws, changes in coloring. it’s pink around her eyes, she’s always crying before meetings, I think to myself. she’s long, and lanky. with dark brown hair. we both had our first meeting, one meeting ago. when I watched her coming into the room, judging her, taking her apart. her knees, the knee socks, the black shoes. she was wearing a pink fabric covid mask (which she ended up taking off, to reveal a beautiful face) - and I assumed the worst about her. but this second meeting, she dressed up a bit, and I’ll be sure to make it about me because of my disease. oh, and there’s the voices, too. the zoom people - disjointed boxes, trans activists and pregnant-to-be-anxious parents, people with three letter names in black hoodies. gay men with bleached orange hair and highlighter around their eyes, who self identify as neuro divergent. we're all here together sitting pathetically, quietly, because we've fucked things up, in one way or another. we go over the steps and the texts again, this is my second meeting. I feel like a broken pieces of shit, but it’s why I’m there, sitting next to other broken pieces of shit - but guaranteed I’ll keep coming back, because of the one girl. when she stood up to share, I arched my back and adjusted and tried to catch her eyes. she didn’t meet my gaze or come close, but I had a shitty seat. the first time I saw her, the week prior at my first meeting. I raised my hand to share - sitting in the little folding chair at the front of the room, with my back to the zoom room, trying to address and focus at who I could, but I just sat there sobbing. the girl I can’t stop looking at was nodding along to my pathetic sobs, like she could hear words. maybe I was saying things, mostly I think I was muttering. but I was sobbing at her, this other broken person sitting in this shitty room. It felt good to be there.

Home is an illusion since anywhere can be a home after at least 8 days - once the sheets feel familiar and you shower enough times, come back to it enough times, once it becomes some sort of refuge enough times. I just crossed that mark - where I’m not crippled by doom at 4am, alone, shuttering and pathetic in an air bnb. which of course, I still technically am. I watched the air bnb ceo brian chestnut on a rich people’s podcast for 20 minutes last night when I couldn’t sleep, I didn’t ask for this. but I’m responsible for all of it. I hate that life has collapsed and I love that everything is fucked in total equal measure. I don’t know what home means, I’ve always hated them. they’e always been a crutch in some way. unless they’re a cave, a place that nobody else goes. but now I’m too locked down and responsible, too in the thick of it with other people - too emotionally retarded, and exhausted - to ever really relax. I pace around, I sit in the sun outside for 30 seconds with my eyes closed, before picking up my phone and making more coffee. I tried to order weed with my lost ID by photographing the screen of the computer, and when the delivery guy came to the door, I showed him the photo on my phone and he just stared at me from above his N95 mask before walking away.

One bank account, twice divorced, one expired and suspended license, one lost or missing passport, thrown away in the garbage of a hospital. I can’t even get high like a normal person. at the end of everything, I just want someone to hold me so I can get some good sleep.