complaining about the same shit, forever. In recovery, forever. Sure, I’m standing guard, but if you want to get really authentic about it, I’d rather see Denny locked in the stocks than let him get banished and leave me behind.
I’m not so much a good friend as I’m the doctor who wants to adjust your spine every week.
Or the dealer who sells you heroin.
“Parasite” isn’t the right word, but it’s the first word that comes to mind.
Denny’s wig flops to the ground, again. The words “Eat me” bleeding red in the rain, running pink down behind his cold, blue ears, trickling pink around his eyes and down his cheeks, dripping pink into the mud.
All you can hear is the rain, water falling against puddles, against thatched roofs, against us, erosion.
I’m not so much a good friend as I’m the savior who wants you to worship him forever.
Denny sneezes, again, a long hank of yellowy goob that snakes out of his nose and lands on the wig in the mud, and hesays, “Dude, do not put that nasty rug back on my head, okay?” And he sniffs. Then coughs, and his glasses drop off his face into the mess.
Nasal discharge means Rubella.
See also: Whooping cough.
See also: Pneumonia.
His glasses remind me of Dr. Marshall, and I say how there’s this new girl in my life, a real doctor, and for serious, worth the effort to bag.
And Denny says, “You still stuck on doing your fourth step? You need any help remembering stuff to write in your notebook?”
The complete and relentless story of my sexual addiction. Oh, yeah, that. Every lame, suck-ass moment.
And I say, “Everything in moderation, dude. Even recovery.”
I’m not so much a good friend as I’m the parent who never wants you to really grow up.
And facedown, Denny says, “It helps to remember the first time for everything.” He says, “My first time I jacked off, I thought I’d invented it. I looked down at my sloppy handful of junk and thought,
This is going to make me rich.”
The first time for everything. The incomplete inventory of my crimes. Just another incomplete in my life full of incompletes.
And still facedown, blind to everything in the world except the mud, Denny says, “Dude, you still there?”
And I put the rag back around his nose and tell him, “Blow.”
Chapter 5
Whatever lighting the photographer used was harsh and made bad shadows on the cement-block wall behind them. Just a painted wall in somebody’s basement. The monkey looked tired and patchy with mange. The guy was in lousy shape, pale with rolls around his middle, but there he was, relaxed and bent over with his hands braced against his knees and his poochy gut hanging down, his face looking back over his shoulder at the camera, smiling away.
“Beatific” isn’t the right word, but it’s the first word that comes to mind.
What the little boy first loved about pornography wasn’t the sex part. It wasn’t the pictures of beautiful people dorking each other, their heads thrown back, making those fake orgasm faces. Not at first. He’d found all those pictures on the Internet even before he knew what sex was. They had the Internet in every library. They had it at all the schools.
The way you can move from city to city and always find a Catholic church, the same Mass said everywhere, no matter what foster place the kid was sent, he could always find the Internet. The truth was, if Christ had laughed on the cross, or spat on the Romans, if he’d done anything more than just suffer, the kid would’ve liked church a lot more.
As it was, his favorite website was pretty much not sexy, at least not to him. You could just go there, and there would be about a dozen photographs of this one dumpy guy dressed as Tarzan with a goofy orangutan trained to poke what looked like roasted chestnuts up the guy’s ass.
The guy’s leopard-print loincloth is tossed to one side, the elastic waistband sunk into his tubby waist.
The monkey’s crouched there, ready with the
I’m not so much a good friend as I’m the doctor who wants to adjust your spine every week.
Or the dealer who sells you heroin.
“Parasite” isn’t the right word, but it’s the first word that comes to mind.
Denny’s wig flops to the ground, again. The words “Eat me” bleeding red in the rain, running pink down behind his cold, blue ears, trickling pink around his eyes and down his cheeks, dripping pink into the mud.
All you can hear is the rain, water falling against puddles, against thatched roofs, against us, erosion.
I’m not so much a good friend as I’m the savior who wants you to worship him forever.
Denny sneezes, again, a long hank of yellowy goob that snakes out of his nose and lands on the wig in the mud, and hesays, “Dude, do not put that nasty rug back on my head, okay?” And he sniffs. Then coughs, and his glasses drop off his face into the mess.
Nasal discharge means Rubella.
See also: Whooping cough.
See also: Pneumonia.
His glasses remind me of Dr. Marshall, and I say how there’s this new girl in my life, a real doctor, and for serious, worth the effort to bag.
And Denny says, “You still stuck on doing your fourth step? You need any help remembering stuff to write in your notebook?”
The complete and relentless story of my sexual addiction. Oh, yeah, that. Every lame, suck-ass moment.
And I say, “Everything in moderation, dude. Even recovery.”
I’m not so much a good friend as I’m the parent who never wants you to really grow up.
And facedown, Denny says, “It helps to remember the first time for everything.” He says, “My first time I jacked off, I thought I’d invented it. I looked down at my sloppy handful of junk and thought,
This is going to make me rich.”
The first time for everything. The incomplete inventory of my crimes. Just another incomplete in my life full of incompletes.
And still facedown, blind to everything in the world except the mud, Denny says, “Dude, you still there?”
And I put the rag back around his nose and tell him, “Blow.”
Chapter 5
Whatever lighting the photographer used was harsh and made bad shadows on the cement-block wall behind them. Just a painted wall in somebody’s basement. The monkey looked tired and patchy with mange. The guy was in lousy shape, pale with rolls around his middle, but there he was, relaxed and bent over with his hands braced against his knees and his poochy gut hanging down, his face looking back over his shoulder at the camera, smiling away.
“Beatific” isn’t the right word, but it’s the first word that comes to mind.
What the little boy first loved about pornography wasn’t the sex part. It wasn’t the pictures of beautiful people dorking each other, their heads thrown back, making those fake orgasm faces. Not at first. He’d found all those pictures on the Internet even before he knew what sex was. They had the Internet in every library. They had it at all the schools.
The way you can move from city to city and always find a Catholic church, the same Mass said everywhere, no matter what foster place the kid was sent, he could always find the Internet. The truth was, if Christ had laughed on the cross, or spat on the Romans, if he’d done anything more than just suffer, the kid would’ve liked church a lot more.
As it was, his favorite website was pretty much not sexy, at least not to him. You could just go there, and there would be about a dozen photographs of this one dumpy guy dressed as Tarzan with a goofy orangutan trained to poke what looked like roasted chestnuts up the guy’s ass.
The guy’s leopard-print loincloth is tossed to one side, the elastic waistband sunk into his tubby waist.
The monkey’s crouched there, ready with the
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