Digging the Vein
ordeal. I started to suffer from premature ejaculation; sparked partly by the fear of the belittling look I knew would follow if I came too soon. It was a horrifying look: at once emasculating, cold, yet almost sexy, in a masochistic way. I told no one of what I was going through, as Christiane and I lived virtually separate social lives. It would have been too much to reveal to my friends the pathetic truth. I had defended Christiane doggedly, when RP started putting her down during our beer and meth sessions. Now my foolishness would have been revealed to all. Me; reduced to a miserable, masturbatory shadow of my former self with my dear, dear wife - back turned, thighs pressed tightly together, less than a foot away from me physically, but still an ancient ocean between us.
    It was the first time since I lost my virginity that I was so resolutely and unwillingly celibate. I had to find something else to pass the time and I sure as fuck wasn’t finding it in writing. I was as uncreative as I was unsexual. Still, I had my friends and I had my drugs. RP liked to go out and get high as often as I did, and I have to admit I got a kind of self destructive kick from being around him, despite the whole grey area with Christiane and her possible feelings for him. Our drugs were coke and speed, and I soon discovered he was expert at finding narcotics at a moments notice. We would snort our way to the place where higher was not an option, days blending into nights and still more days. And we talked… my god did we talk. Our conversations were endless, cyclical, but it always came back to her . I remained silent despite RP’s tales of their fucked up sex life, which (I noted with a little envy) seemed a little racier than ours, even before it had ground to a halt. He'd sometimes go to places that made me feel even shittier than I did before, but I never, ever stopped him. I'd meditate on images of him sodomizing her in the back of a truck later, as I watched her sleep. Everyone has a history, I'd reason, remembering the endless one-night stands I'd had on and off tour. I'd try and think of the girls I had lived with and slept with: Mette, the Danish barmaid in Chelsea who often brought men from the bar back to the house and fucked the nosily in an effort to make me jealous; Yuko, the Japanese girl from Queens Park who’d asked me in a childlike voice why I didn’t want “to hold her hand anymore” the night we broke up; and all of the others, an army of flesh fucked and groped in flats, hotel rooms and bathrooms all over England. Then I'd think about Christiane sucking off RP while they worked on some awful movie together. I wondered sadly if she swallowed. I was almost glad we didn't kiss anymore.
    “ Fuck,” I'd mutter to myself; climbing into bed, “What the fuck is wrong with me?”
    My relationship with RP was changing for the worse for other reasons. Since he found a new girlfriend, the chemistry changed slightly. He would disappear into the night as the Ecstasy or the coke or whatever kicked in so they could screw; leaving me at some anonymous Hollywood party to fend for myself. I suppose I didn't care too much: I actually felt relieved that he had a girlfriend. He talked less about Christiane now. I usually did OK when stranded: there would be someone with a car, high enough on Ecstasy to offer up a random act of kindness, or a couch where I could crash for the night. I wasn't in any hurry to make it home, as I knew that when I did return Christiane would greet me with scorn— or even worse, impassivity.

THE WEEKEND BEGINS
     
     
    RP called me on Friday afternoon telling me to meet him at a Koreatown bar called The Escape Room around ten. It sounded good to me; the Escape Room was a sleazy little dive bar, dark and cheap with toilet stalls that locked from the inside.
    It was around 3 p.m. I was getting out of bed with a raging hangover. The night before I’d washed down four temazepam with a bottle of Crazy Horse
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