The Long Drawn Out Process of Becoming A Lost Soul (Or: The Beginning To A Short Story I’ll Probably Never Finish Part II)

But this doesn’t explain why I’m crazy. It only explains why we’re all crazy, and I guess I should explain that the reason that I found the coke heads and Daddy in the first place was because my boyfriend had left me. Not suddenly but gradually, over the course of our three year relationship. The first time my boyfriend left me was right after the first time we had sex, and he has been leaving me ever since then. He left me for the last time at the end of winter, and by the time springtime had arrived, I was antsy for anything other than my boyfriend. Which was how I find myself at the bars over and over again. I was never alone, because there’s always someone who wants to go the bar, but the rotating cast of bar time companions I had paled in comparison to the thirst that kept me compulsively arriving at the bottom of another glass of booze night after night. I know that my erstwhile bar companions thought that my inexplicable penchant for booze could be explained by my recent break up, but after enough time had passed, they felt that my prescription for booze as the remedy for a broken heart had expired and that perhaps I should move onto the same things I had been doing before I started binge drinking, namely staying in and not binge drinking. But that was an activity that I had done with my boyfriend, and I wasn’t interested in doing anything that reminded me of my boyfriend. So binge drinking it was.

Perhaps I had the look of a lost soul, and that’s why the coke heads took me in. Or maybe it was because I knew that the coke heads were finally the people I had been searching for in bars, and that was why I was drawn to them so feverishly. Regardless, it just happened one night. The coke heads were the friends of the friend I had dragged with me to the bar, and within half an hour we were all hunkered over some shit tagged toilet doing knife bumps and cackling into our vodka sodas. Within a few weeks I had joined their die hard weekend squad, rolling out into a variety of downtown clubs, to the dive bars, to the dance clubs, to the dinner theaters, to the fancy restaurants, to the cocktail bars, to anywhere that booze and boys flowed freely.

I fit right in, in my six inch heels and my bright red lipstick. I was ready for this. I was ready for this life. I was ready to be someone who wasn’t somebody else’s girlfriend. I was ready to be new. To be a new me. To be anyone other than the sad girl alone at the bar, looking for something that she could never find. Daddy probably knew that when he first laid eyes on me. The coke heads knew him because they knew all the dope guys, and Daddy was the dope guy’s dope guy. Daddy’s the plug. Daddy’s the guy at the back of the bar with the gun in his pants and a grin on his face. Daddy’s always drunk. Daddy knew all the coke heads, and they knew him, too. It was love, I think, or maybe it was just drugs. Those people lived the kind of life where there was no differentiation between the two, and I was happy to be living that life with them.

Daddy like me because I was fresh and I was new. I was different from the coke heads. Unsullied. Virgin meat. The coke heads had a penchant for running through every group of guys they could find. The coke heads had fucked everyone possible already at least once, and they had fucked the good ones twice by now. Me? Nah. Not me. I was too new for that, and the coke heads liked me too much to let me wander off aimlessly into a situation that was filled with limp fuck boy dick. Instead, they let me wander off into the arms of Daddy, whose arms were muscular and filled with fight.

Daddy was a beautiful man. He was the type of man who always had a Backwoods on him, but never any condoms. He had a phone filled with numbers that had no names, and then he had another phone filled with the numbers of people who were beautiful and sparkling in the night. He always had blow and $100 bills in his pocket, but he wasn’t flashy and he wasn’t insecure. He was confident. Confident enough to grab me when he first saw me and sit me on his lap. His lips like twin snakes that hissed the most beautiful words into my ear. Like a voodoo curse dripping into my brain, small bites on my neck where I was infected with him.

Daddy fucked like a champ and was hung like a horse, which probably explains the consistent smile on his face and his enduring swagger. He had the charm of a hustler and the stroke of a pimp. All the women loved him, but I loved him most of all because he fucked me the best. And I fucked him the best, too. That’s what he told me in whispering dark moments, in the collapse of the bliss that always follows fucking. That my ass was the best. That I fucked him the way he liked it. That no one else fucked like me. And then he’d smack my ass, turn over, and roll us both a blunt.

I thought it was love because there’s nothing better than thinking it’s love. It’s the best thing to think, and it’s the best thing to feel, even if cocaine is the only reason that you’re still thinking about anything at 10 am when you’re all alone and still wide awake. Which is why I would smoke more weed and hope to pass out until 7pm, which is when I’d roll to the store for a bottle of wine and a sandwich. It was the moments when I was totally alone, in a vibrating state of hangover and swatting off that sensation of impending doom like it was nothing particularly harrowing. That was when things would start to come crashing down just a little bit. The memories of the six orgasms that Daddy gave me couldn’t say me from feeling like I was being crushed just a little bit, standing in line behind some screaming crack head in my pajama pants and still slightly smeared make up.

It’s easy to get fat or get fired when living a life like this, but I managed to avoid both even in the throes of stultifying hang overs in the face of my boss or the daunting task of going to the gym. I did it for Daddy because he had no problem reminding me that my body was the best thing going for me, and that no he would never pay for anything for me ever but he would probably share his drugs with me if he had enough. That was fine by me, and I felt good about myself because I knew I had a job and I knew that I could make it to the gym every day to lift my five pound weights and feel better than everyone else. I don’t know if the other coke heads went to the gym, but after a few months it started to look like maybe they didn’t. Daddy didn’t like that about them, and he told me about it whenever he could. I didn’t want to be like the coke heads, and he didn’t want me to be like them, either. So I wasn’t. This was why I felt better than them.

It doesn’t take long for coke heads to get paranoid. Usually only a couple of bumps. And despite the fact that the coke heads loved Daddy, and despite the fact that the coke heads loved me, things were not meant to pan out amongst us all.