uncollected addiction

He watched me swipe two thick doses of Vikaden from an Advil bottle and slide them tauntingly onto my tongue. I chuckled them down as he snatched for the rum in my hands and failed. I inhaled the liquor like oxygen, scooting back onto the chaise like it was nothing. We were in a glass bubble. Around us, there was a small party forming as drunk underaged children danced and laughed, starting games of beer pong on a cleared pool table. His eyes never left me as I tried at looking sexy; dragging my legs onto the chair and playing with the necklace sleeping between the fold and meet of my breasts.

"Slow down, babe." He breathed, reaching for my thigh under the madness of our potent sexual attraction, which danced between us like static energy.

"Why? Why should I? I'm so fucking drunk...I don't give a shit. I won't care in the morning either." I can hear myself say. Two seconds before the words slipped off my lips, they sounded decisive and cool.

"You'll probably have either a hang over like a bitch, or be hitting a blunt." He says sarcastically. Although we both know that it isn't cynicsm at all. He's dead serious. And he's right. I shrug. "The real question is why can't you ever be sober?"

"Don't you wanna fuck me?" I ask, suddenly feeling the need to cut the bullshit.

"I want to. But not when you're like this?"


"No; fucked up. You're trashed. You look like shit. And its not sexy."

This sentence sounds hard-core and should probably be responded to with a severe cuss out or a quick slap. But instead, just turns the completely shit-faced side of me on.

"You're wrong."


"I'm not fucked up...yet." My eyes travel up from where I know his dick is lying on his thigh up to his pretty brown eyes and boyishly gapped smile suggestively.

"Oh yeah? You wouldn't."

"You wouldn't."

"Oh...you don't even know."

"Show me then."

My eyes drifted up him like an ocean wave, lifting over the horizon--as I dared him with the fire behind my stare. His tipsy, almost cocky half smile stayed as he ran one hand up my leg, still penetrating my gaze with his own. It was like a game of Nervous, but I never uttered the word. Syllables were not coming as easy now as the drugs and liquor kicked in at exactly the wrong time. His sentences slipped away from me, skipping over one another and seemingly taunting me with a painful dizziness. His hand removed itself and he drew in his breath. His aggravation seared the ends of the upraised hair on my arms. I tipped over as the pressure from him lifting himself up drew me in to a black hole.

"You know, you really should stop drinking..." Was all he said as he walked away, into the growing crowd, both of us knowing that I needed to stop doing a hell of a lot more than just that.

Moqui_Takoda   Moqui_Takoda wrote
on 7/27/2008 10:32:51 AM
oh, forgot to say ... this is not cutsie and nothing in it is cutsie and every addict knows and thinks that it kicks on at the wrong time ... i have been an addict and your piece is nail down good. really nice work.

Moqui_Takoda   Moqui_Takoda wrote
on 7/27/2008 10:29:22 AM
I like this piece because, to me, the thematic element is this and it runs all the way through ... "its not sexy" ... so, all he wants is for you to be appealing in a way he wants, but does not care (?) how you feel or how you might find a way through this ... your final lines, as usual for you, are very powerful and you know he may have misstated himself but you know he may not have ... what he said to you is this: i don't care about you that way, i want you to be healthy and happy so that i can have a nice good time, forget you, its all about me. ... that's how i read this, and i don't know if the personna is autobiographical or not ... but first person is the best way to write about this issue and it is on the surface about addiction but there is a deeper theme and it is about fullfillment, not being sexy or appealing, but about the only way to be that way to yourself. very good work. I am an alcoholic, dry for twenty years, and it will go beyond this into vomiting blood, looking old, becoming stupid and the longer it lasts the better chance it has of killing your heart, but you will live on ... these things erase brilliance and personality ... these things give men and other women power over you ... but the greatest power over you is you ... not money, not health, but you. period. write on

Gildea   Gildea wrote
on 7/2/2008 12:22:55 PM
Brutal honesty? Some of the wording is I think cutsie... making it awkward. this is a brutal, honest piece..with that honestly and starkness you seem to add these words as pins and whistles.... the story is about a pretty raw-nerved topic.... doesn't need weirdly-fit words like taunting and seared "His aggravation seared the ends of the upraised hair on my arms. I tipped over as the pressure from him lifting himself up drew me in to a black hole." I like it and read the entire thing twice.. and what addict ever thought things kicked in at the wrong time?

StarPoet   StarPoet wrote
on 6/2/2008 2:55:21 PM
I admire your frank honesty and your willingness to share this experience with us. I can relate for I was 12 years "A Slave" and am now 16+ years clean and sober. Wrote a poem about those 12 years ("I Love My Freedom") which I now plan to put on here soon, especially since you shared your story here. Thanks for the encouragement. I truly appreciate it. And my best goes out to you.

vwhitlock   vwhitlock wrote
on 6/1/2008 1:53:55 PM
very insightful...seeking the unobtainable euphoria of oblivion

Short Story
writing dsr
One tear in a bucket, fuck it.
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A two minute read about basically...addiction. Tell me what you think. I'm open to brutal criticism.
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