Love is the Drug

Chapter 1

I started drinking when I was way too young. By the time I hit the legal drinking age, I had already been to rehab twice. When I got to 21, I was sober if sober is defined as “does not drink alcohol, but in order to not drink alcohol, frequently abuses every manner of illicit substances.” Yeah. I was sober.

Needless to say, I was a black sheep. My family was wealthy and the rehab didn’t put them in some dire financial strain. But my parents always threatened to not give me any support as an adult. At first this scared me, but then I found it to be a blessing. Rich kids who grow up with their trust funds, as fun as that may be, also might miss out on any discipline. It might sound funny to hear about the cultivation of discipline from an addict of every drug you’ve probably every tried, or thought about trying, or would absolutely never try for fear of becoming like me… but I am actually a fairly disciplined individual.

I turned my years of addiction into something a little more than depravity by becoming an artist. I’m not saying being an artist excuses the pursuit of suffering. Don’t just let yourself fuck up because it’ll give you insight. But if you have fucked up, you better get some insight out of it. And with that little bit of internal growth, make something out of it. I became a sculptor, and by the time I was 24 I was making a very good living off of it. I don’t want to brag about my salary. Not that the money mattered that much. I could have afforded the drugs I liked best on way less.

When I was 30, I cleaned up. Thank god. I would be dead if I hadn’t. My girlfriend, Emma, love of my life, told me that if I didn’t get sober then I would only get to date her for another year. Because after that, I’d be in the ground. And she didn’t want to fuck the ground. The theory she was throwing at me wasn’t the convincing part, it was the knife she was brandishing as she told me she was certain I’d be dead in a year. And then the fucking she rewarded my sobriety with.

This woman could make the Pope swear off little boys. If she wasn’t such an intoxicating woman, it would have been much, much harder for me to get off my other drugs. But she took me into our bedroom and told me that we could only fuck on days that I was clean. And if I didn’t fuck her one day, then she would find someone else who would. I had already gotten high that day, and so she said I had already earned a punishment.

She went out and within 45 minutes came back with a man I thought even I couldn’t beat up. I’m not huge, but I’ve been in a lot of violent situations and fancy myself cool under that kind of pressure. Experience alone can sometimes get you through a fight. This guy was way bigger, and way more experienced.

She told him, “Frank, this is Jack. He’s my boyfriend. He’s gonna watch you fuck me.”

Frank looked at me and said, “You cool with this?”

I said, “Not really.”

Frank looked at Emma, who had taken off her shirt and was kneeling in front of Frank’s big black cock. He didn’t need my blessing anymore.

She fished his cock out of his pants and I suddenly got to see what it actually looked when she gave me a blowjob. I don’t watch porn very often, and I don’t see a lot of live blowjobs, so it was actually a sort of shocking experience for me. She wasn’t just inhaling his dick and coming up for air only to drown herself with it again. This woman was an expert. She made his dick feel like it was the king of the world. She opened her mouth, left her lips on the head of his cock for a while, and she came back she her lipstick had left an imprint of what I liked to imagine was crown. Then she expertly wrapped her hands around his shaft and the size of her hands relative to the size of his dick made me feel like I hadn’t even gone through puberty yet.

“I’m gonna cum,” Frank admitted after about 5 minutes. Thank God, I thought.

She didn’t stop, instead she picked up the pace. I could see her teasing him just a little bit with her teeth, until she finally drove him over the edge by taking his whole piece in her mouth, and then extending her tongue to cover his balls. He was engulfed. The look on his face was so happy, it made me ecstatic to know he’d only experience this once, and I could experience it every sober day of my life.

I haven’t done heroin, or any other drug, in five years, starting on that day.

So now I’m 35. I’m well-off, I’m sober, I’ve got a huge back-log of awful and awesome memories, and I’ve got a girlfriend I would kill for. I’m not self-destructive in any drug-related way. But there’s one way in which my mind continues to try and ruin my life.

I cannot stop thinking about sleeping other women. I told you, I’m disciplined, and I never act on these feelings. But “these feelings” are more like “that feeling you have when you wake up and you don’t stop having it until you fall asleep but then you have it some more while you dream about fucking other women.”

I know most men probably do this kind of fantasizing, and you might think you go through this every day just like me, and though it’s a little difficult at times, it’s really not a life-ruiner. You have to understand – I’m an addict by nature. I don’t do drugs anymore, and the beast in me that always wants to turn off my life and get lost in a substance suddenly sees drugs all around me again. Everywhere. I see blonde, busty heroin walking by me every day on the sidewalk. I see slender little needles slinking around on the dance floor. Every kind of woman looks like just the kind of woman I want to scoop into my arms and make track-marks with.

Little women, big beautiful women, older gals and younger girls. Blonds, brunettes, red-heads, white, black, asian, hispanic, whatever girl it is in front of me looks like the one I want to be inside of. I can turn off my feelings for girls under 18 because even my addictive subconsciousness doesn’t want to go to jail. Beyond that, I’m fucked.

I never had sex with anyone outside of my relationship. Until I did. And that’s the story I’m about to tell you. But trust me, it’s not just that I went out one day, succumbed to my desires, and cheated on Emma. Emma, as it turns out, is a monster herself. And thank fucking God.

Chapter 2

Emma comes from a funny family. I mean, no wholesome upbringing could have brought her up. Her hair was always a different color. It’s red right now, but when she was blowing Frank it was blue.

Blue.

She pulled it off. She has a tattoo on her ass that says “Imagine,” but it isn’t because of the song. It’s because seeing her body makes you drop into a rabbit hole of sinful fantasies, and she loves to make you feel guilty for it.

Her parents only had two kids – Emma, and her younger sister Lydia. Lydia was 15 years younger than Emma, at 18. She turned 18 on the day that this story takes place. I hope that hint doesn’t give things away.

Lydia shares a lot of Emma’s qualities. She’s strong, she’s independent, she’s artistic, she’s cruel a lot, and she’s the sweetest ally you’ll ever have. She’s also a little minx. I wouldn’t call her a slut, because I don’t shame women for liking sex as much men, but I think she has a lot of it. I think this because of the way she looks at me, and because of the way she constantly makes me think that the room she just walked out of is the room she just finished fingering herself in. It’s in the eyes. It’s very hard to be around.

On her 18th birthday Lydia went to a big party in a canyon. The three of us ate dinner without her parents, who were such assholes that they had left town on the day their daughter turned 18. But we were the real family and we had a good time, and then sent her off to have fun. We knew she was going to probably get drunk and do drugs, but it isn’t my place to tell her how to behave. The most I could do was tell her my truth, how it would have killed me if it hadn’t been for Emma, and then let her make her own decisions. I hoped that would make her wise enough to not make too many mistakes.

It didn’t. At least on that night. She’d only been gone maybe an hour when I got a call on my cell phone. It was from Lydia. She and I are close, but she would never call me instead of Emma. I showed the call to Emma and she told me to answer it.

“Hello?”

“Jack? Jack, I need you to come and help me.” She sounded scared.

“Lydia, what’s wrong?”

“I did something and I think it’s really fucking me up. They told me it was molly but I heard that molly just makes you feel happy and want to party more. I’m getting stressed out and… my mind is getting filled with awful things. I don’t know how well I can control myself. I need you to help me.”

I told her not to worry and that I would be right there. She gave me directions and I hung up. 

“What is it?” Emma asked.

I told her, “I need to go get Lydia. She’s having a bad trip. She must have called me because I’ve obviously been there a few times.”

I got in my truck and Emma jumped in the passenger seat. She didn’t have much experience with drugs, but I suspected she was coming along mostly to find the guys that gave Lydia drugs and flay their dicks.

Or, knowing Emma, maybe she would blow them just so that every blowjob they got for the rest of their lives would pale in comparison. That’s the kind of sadistic shit this woman was capable of.

We got to the canyon and there was a big fire pit and a bunch of 20-somethings drinking PBR and spilling it on their flannels.

“Jack!” I heard Lydia calling my name. She was sitting on a stump away from the group. She was wearing next to nothing, first of all, so she was not only mentally uncomfortable. She must have been freezing.

Emma said, “Lydia, why weren’t you by the fire?