You had a nice break, took some time to yourself. You had that little boyfriend of yours over the summer and played the shy, innocent, inexperienced child you’re so good at masquerading as to the new ones. What was it--Bryan, Bob, Blake? He treated you better than anyone you’d ever experienced before by simply being a normal person. The sex was good, but you knew you could do better. For once, the sex was just that. Isn’t it sad it took you this long to find someone normal? Or does it just seem like that because you’ve become sane?
But now, the new academic year is upon you and you're thirsty again. You're thirsty and the maws of the greedy have fallen open to accept you into your rightful place as the designated slut. He’s gone now and you’re alone. You’re so free now, and with your own room on campus, you’re open to the public like a new fairground attraction. And boy, do you draw them in.
You will accumulate more grease than the oil lubricating the gears on a Ferris wheel and your body is no longer a summer temple, but a back alley on the brink of Autumn.
You will spend the next month reclaiming your former glory as an unpaid prostitute and wallow in self-denial until your friends stop liking you and you stop liking you. Since you’re living on campus, your mother isn’t there to call you a whore, so I guess you’ll have to do it yourself. But you’ve changed. You’ve grown, right?
There are a lot of things you’re telling yourself as you pick another one, fueled by the adrenaline that comes with knowing your roommate can come in at any moment.
Relapse. That’s what they call it, a relapse in your “road to recovery,” your “path to reformation.” You’ve gone so long without feeling the constant intake of their sweat inside of you that you couldn't help but engorge yourself with it. The body count rose a couple a week as you played it off as something healthy, something normal. You tell the doctor your second wave of infection is a coincidence and a slight inconvenience. You tell the ex you gave it to it was a bizarre occurrence with no real source. But you knew.
You’re so pathetic, so sad, so depressed in your selfish angst you have no clue what to do with yourself. Yet, it’s not all bad. Remember? It’s not all bad. See, when you die, at least the disease will die with you. And then you won’t have to hurt anyone any more or make your mother ashamed to have risen such a directionless wench. So do it. Or don’t. It’s up to you whether wallowing in yourself is any better than death.
The meds come and you feel better. They nourish you and you feel better. They lift up your chest and you feel better. You love to write, you love to laugh with people who love you with every ounce of blood pumping through their hearts. You accept it into you, the love pouring into every orifice and putting a plug in your hormonal streak. You abstain. You enjoy life. You’re not a terrible person, nor are you a dumb one. You’re just too much for your own good. You’re a writer, a friend, a brother, a son, a dancer, a lover, and a human being. You still enjoy ice cream, and you enjoy yourself. You love yourself. Or at least, you hope so.
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