(no subject)
... “If you keep taking what they put inside of you, that's all you'll have. It'll keep piling up until you're more them than you, and then that's what you'll be.” ...
... The absurdity itself had become a tangible, powerful force. He had taken me -- a layabout nobody, no one with no qualifications to be anywhere, into a hotel room supplied him by the convention. He did this on multiplying levels of contraband; first, that I was there in the staff room and then, that I was there in the women's staff room, and forward that I was smuggled in under the pretenses that I myself was staff. The audacity was itself impossible to comprehend -- I was left in the dust, wondering how a man becomes so confident that he will have loud, obtrusive sex with his pet while two coworkers are in beds less than ten feet away. ...
... I waited a long time. He was running late. I rehearsed greetings; I checked the timbre of my voice; I walked in circles, dragging my bag behind me, because it was cute. Anxiety over the first impression had worn me thin already: he had ordered a girl, but he would receive her packaged as a boy. He knew this, had assured me he was okay with this -- but those assurances were worthless. The first impression would dictate everything: if I could arouse him, I could placate him. If I could create the anticipation for a sexual encounter, I would be safe. ...
... I woke up in vomit. It covered the room, burgundy splotches that hovered over the carpet waiting to sink in. It was dark -- I knew this. My body was lame, was sore, was unresponsive; I remember being rocked, as if I was being electrocuted ... as if my mind had been cut off from the rest of me for the duration, only dimly aware of the terrible quaking. This went on: consciousness came and went, the few moments of it dominated by the single omnipotent truth -- I need water. I needed to drink. It felt like hours; it may have well been hours. I inched across the floor, measuring my progress in blackouts -- three feet, six feet, nine feet, the sprawling twelve feet it took to reach the bathroom sink -- to drink, to drown myself in the water, to lose myself that time on the tile floor with a cosmic assurance -- I will live. ...
... The moment seemed ripped out of Requiem: Jeremy had me get on my knees, on the chair, facing him, calling the attention of the rest of the cast. He took the pickle from his hamburger platter and slowly moved it towards me, that wild glint in his eyes -- “Put your hands behind your back,” he told me. I did. “Alright, alright, close your eyes.” I did. I felt the sour sponginess against my lips -- he traced circles while everyone laughed, before finally ushering my mouth open so I could “take what I was given.” The waiter walked by -- Jeremy asked him for a tray of pickles. “Keep your eyes open this time,” he suggestion-ordered, laughing. ...
... The absurdity itself had become a tangible, powerful force. He had taken me -- a layabout nobody, no one with no qualifications to be anywhere, into a hotel room supplied him by the convention. He did this on multiplying levels of contraband; first, that I was there in the staff room and then, that I was there in the women's staff room, and forward that I was smuggled in under the pretenses that I myself was staff. The audacity was itself impossible to comprehend -- I was left in the dust, wondering how a man becomes so confident that he will have loud, obtrusive sex with his pet while two coworkers are in beds less than ten feet away. ...
... I waited a long time. He was running late. I rehearsed greetings; I checked the timbre of my voice; I walked in circles, dragging my bag behind me, because it was cute. Anxiety over the first impression had worn me thin already: he had ordered a girl, but he would receive her packaged as a boy. He knew this, had assured me he was okay with this -- but those assurances were worthless. The first impression would dictate everything: if I could arouse him, I could placate him. If I could create the anticipation for a sexual encounter, I would be safe. ...
... I woke up in vomit. It covered the room, burgundy splotches that hovered over the carpet waiting to sink in. It was dark -- I knew this. My body was lame, was sore, was unresponsive; I remember being rocked, as if I was being electrocuted ... as if my mind had been cut off from the rest of me for the duration, only dimly aware of the terrible quaking. This went on: consciousness came and went, the few moments of it dominated by the single omnipotent truth -- I need water. I needed to drink. It felt like hours; it may have well been hours. I inched across the floor, measuring my progress in blackouts -- three feet, six feet, nine feet, the sprawling twelve feet it took to reach the bathroom sink -- to drink, to drown myself in the water, to lose myself that time on the tile floor with a cosmic assurance -- I will live. ...
... The moment seemed ripped out of Requiem: Jeremy had me get on my knees, on the chair, facing him, calling the attention of the rest of the cast. He took the pickle from his hamburger platter and slowly moved it towards me, that wild glint in his eyes -- “Put your hands behind your back,” he told me. I did. “Alright, alright, close your eyes.” I did. I felt the sour sponginess against my lips -- he traced circles while everyone laughed, before finally ushering my mouth open so I could “take what I was given.” The waiter walked by -- Jeremy asked him for a tray of pickles. “Keep your eyes open this time,” he suggestion-ordered, laughing. ...