Hi. I’m Death. I am a sex addict, but I haven’t fucked for 1386 days, nor have I watched any porn.
– Hi, Death, murmur the others. At around Day 240 they accepted that that’s what he calls himself. They are past outrage and anyway, they’re in no position to judge anyone. If he’s a punk, then let him be a punk. Better than a borderline.
The room was absurdly big, it made you feel tiny. Tiny and miserable. Despondent and weak. The organisers should pay more attention to such details, he thought. He was about to start when he noticed a petite blond, squirming in the back row. Her eyes were translucent blue, just like her dress. Why isn’t there a dress code at the sex addicts’ meeting?, he wondered. Then suddenly he remembered the fifth of the Twelve Steps: “Admitted to God, to ourselves, and to another human beings the exact nature of our wrongs”. And the film began in his head: arses and breasts, mouths and saliva.
Go on, said the psychologist, who led the meeting, encouragingly. But suddenly he felt out of breath, he began to sweat, and the heavy, brown velvet drapes on the windows felt like they were burying him alive. He grabbed his coat and left without a word.
This had happened before. Next time it’ll be different. Relieved, he stepped into the local pub. He asked for a whisky at the bar, as some smoky, raspy blues played - the scene resembled a perfectly composed album cover. He wondered if being an alcoholic was better than being a sex addict. Whether it’s better to be dependent on an object than on flesh and blood? He didn’t want to give a definitive answer; more appealing was the opportunity to drink himself unconscious with something expensive. But the alcohol didn’t dull his senses, instead, it sharpened them just as it sharpened his memories.
It was 1387 days ago that he last looked into those eyes and the space between her legs. The last time he heard her taste, smelled her voice. He could feel the tongue, tickling the stubble on his face. The heat hit his cheeks and sobered him up. He knew what was coming, that they’ll kick his arse but who the fuck cares when Death is more fond of living than those who are alive.
- This doesn’t help, not you, not anyone.– remarked the One in All of Us after each of these occasions. That night was no exception.
- If you say so. Why don’t you kick me out if you don’t like it?, he replied casually, spinning a globe on his finger with nonchalance.- What do you know about it, you never died!
- The same old story again. Thanatos fucks Eros. All right. And what next? Why is it so hard for you to understand that you can't have one without the other?
- Why can’t death be more of a multiplying joy?
- Let me remind you at this point that the French call orgasm a “small death”.
- I knew it.
- You think sex is life but your way of doing it doesn’t multiply but takes away, it doesn’t enliven but strangles. You’ll drown in dissatisfaction. You’re shouting hysterically in here but you can’t hear yourself outside because you scream when you fuck.
He told the barman to pour the fifth whisky into a plastic cup, then he left the pub. There was bright sunshine outside. His phone started vibrating.