My friend Handsome, who also knew Tina quite well, came over to the new place before we did the AIDS Walk on Sunday, housewarming orchid in hand. He scanned my room appreciatively and said, “this would be the perfect tweaker room”, meaning, I think, its quiet surroundings and abundance of privacy. Well-suited to sex. Easy on the paranoia factor.
Schwinng’s last roommate before me was an out-of-work speed freak who had boys over 24/7 and generally made the house not a home. Schwinng literally burned sage when the guy moved out, cleansing the house of all evil spirits. I’m pretty sure it worked. The room doesn’t feel haunted. It just feels like mine. Which doesn’t mean I’m not haunted by the ghosts of summers past. I don’t think sobriety is necessarily harder during the tough times; I think addiction sneaks up you when the going’s good. It taps a wee finger on your shoulder and whispers “Man, you’ve got it good. Let’s celebrate.”
With such a perfect abode, I’m tempted to stay home more often. But what I’ve learned through my experiences with addiction and depression is that I need to stay,er…busy…to stay healthy. Shit, that sounded so lame, I know, but it’s true. My current Human Bullet campaign is working, mainly through physics. A body in motion stays in motion, no? Seven new pounds of muscle propelling me forward. No, not that kind of muscle, you perv.
When my friends were helping me move, I happened to casually mention that I disliked the full-length mirrors on my sliding closet doors. I said I wanted to get rid of them. Oh, my god, you should have heard the screams.
“NOOOOO!!! Oh my GOD they are so HOT!! You HAVE to put your bed in front of them. Are you CRAZY?? You’re SINGLE now, you HAVE to put them to use.”
So I backed off. And honestly, the only place my bed worked was directly across from them on the opposite wall. So I’ve been trying to get used to them. But sometimes I happen to glance up while I’m watching TV or reading, and I look like a TOTAL dork; a slack-jawed, vacant-eyed slouch of a man. They’re unnerving.
I admit it, I don’t want to see myself when I’m having sex. Sue me. If it’s an esteem problem, well, there’s always therapy. I wouldn’t mind seeing the other guy reflected back a few times, though.
Speaking of, I broke my 4-month spell this weekend. Yes, ladies and gentleman, the DogPoet got laid. And did he ever…:) Love? mais no. Two men in heat? But of course. I can truly say this guy knew how to press all the right buttons. Although after it was over, I can’t say I wanted a date. And we did it at his place, so I still haven’t broken in the mirrors. So to speak. The search continues.