F*cking Out the Sadness (Part I)

* Please bear in mind that this is a work of fiction. Though I admit I was inspired by my close friends' stories and confessions. I twisted their stories with my own imagination to make this work of fiction. Also, this isn't for the faint of heart or those with morality issues. Things like these happen. Let's accept that. I wrote this, one, to tell the story from, hopefully, a sort of honest point of view. Second, I wanted to flex my writing muscle and see if I can write something as taboo as this and present it in a way that it becomes easier to understand where the protagonist is coming from. If the writing or topic below is not to your taste, feel free to skip this post, Cheers*


This is the story of the moon chasing the gloom away. I'm the moon. And this is my shit, my life.

Today is the 467th day since mother died.

Today is the 200th day since my 60 year old father took that 19 year old hoe for his lover. 300 days since L left our mother's house after a quarrel with our father's kabitch.

Today I have a date at 2 PM. With a local. The catch? He has a partner of six years. But he's blond and blue-eyed and willing. And I am sad.

But before all these facts is a confession: today, just a few minutes ago, I took a peek at your Facebook account. Just to check if you have moved on. Okay, that's a lie. I wanted to check if you are worse off than I am. Okay, that's also a lie. Truth: I wanted to check if there's a new man in your life.

This is my life unraveling alone. If you ever read this, know that this is not my road to self-destruction, it is just me, finding ways, hoping to fuck out the sadness.


Time
I have not taken a tablet in three months. Cheers to me, the functional drug user! My friends would be proud!

How did it begin, this secret life of drugs and random fucks? How else, how else but with a black hole. I used to think it was the circumstances that pushed me into this low point. When mother died, I lost the biggest person in my life. I thought, I thought, if only she had lived for just a few more years then she would have known the grand plans I had for her. By then I would have gotten my citizenship and move her here with me (with us!), here where she would live finally in first world comfort. Here, in fucking Holland where she could take long walks with me, where I could be the son she has missed throughout the years of my living abroad. I wished, I wished, we had more time, so I could have shown her that being gay is not the illness she thinks it is. Then we'd have time to look back and laugh, how all the prayer requests she offered to make me into the man she wanted me were effing hilarious and idiotic.

But she died and you, faithless charlatan, you picked the effing worst time to tell me you can't sacrifice your career in the effing desert to be with me, that perhaps we have different life paths after all. After fifteen effin years, half of that with us living apart, after fifteen years, you suddenly had a phenomenal revelation, you selfish twit?! Imagine then, what it felt. It was as if the universe were conspiring to tell me one thing: All is lost, go fuck yourself. And so I did. What was there to lose? All I had was an effin day job and as long as I kept it, I could muck other parts of my life.

At one point, crying became so damn boring and I had sooo many hours to fill! So I thought,I am in Holland, where gays are like jute, so fragrant, so pretty, why should a gay, newly dumped at that, not play? You, the love I thought was true, well, you had your chance. I'm done with being loyal and all that goody-goody crap.


X and Mr. Y

Mr. Y is a forty something white whom I met through one of those gay dating sites. To be honest, he isn't exactly my type. Balding, with a handful of wrinkles on his white sandpaper skin. But he had blue eyes and the calm measure of a man who knows how to lead a clueless idiot like me. And so I let him ease me into the scene and of course, into his bed. Sex wasn't particularly mind blowing, but at least I felt like a person again -- with warm flesh that another human felt desirable enough to fuck.

Mr Y introduced me to his other young boys, led me into the group he joins when he wants more than one-to-one action. And in that group I learned the pleasures of X.

X is the drug of choice for messing around in groups. It heightens everything. With X, I loved you even as I loved the boy going down on me. I loved every cell of my being, I loved myself as I took to doing things I would hate myself later for doing. But those hours of X-fuelled happiness and loving with the boys, that was the lifeline I had to feeling connected, to being seen and held. Yes, X, is a drug, and yes, if they knew, if you knew about my secret shit, you'd condemn me, What a loser addict! But to me, at least, during those months when I had nothing but pain, X, taking X gave me something precious- those few hours of forgetting.

(To be continued..)