On Loneliness, Numbness, And Masturbating In The Bath

It’s not even 6 on a Sunday night and I’m already drunk. I didn’t intend to get to this level of inebriated, I haven’t even finished this bottle of wine, but already I can feel that buzz I’ve been craving all day start burrowing its way under my skin. Maybe it’s the sleep I haven’t been getting, maybe it’s the muscle relaxers I took for my back, maybe it’s because I haven’t been able to eat much, but damn, my body is feeling it. Colors are becoming brighter, the music I’m playing is seducing me, I’m closing my eyes and rolling my head back because it feels heavy.

I’m in the bath, the water is almost burning me, but I don’t care, I love how it feels.

It seems I’m always doing this. Looking for something to feel. Chasing something to fill up the hollow.

When I was eleven, I couldn’t stand the white walls in my bedroom anymore. I begged my parents to let me pain them, I settled for a metallic gold. I remember the fumes, the way I inhaled, opening up my eyes and looking at the color, and still feeling lifeless. I just wanted some color. I just wanted to splatter them bright. When that didn’t do the trick, I settled for scarlet on white, something a little more tangible. I remember the way it felt balmy dripping down my skin like lukewarm coffee. I’m not proud of it. I have the scars to remind me. It has been a while since I craved cold metal to skin, so I was proud of myself when I ended up at the wine aisle.

I’m alone, drunk on a Sunday night, naked in the tub, lighting up a cigarette inside, when I haven’t smoked in ages, and actually telling myself good job. Mess.

I just get so alone, sometimes.

Loneliness has always been my most faithful lover. We’re more intimate with each other than lovers are with their hands, with their bodies, with their laughs. Nobody knows me like Loneliness knows me, and nobody has ever held me as tight as she. But, I’m a little tired of having her here. I’m tired of her making me a liar; me smiling at people, when sometimes all I want to do is collapse on my bed and cry beyond exhaustion. I am so exhausted. So exhausted of not being seen, of having so many people in my world, and still being alone. I’m so exhausted of hiding.

It makes me think of him, I never want to hide when I’m with him. With him, it feels like he’s got this thread by two of his skillful fingers, and slowly he’s unraveling me at the seams. I love how it feels, I want him to open up and see everything.

I’m thinking of him, and I really wish I wasn’t.

He’s so wonderful, and I’d give anything to never have learned his name, because he’s moved me in ways no one has in a long time, maybe in ways no one ever has. He makes me feel like maybe I’m not just this sad person, like maybe I’m not supposed to be alone, like I am so many things underneath all that is heavy. He makes me feel like who I really am underneath all of that. I worked so hard to not tie myself emotionally to anyone, to keep my distance, to never cross barriers that are more than just bed sheets. But here I am, drunk on a Sunday, in the bath, thinking about him. And I’m certain he’s not thinking of me.

I reach for my glass on the side of the tub, fill it up with a little more Cabernet. I’ve got a million problems, innumerable wounds, endless demons chained to me at the feet, that sometimes make me feel like I may not make it until the end of the day. Sometimes it really feels like I may not wake up tomorrow. Sometimes I’m okay with it. But here I am, the thing bothering me the most is him. I laugh, because I’m really that big of a mess, shake my head, down the glass.

Chasing something.

Meg Myers is singing Desire in the background. The water is still hot. The bubbles, though, have been disappearing into thin air. I think about what it would be like to go with them. But Meg Myers is pulling me back into the now. And goddamn, I really am such a mess. I got a million problems, sometimes it feels like I am coping just to live, like I’m barely keeping my head above water, but all I want to do right now is fuck someone as hard as she is in this song.

This song, it just does something to me. Like her, I just want someone to come and fucking feed me.

I’m arching my back, my nipples no longer in the bath, the cool air kissing both of them, making me gasp. I take my right hand to touch my left, to twist it between my thumb and my index fingers, and I’m drunker. The water is still stifling, but I’ve got the chills. My hand is going down, caressing my ribs, going back to center, traveling down my stomach to my pubic bone. I’m reaching down further to where it aches the most. I’m moving my fingers the way only I can. My legs spreading apart wider, higher, feet clinging on the side of the tub, water blowing the candles out. All I hear are the words how do you want me coming from the speakers, and I can think of a thousand ways how. I keep going harder, because if I can just reach that peak of ecstasy it might mean I’m still alive. I’m going harder, and when I find that release, I know I’ll be here to see tomorrow.

I lay there, not able to move a limb, for what seems like a good ten or thirteen minutes. I stand up, wrap a towel around myself, grab the last glass, and walk to my bed, where I may just cry beyond exhaustion, or make myself come harder.

Either way, I’m just trying to keep my head above water.