Risky Sex

Taro Williams

N ow, sex is boring. No, sex is something more complicated; it’s neutral. It‘s not stimulating, disgusting, or even a euphoric rush. It’s just something people do. It just exists. 

I want to say that sex only exists in the privacy of one’s bedroom, but I know That’s not the case. In reality, sex exists in the ether. The thought of intimacy is stronger than the physics of it. In my damaged stoner brain, floating in whatever fragments of memories I have left. Echoing throughout the urban decay of this austerity-stricken city. My body is only a ghostly image of what has been. Wrapped by all the empty cocktail glasses and lost cocaine keys. Lost without a map, wandering down the graffiti alleyways looking for a wall to piss on.

Risky sex always leads to late nights with hard drugs and strangers. Waking up in the afternoon wearing someone else’s leather pants. After the party ends, I always end up asking myself: whose apartment did I end up crashing at? Did anyone pay for the taxi ride home? Why did I ever decide to move back to this city?

There was a time when I hated being around others. Now, I absolutely can’t stand being alone. I need constant stimulus. A caffeine-fueled rush hour every morning. The sound of children laughing as they walk past my apartment on the way to school. Followed by the sound of bombastic partygoers every night. There’s a chaotic noise there that I just adore. It’s the only thing that keeps me going.

“Now I drink my vodka without soda or a lime. Thank you very much!”

“Funny, I would do that same thing when I was seventeen.”

“It’s the only way I know how to process my grief.”

“Well, how old are you now?”

Around the age of twenty-four, my knees began to buckle. Suddenly, it hurt to walk—even for a short distance. The humidity would inflate my muscles below my scrappy thighs. Making me feel as if my ankles would snap and burst at any second. I became incredibly sore all of the time. I was in constant pain.

The doctors said it could be early-stage arthritis. But I knew that was bullshit. This wasn’t some disease. Just a reaction to years of stress …

You see, my youth was a chaotic time. My body knew that my muscles remembered it, and yet, they refused to forget it. I’ve become an archive of every bad decision I ever made as a teenager. The worst part is that all of the scholarships that are locked in my bodily archive aren’t written in English or any language that I can understand. The only way to access this archive is with pain. Joint paint—epic stiffness. The whole agony of time.

“Hey, what are you doing after class today?”

“Nothing, can I meet ya at Riverdale Park?”

“It’s a plan!”

“Cool! I can pick up some stuff from Cameron’s house on the way.”

Once you’ve fallen in love, It’s incredibly difficult to have sex again. I mean, like really good casual sex, you know? To use others as disposable objects for the quick rush. A simple summer fling. To smell the sweat of an acquaintance. It’s a challenge to be vulnerable with a stranger, to give permission to a nobody to view you as an object. I don’t think I can play the role of the porcelain doll ever again. To share something so intimate and personal—like passing around a joint. So, please don’t hold me like that. I’m not twenty-one anymore …

That’s both a good and a bad thing. There’s power in youth, in being desired by a shadow of a mysterious gaze. But It’s paired with a nativity that you just don’t really understand until it happens. By the time the lesson is finally learned, It’s usually too late.

An affect, an anxiety, deep within the body just below the rib cage. It’s an angst That’s not connected to a face or place. No physical location can hold onto these fears. Instead, It’s a cosmic vibe that haunts the chest—wherever you go. 

“Why are you dressed like that?”

“Makes me feel good.”

“That’s a lot of skin.”

“It’s hot outside. Over thirty degrees with the humidity.”

“Men will look at you.”

“Okay.”

“Pandering to the male gaze again?”

“Okay.”

“Nobody will ever authentically love you if you disrespect yourself like that.”

“Okay.”

Men don’t call me vulgar slurs on the street anymore. I walk home alone in the dark after a night out with friends. I’ve never felt more safe, yet invisible before. I’m a ghost.

The good thing about living in this city is that people will mind their own business and leave you alone. The basic thing about living in this city is that people will mind their own business and leave you alone. I just can’t seem to win.

I walk amongst the urban façade—under streetlights—between passing taxi lights. I see a billboard that is trying to sell me pink lace lingerie. Would I even look good in those? I wonder to myself.

I should be happy after a night out, so why do I feel so guilty instead? Have I fallen? or have I been saved? It must be the rosé.

A few years ago, I gave my body permission to swell up and then shrink right down to the bone. So tight that you could see my entire rib cage when I took off my shirt.

Not because I wanted to, It’s just a side effect of the medication I’m on. I’m indifferent to how my body looks—to whatever shape I happen to take up—in whichever room I enter. I have become apathetic to the physical world. 

It’s not a diet—

It’s not exercise—

It’s not throwing up—

I am just lost in my mind.

Yearning for that old friend who just decided one day to pick up all of their things and abruptly move to the West Coast. They forgot me. Left me without a word. Ghosting in every sense of the word. The ultimate Irish goodbye. How could one not completely lose their sanity after experiencing that?

The only thing you left for me to conclude was that, in your eyes, I meant absolutely nothing to you. A simple note, a phone call, or even a text message could clear up this whole mess. But your cowardice got the best of you. You choose to listen to your anxiety over your “best friend,” and That’s an incredibly selfish thing to do to someone who you once loved. Why did you have to tell me that at the beach that summer night? Why did you say you loved me? Yes, we may have been on shrooms, but what you did was just so cruel. Why?

I think about having to go to the pharmacy to pick up my prescription right after seeing a doctor. The way the pharmacist looked at me. I can’t stop thinking about her look.

It wasn’t a judgmental one, but it wasn’t a dead stare. It had a sort of spark as if she was trying to say, “Hey, kid, It’s okay. Everyone goes through rough patches in their life. You’re gonna get through this.” I know It’s silly, but that is what I honestly felt as she handed me that small paper bag full of medication. All these little blue pills the size of fish eggs inside these plastic orange containers. That was all I supposedly needed to get me through the next couple of months.

“Do you ever remember drinking at the beach at night time?”

“Of course! We were there practically every weekend during the summer.”

“The beach with the old wooden lifeguard station.”

“Yes, yes, I know it.”

“Well, something bad happened to me during one of those nights.”

“What?”

“Something really bad happened?”

“What was it?”

“I was waiting for you at the bus stop on Queen Street, when …”

The “ring, ring” chimes on the subway train before the doors close. My daydreaming has suddenly stopped. I’ve snapped back to reality. I’m back in this awful city, no longer escaping into childish fantasies. This is the last stop on the night train. And I’m the only one left in the cart.

Strangely, I think I like being all by myself—but only in this way. For this moment I can do nothing, or I can pull out some of my hair. At least nobody is watching me at two in the morning.