Thanks for Sharing

The seven o'clock Narcotics Anonymous meeting is loud as everyone takes turns introducing themselves by first name only, identifying as addicts and alcoholics. The room reverberates with the monotonous introductions. It’s supposed to be a safe space, the place where we lay our cards down, spill the bullshit we’ve built our lives on. But all I can hear is Jerome’s voice, low, murmuring in my ear just before I slip away from the group.

I tell the staff member I'm just stepping out to get some air. The fluorescent room, the hot breath of shared misery—it was stifling. But the truth is, I was chasing the heat that had been building between us from the moment he looked at me.

The bathroom smells faintly like bleach and faintly like piss. Like someone mistook cleaning spray for air freshener, or didn't give a shit either way. I step inside, the door creaking shut behind me, the lock clicking, and my stomach flips. It’s too quiet now, too still. Jerome’s in the doorway of the stall at the end of a short row of urinals.

He grins, leaning against the frame. I can see the hunger in his eyes, a wolf who's been teased too long for a scrap of meat.

“You're really about it, huh?” It isn’t a question. It’s a challenge.

I don’t answer. My hand is already reaching for his shirt, pulling him into the tiny space between the sink and the stall. His lips crash into mine, hard and demanding. He stings of aftershave, the taste of nicotine, and something else I can’t place. My body reacts before my brain has time to catch up, my hands moving to his pants, my mouth open to catch his tongue like I’ve been starved for it.

But the moment’s already ugly in its urgency. The walls are too thin, the sounds of the meeting filtering through, mixing with the heavy breaths I’m trying to stifle. It’s too much. Too close.

But then his hands slide under my shirt, pushing me into the feeling that’s been building for hours. My breath stutters when he pulls my pants down just enough, his fingers slipping between my legs. The cold countertop digs into my back. He turns me around, bending me over the sink.

It’s not pretty. It’s not tender. It’s the kind of rough you only get when you're both desperate. Barely hanging on. His touch burns something in my soul, but I can’t pull away. There’s nowhere else to go but deeper into the rawness of it. He makes eye contact with me in the mirror and hocks a glob of spit onto his hand. His fingers press into me, too quick, too hard. I don’t even know if I want this anymore, but I can’t stop. Not now.

I catch a glimpse of my scrunched-up face in the mirror and I can’t help but laugh. A sharp, breathless chuckle that cracks in the back of my throat. This is it, right? This is the best you can do. Just trying to cauterize the wounds with the heat of someone else’s body.

“My name is Mary, and I'm an addict.” I hear the echo of a confession. Her ramblings about a past, a struggle, a brokenness.

His thumb slides in the backdoor, two fingers into the front, pumping and pushing. He pulls back for a second, fumbling to pull out his dripping meat, and that’s when I see it. The look. That satisfaction of the hunt. He slides it in, and I silently pray the rocephin shot has had time to do its thing.

“Fuck,” I whisper, but it sounds wrong, like I’m not really saying it. Like I’m just trying to fill a hole that’s never going to close.

Jerome’s hand cups my mouth, pushing harder, too fucking fast. I tense up when he pulls my hair, yanking my head back. I struggle to close my eyes. I don't want to see this.

I don't want to recognize that stupid girl with her nose in the air, her mouth unable to close while she chokes back a moan. He lifts my leg to the counter, pushing me closer to my reflection until I'm practically nose to nose with it. My shaky breath fogs the glass.

The girl in the mirror looks feral, head wrenched back by the roots of her hair, her mouth stretched open, her tits jerking in time with each punishing thrust. She’s a stranger, this hollow, quivering thing, nothing but meat and motion. Her eyes scream what my mouth won’t—why are you doing this to me.

The moment cracks open, the rhythm falters for just a second, and I hear more voices from the other side of the wall, talking about redemption, talking about hope, and I wonder if I’ll ever get to feel that.

I don’t think I want to.

I jerk my head free and turn around. Its much easier to look at him than myself. He pulls me into the stall, plopping his bare ass on the toilet seat. I lower myself down onto his lap and press my palms into the wall behind him to steady myself.

Muffled voices heighten my awareness. I try to focus on his grip while he spreads my asscheeks, his swamped fingers rimming my asshole. But the words from the other side just clutter the space. Paranoia battles euphoria for control of the moment.

"I don't even remember the last time I felt whole," a voice quivers. "My wife left me for a guy who had less baggage, more self-control, and now... now, my son treats me like I'm just a stranger. I've never held my grandbabies. I haven’t seen him in twelve years. These hands hurt them for so many years. It's like I can still see the blood.”

A long pause lends space to feel the weight of someone’s loss. We're alone with the sound of flesh slapping against flesh. I stop bouncing on his log for a second and hold my breath. Thirty-something miserable wretches, together in their loneliness, with nothing but their souls to bare. But I don't feel much beyond the sting of a stranger pounding into me again.

Thanks for sharing. Responds the group, almost in unison.

Another voice, raspy from years of abuse: "I don’t even remember hitting the floor, but when I woke up, she was sitting next to me. Two years old and feeding me Goldfish crackers. She thought I was dead. I saw it in her eyes. My baby thought I was gone, and she was trying to take care of me.”

Their words feel like nails in my fractured brain. They're hammering into the walls of my head, forcing me to listen even as I try to lose myself in the friction.

Thanks for sharing.

"I used to beat off to the thought of being touched by someone who might actually care." The words make me flinch and I shift my focus to the rhythmic sound of Jerome splashing in and out of me.

His voice cracks, “I used to beg her to just hold me. I tried to get my shit together for her. I stayed clean when she cheated. I stayed clean when she aborted our child.”

My tits bounce on his face. He catches a nipple with his teeth and pulls his head back.

“She never cared, just wanted whatever she could squeeze outta me til I had nothing left. Its fucked up, man. She should be the one sitting in here, not me. I'm in here, and she's out there, still shaking her ass for a dollar with a perc in her nose.”

Thanks for sharing.

"My dad was my first drinking buddy. I let him touch me when I was fourteen. I didn’t know what else to do. First I drank for his acceptance, then it was just to cope. I'm glad he's dead, I just hate how much of me died with him.”

He shoves his fingers in my mouth, and my lips tighten around them. I fight off a rogue tear of regret. Maybe even hint of remorse.

Thanks for sharing.

“I thought I was the fucking victim. But I’m not. I’m just the villain in everyone else's stories,” another sad, pathetic revelation cuts through.

His lips are on my chest, hot and wet, but it's not sweet. I can barely breathe, my chest tight, but I don’t give a damn. The whole world can burn for all I care. While Jerome raw-dogs me on the shitter, my only hope is that I burn with it.

The voices blend into one collective lull of regret and suffering. I can’t distinguish between their shared guilt and my own. He groans, and I bounce my ass faster, struggling to keep a wobbly balance.

Thanks for sharing.

I try to tune out their whining and let myself feel everything. The tension, the rush, the way his fingers dig into my skin like he’s trying to leave a mark on my soul. He stands up, pressing me down to the floor.

“When I was out there. Trading backseat quickies for two rocks and maybe a sink to wash my ass…”

My jaw falls slack as I hear the meeting drawing to a close. I start bobbing on his junk like it holds my last meal. Spit sloshes from my lips and pools on the cracked tile between my knees. He holds my head steady, shoving himself to the back of my throat. My hands and mouth do some serious teamwork to finish him off quickly and swallow the evidence.

Thanks for sharing.

And when it’s over, we both pull away. He wipes himself off and leaves the bathroom first. I sit on the toilet and draw my knees up. I wait for the sound of his footsteps turning the corner. His cough when he's on the other side of the room. I'm left alone with the gnawing ache of knowing I’m still here. After an almost unbearable length of silence, I sneak back into the group.

I take my place in the prayer circle between Cassandra and another girl from our hall. Far away from Jerome.

“God, grant us the serenity to accept the things we cannot change,” we begin in unison. I close my eyes, not out of respect but to avoid making eye contact with anyone who might notice my crooked ponytail or shaky legs.

The local AA members who bring us the Wednesday night meeting give out their hugs and literature before making their way to the parking lot. An older gentleman pulls me into a warm side-hug.

“Chin up, darlin. And remember. We do recover.”