The dream was always the same…
I see him in glimmers. His tall frame with wide shoulders, slim waist. His dark hair varies in length, sometimes long, sometimes short. His lips full but never fuller than mine making him want to kiss me longer, deeper, want to chew on my roundness. He’s got hands so soft, that know exactly where to touch. The stubble on his cheek feels good under my grasp, against my mouth. I can see my fingers run down his back like in a movie. I can feel the firmness of his ass in my palms. And when I look into his eyes there are no eyes, just flickering flames and a bright orange glow. I wobble, I teeter, I fall right in.
I wake up then, short of breath, overwhelmed with an all-encompassing pleasure. The border between reverie and life is thin in those moments, so thin I can still almost touch him, smell him. I place a hand on my own wet forehead and in the dark wonder if I called for him or if the sound I remember making was muffled by the fog of fantasy. I roll over and stare into the pitch black suddenly full, fuller than I think I’ve ever been, of loneliness.
I fall asleep again, eventually. Always, before I slip past the gauze of reality and back into make-believe, I ask for the man to return to me, to hold me in his wicked arms again.
* * *
It wasn’t long after my overdose when I returned to the party scene.
The first event I attended felt strange. No longer was it a gathering place for the weirdos and supposed burnouts. To rave no longer felt subversive or particularly wild. It felt instead, like a playpen for children. And I was the kid who had long outgrown the available toys but refused to let go. I only went because I wanted to see him again. Him. The devilish man.
While in the hospital I had stared out the window for hours on end, putting together the puzzle pieces of my fragmented memory. I could see what he was wearing: dark pants and a sheer, tight long-sleeved black top. I could see his jewellery: a few necklaces and bracelets, an earring that dangled. I could see his facial hair and eyelashes. I could see him walking toward me, looking right into me. But like in the dream I could never see his face, not completely.
I became convinced that I had seen him a million times before and also not once in my life. He was alternately a friend of a friend and someone from someplace. But what place? His look wasn’t like anything I had encountered in the homogenous wasteland of Saskatoon, but also exactly the kind of goth-lite you only get in places where "real" goth probably doesn't actually exist. I attended party after party, never really partying, too busy, too obsessed with finding him.
I thought he was at a bar in Calgary with deep red lights and great martinis. I thought he was in Edmonton at an industrial gathering with the most aggressive music I’ve ever heard. I thought I spotted him in Vancouver as I stumbled toward Kitsilano Beach with a friend.
Every time I saw the ghost of him, it was like I was caught committing a crime. My breath, my heart, my everything stopped. My mind assembled the old puzzle and I would squint at its faded and tattered pieces hoping they'd come together as the full picture.
But it was never actually him.
Still, he stuck with me, emerging from the dark in my dreams, lurking in corners of shadowy bars, always out of reach. I managed to fully invent him and to lay his spectre, like a second skin, over every person, every situation that followed in his wake. After all, it wasn't really him I wanted, it was the danger of him, the threat of him.
And I’ve managed to find that several times.
Take for example the man who found me crying on the sidewalk after my boyfriend at the time refused for the umpteenth time to stay the night. We had been out at a bar, celebrating a friend’s show. We’d been dating for a few months but his intimacy had remained elusive. When he left, after rebuffing my advance, I got very, very drunk and told myself to go on home. Halfway there, in my sadness, I decided I had gone far enough and couldn't possibly continue. I plopped myself down on the stoop of a shop and began to weep. People passed by, whispering, never stopping. Until him.
I saw his shoes first, Converse sneakers with dirty laces. I looked up. Can't even imagine how terrible I must have looked, tears all over my face, drunk as drunk can be. He sat down beside me and we started talking. He invited me to his house. I followed him home. At the entrance to his yard, I hesitated, continued on anyway. In his basement apartment, he watched me take off all my clothes before he removed his. We sucked each other off for a while. I complained about my boyfriend. He told me I was with the wrong man, that he could be the right man. He said I was asking someone for something they could never give. He offered to tie me up, to make me beg for something worth begging for.
I said I needed to leave. Stumbling home, I actually questioned if staying would have been a better choice.
There was the man at the bathhouse.
Our eyes had met across writhing bodies. I had moved away, wanting to continue my search through space and wanting him to follow. He caught up and pulled me into a shadowed corner. He pushed me onto my knees and placed a bottle of poppers under my nostril. He told me to take a deep breath. I did. A rush of idiotic warmth filled the veins of my skull. He instructed me to suck his dick. I did. He told me to get on my back and moved to fuck me. I asked if he had a condom. He said he didn’t. I almost let him go ahead without. My drunk brain screamed to stop, that this was a bad choice.
I pushed him away. He complained. I told him I don't fuck without protection. He whined then abruptly left.
There was the man I met in a park parking lot. Whose car I got into and who I let drive me to his home in a part of town I didn’t know. I went inside his house and climbed into his bed where we fooled around. After getting off, he said he just wanted to go to sleep and refused to drop me off where he found me. He said I should have planned ahead and had my own way home. He rolled over and didn't bother locking his door behind me.
There were all the times I got into a car with friends under the influence. One time in particular sticks out: a group of us had taken mushrooms and had gone to the bar. We got drunk and danced. I tried my first - and last - Prairie Fire shot. Then, we decided to head on home. The driver was a wild drunk, prone to picking fights with his girlfriend. He did so as we zoomed along and, in his rage, hit the brakes stopping us right in the middle of the street. He disembarked and ran off into the night. His girlfriend jumped out and chased him for a bit, leaving the rest of us in the back seat. I remember laughing like a hyena at the absurdity of us waiting in the empty street, front doors wide open while the lights twinkled all around us like a kaleidoscope.
And then there were all the ways I tainted my long-term partners with my warped need for dark and danger. I would ask them to be rough, to wrestle me or hit me. I’d manipulate them into treating me like shit, to say something awful that they didn’t really mean. I would revel in it, all of it. But, in the end, it was just a game and they were decent men so sometimes they would do what I deemed to be the worst act of all: doing exactly the opposite of what I asked. They would treat me kind, with love and respect. And if there was anything as a younger man I could not accept into my life it was kindness, love, and respect.
This ultimate betrayal meant I could give myself permission to be my own brand of black-hearted man. I would disappear. Sometimes physically, often mentally while I was still in their presence. I would emotionally cheat and actually cheat. I did everything in my power to turn that person against me. I did everything in my power to turn the world against me. I partied harder, picked fights, said terrible, horrendous, unforgivable things. I’d go out and get wasted, then drive home. I did this so many times, I can’t even count. I was chasing the danger of that devilish man and the night I first saw him. I wanted to grab him and kiss him rough, our lips mashing together until our mouths filled with blood.
Then, finally, I got my chance.
It was the end of summer. I was again living with my parents in a small two-bedroom apartment. Some of our extended family was in town and they had all gone down for the weekend to the hot springs hotel and spa in Moose Jaw. I tend to avoid family events and so I stayed back. My sister had lent me her car to use for the weekend to get to work and do whatever I needed to do. Eduardo, my best friend at the time, and I were hanging out at his place, getting baked as we often did.
Somewhere in the night, we decided we wanted to dance so we went down to Diva’s, the local gay club. There, I started drinking. At one point, a lovely, friendly human being who went on to become my boyfriend started dancing with me. We had a great time. When we were about to leave, he asked me to come along with him and his friends. They were going to an afterparty and he wanted to keep hanging out. I told him I couldn’t, that I had committed to hanging out with Eduardo. We parted ways and Eduardo* and I went back to his house. While sitting outside we got into a massive fight about some stupid thing or other. Anyone who's known me intimately can tell you that I’ve got a temper, always have. I’m stubborn, dismissive, and argumentative at the best of times, but when I get drunk, everything becomes enhanced in an ugly way. I can become much meaner and colder than I usually am which is saying a lot.
Eduardo and I fought and fought. I decided I didn’t want to be around him any longer and that I was perfectly okay to drive. Eduardo protested but, being pretty drunk himself and probably fed up with my bullshit, let me go. I drove off, taking it slow to be "careful." My mind drifted, furious and resentful and ashamed. I had the music turned up, playing a tune I loved. I sang along absentmindedly, the words baked into my psyche.
Around the corner from my house, I fell asleep.
I have a distinct memory of the dark before I awoke. It was the purest black, silent and deep, almost tangible.
And then it was invaded by beeping.
When I opened my eyes, my head was on the steering wheel. I tasted blood in my mouth from biting my tongue. The beeping was coming from the engine light, flashing amber in my eyes. I tried to move and barely could. The seatbelt had locked into position and was digging into my hips. I felt a sharp pain on my chest. I looked down. In its effort to keep me safe the shoulder strap had scraped along my pectoral and left behind a tattered shirt and scraped skin. The beeping continued. I pulled the key out of the ignition and it stopped. Peering through the splintered windshield, I could see how the front of the car was bent into an accordion. Looming over me was a giant truck.
I undid the seatbelt and pushed open the door. I stepped out onto the sidewalk, glass bits spilling onto the concrete. Standing was difficult. The seatbelt had really done a number to my hips. I took a few steps back and stared at the wreckage. I had apparently veered into a parked sand spreader. My sister's little Toyota looked minuscule in comparison to the red and rusted hulk.
Someone emerged from the duplexes across the street. They asked if I was okay, informed me they had called the police and went back inside. I stood there, dazed, not knowing what to do. I felt around for my cell phone, couldn't find it. Since I was right around the corner from my house, I ran over and called my friend from the landline. I told her what had happened. She listened and told me to go back. After hanging up I bawled on the floor of my room. Collecting myself, I got up and returned.
When I arrived, the cops were waiting. I was clearly drunk so they placed me in the back seat and asked me some questions. I took a breathalyzer and they informed that I was going to be taken downtown. When we got there, I was administered a more official breathalyzer while the cops joked around about my foolishness, and charged with driving under the influence. I was placed in a cell equipped with a steel toilet and sink and a rubber mat. When the door closed, I sat down and curled into the corner, going over the events of the night. The kind, joyful, effervescent man who had wanted me to stay with him and his friends seemed like a distant, almost cruel fantasy.
Suddenly, where I sat became the inevitable conclusion of every choice I ever made, every time I skated right up to the edge of the abyss and laughed into its void. No longer could I compartmentalize every action and pretend like it hadn’t directly led to the following action. The tsunami of pain, regret, and shame hit me hard.
Overcome, my body gave up and I passed out.
Slipping away from the harsh fluorescent light of my cell, I stumbled into the dark of my mind. Normally, when I’m that drunk, my sleep is dreamless, but on this night, I would not be so lucky. Instead of a comforting nothingness, I was treated to wild nightmares from which I would jerk awake, freezing, every joint of my body aching.
I have no idea how many hours later when I had been sitting up for an extended period, an officer came to fetch me. They handed back my belongings, including my cell which they found in the vehicle, and signed me out. I was directed to a stairwell and told to head all the way down. I followed their instructions and emerged into the street on a cloudy day. It had rained at some point, the sidewalk still wet, the smell still in the air. The freshness felt unbearably kind. I sat on a bench and stared up the sleepy street. Occasionally a car would roll by, driving at Sunday speeds. I sent my friend a text and asked her to pick me up. I waited until she arrived.
We went to McDonald’s and got some fries. I told her everything that happened. She listened with patience and no judgement. After a few hugs, she dropped me off at home. I went up to the apartment and took a hot shower. It stung the scrape on my chest and various other tiny cuts I hadn’t even noticed yet. I winced but told myself to suck it up because it was part of the punishment. I stood under the water hoping it would drown me, devastated to know it wouldn’t.
I stepped out of the shower and stared at myself completely naked in the mirror. I looked like I had been beaten up. I felt disgusted with myself. Not only had I destroyed my sister’s car, but I could have died or, even worse, killed someone else in the process. My knees buckled. I sat down on the floor of the bathroom and wondered when I would finally take responsibility for myself and my actions.
You’d think, crumpled naked on the linoleum like I was, I would have wisely seen this as rock bottom and forced myself to change. But I knew myself too well. I knew how I'd made those promises in the past and not kept them. I knew how I'd vowed to change and stayed exactly the same. So instead of making promises, I simply got up, got dressed, and called my mother. I told her over the phone what I'd done. Her disappointment in me and my stupidity was different this time, less angry, more resigned. She said they would be back as soon as possible.
I sat on the couch and curled up with a blanket. Outside, the sun was setting, soon it became dark. There was only one light on above the stove. The TV sat across from me and in its black mirror, I could see my silhouette. I was a dark shape, barely moving. The way my glasses caught the light in the kitchen I had no eyes, only orange flares.
Everything became clear, each battered puzzle piece falling exactly into place. Suddenly, I could see him there, found at last. The devilish man I'd been searching for. Me.
*Names have been changed.