I've spent the last four years in recovery. I wish I could tell you I've been successful, that I've been monogamous with Christian, but I can't. I've slipped, more than once.
Iíve been able to hide my work with SAA from Christian for the same reason I could hide my tricking; Christian is the most trusting soul on the planet. He never questions my excuses to disappear for a few hours to attend a meeting. Never asks who was on my cell. Just as he never questioned me when I would go out tricking, coming home and heading straight to the shower. Maybe it would have been better if he had; maybe if he had asked more questions I would have told him. They say one key to success is to have someone to be accountable to. Maybe if I had been honest with Christian I wouldn't have slipped up so often. But then again maybe if I had told him he would have simply left.
Up until six months ago, I had been doing pretty well. I think I had gone close to ten months without tricking. I had honestly begun to think that I finally had my addiction under control; that I could be the person Christian saw and we could live out our lives together.
Then the proverbial shit hit the fan.
My homophobic right-wing religious zealous parents re-entered my life. Ever so often they decide to try once again to save my soul. I do my best to ignore their attempts to 'fix' me; but inside me there is still that little boy that just wants his mother to love him. I'd be lying if I said their words and actions didn't hurt, no matter how hard I try to brace myself against them.
Around the same time I started having issues with my job. We had a change of management and the new boss wasn't as impressed with me as the old boss had been. This guy thought I was a snot nosed know-it-all. It seemed no matter what I did he was on my ass. Nothing was ever good enough.
Finally, the day came when he walked into my office and said enough was enough. I was fired from a job I had held for most of my adult life. Out on my ass without a clue where to go or how to start over.
I didn't buckle then, not yet. I was tempted, the first thing that always enters my mind when I have a bad day is to just say 'fuck it' and go find a trick, but I've learned to not give into all these impulses. I've learned how to hold onto the good things in my life instead of falling back on my old crutch.
I called Christian from my cell on the commute home. "He finally did it, he fired me." I had told him I thought it was coming, but we both had hoped I was over reacting.
"Oh, Dylan. I'm so sorry. Are you okay? Where are you?"
"Yeah, I'm fine, I'm on my way home."
"I wish I could take today off to be with you, but there's just no way."
"No, don't be silly, besides, we need your job now."
"You'll find something else soon, I'm sure."
"Yeah, well I just wanted you to know so you didn't freak if you called the office."
"Are you sure you're okay?"
"Bummed, but yeah, I'm fine. I'll see you tonight."
"Love you, Dylan."
"I love you too, Christian."
I walked into our empty apartment feeling totally out of place being home at that time of day. I had no idea what to do, the thought of trying to find another job, or even applying for unemployment seem daunting to me. I craved a drink, a joint, a hot ass, anything to numb me, even for only a moment or two. But I knew that wasn't the answer. I had come too far to let this trip me; I vowed to stay strong.
The phone rang and I picked it up without even looking at the caller I.D. It had to be Christian; he was the only one that knew I was home.
"Oh, Dylan, I wasn't expecting you." It was my mother.
"Who were you expecting then?"
"Um, your machine I guess. I was just planning on leaving you a message. Julie is graduating this year, you know, and I was wondering if we could count on you to attend."
Julie was my baby sister and the graduation wasn't for three more months. "Mom, whatever. I just lost my job today, so I don't really feel like thinking about something that's not even happening for months."
Mom was silent on the other end of the phone.
"This would be where you expressed your sympathies and concern for me."
"Oh Dylan, when will you see that all these things that happen to you, theyíre simply a result of your lifestyle."
"First of all, what are you talking about 'all these things'? The only thing that has happened is that I lost my job, and second it isn't a 'lifestyle', it's who I am, who I've always been, the way I was born."
"I can't even talk to you anymore," she said.
I rolled me eyes. "I need to go Mother. I'll talk to you later." Or not. I hung up before she had time to respond.
I walked into the kitchen and pulled the bourbon from the counter. It was ten a.m.
When Christian got home that evening I was passed out on the couch. But I had stayed home; my dick had stayed in my pants. It could have been so much worse.
It happened about a week later.
I had been growing more and more depressed. My mother's incessant phone calls only added to my feelings of worthlessness. Christian was very understanding and supportive. He kept encouraging me to get back out there, never losing faith in me. That should have been a comfort to me, right? I should have counted myself lucky to have such a caring boyfriend, but no, I found his cheeriness and encouragement irritating at the least. I would lash out at him, and then get even more upset when he wouldn't rise to my bait.
Finally one evening I knew if I stayed there any longer I would say something I couldn't repair. I kissed him and mumbled something about needing to get out and maybe see a movie or something, for him not to wait up. I knew where I was going and I knew it was a huge mistake, but at that point, I was so low I didnít even care.
I went to a dumpy little dance club with a dingy backroom and grabbed the first twink that gave me the time of day. I hauled him to the back and rode his hot little ass like there was no tomorrow. After I came, I pushed him off of me and ran out of the club as if it were on fire. I lost my supper in the alleyway, knowing I had fucked up. Major.
I drove myself home and slunk into the apartment, making my way straight to the shower and then to sleep in the spare room. There was no way I could handle Christian's understanding gaze. I didn't deserve it. I didn't deserve his love, his concern, his care. I was shit and I knew it.
I awoke the next morning to a piece of paper on the pillow next to my head. In Christian's writing it read: Get help, Dylan. Please. Love, Christian.
I fell back onto the bed and sobbed.
He was right. After I had cried myself out I picked up my cell and called my sponsor. Then I called my therapist. I knew I had to pick myself up.
That was five and a half months ago and I've been back on the program since. I haven't been out tricking, haven't had a drink or done any drugs. Iíve found another job, a better job and for the first time since I lost my job six months ago, I felt that things were back on track. And now this.
Now you tell me I'm positive. Now I have to go home and tell my partner, the love of my life what I've done.
After all this time of getting away with it, I'm caught now. The jig is up.
He'll leave you know, and I can't say that I blame him. He should leave. He should find someone that is worthy of his love.
I can only hope that I haven't infected him. That would be it for me. There is no way I could live with myself if he turns up positive too. No way.