Dry_ A Memoir - Augusten Burroughs [104]
Keith returns looking very proud of himself. “Ready?” he asks in a way that can only be described as genuinely friendly. I look at him for a moment and realize I am a complete goner.
“Sure, let’s head out of here,” I say, in my best normal voice. I don’t tell him about the pool table man or the jukebox man or the sleeping puppies. He is not for epiphanies. He is for surfaces. Or maybe that’s me. I suspect it is.
Luckily, Keith lives only blocks away. His apartment is a fifth-floor walk-up. I manage the stairs and am uncomfortably sober by the time I reach the top. I am hoping he has alcohol in the apartment. And then I remember the blow. Once inside, Keith tosses his wallet and keys on the kitchen counter and removes miniature paper envelopes from his pocket. He produces a razor blade from the junk drawer in the kitchen and goes about the task of cutting lines. He works wordlessly, like an old-world craftsman. His face is pure scrimshaw. I, on the other hand, would simply drag out the corner of my Amex card, poke it into the dust and start snorting.
“Wanna go?” he asks, producing exactly half of a plastic straw from thin air.
I take the straw. “Sure,” I say as I lean over the counter and, like a practiced anteater, begin inhaling line after line.
“Whoa, man. Take it easy on that shit.”
I turn my head sideways and look at him with the straw still at my nostril. “Don’t worry,” I tell him. “I’m fine.” I inhale another two lines and pass the straw to him. I pinch my nostrils together and sniff whatever dust remains.
Keith displays admirable moderation, snorting only two lines. “That’s enough for me for a while,” he says.
“Take off your shirt,” I tell him as I stretch my own T-shirt over my head.
“Holy shit,” he says when he sees my chest. “You have an incredible body.” He reaches his hand out to touch my stomach. I feel no pleasure in his compliment or his touch, only impatience. This is the only feeling. I feel like the paper on which my mood chart is printed.
“Here, I’ll do it,” I say as I tug his shirt up, snagging it on his head. He pulls his head out and tosses the shirt onto a chair. His chest is very handsome—strong and solid. But this isn’t what interests me. What interests me is seeing what I can get him to do. The coke has made me incredibly horny and also borderline suicidal. I’m split 50/50. Do I want a blowjob or do I want to jump out the window?
“Does this feel good?” he asks later in bed, my cock in his hands, slick from his mouth.
No, it feels awful, I don’t tell him. But want to. This is not what I expected, he was the wrong guy. His touch is too personal. Affectionate. It could split me open.
I gently pull him up, rest his head on my chest. I stroke it as kindly as I can possibly stroke a stranger’s head. “I have to go,” I say. “Sorry.”
“Hey, Augusten, what’s the matter? You seem like you’re upset about something. Like maybe you wanna talk. I really like you, you know. It’s not just about sex or anything. I mean, there’s something about you that, well, I don’t know,” he trails off. “Something I guess I’m really attracted to. And I don’t mean the physical stuff.”
He’s a really nice guy. If only I weren’t me.
Greer calls me to tell me that our commercial didn’t do well in focus groups and that we need to do a re-edit.
“I can’t care about this now,” I tell her. I am deeply hungover.
She’s silent for a moment. “Well, it’s our commercial. I mean, I know you’ve taken a leave from work, but . . . Well, you are the writer.”
“Greer, I have a lot of shit happening,” I say. “You are just going to have to deal with this yourself. Hire a fucking freelancer.”
“Why me?” she explodes. “Why must I always clean up after you?”
My head is pounding and my nose is dry. “Greer, just