Private Magazine

Tag: alcohol

It Started With A Syringe


I was at work the other day and ended up having a conversation about losing your virginity. Believe it or not, I wasn’t the one who brought it up.

“I was thirteen,” my co-worker, Ginnifer with the Blue Mani, said.

“I was fifteen,” said Shelby with the Mauve Lip Liner.  “And I’ve been on birth control ever since.”

“I was…seventeen, um, eighteen,” I said. “But honestly it took me that long to hit puberty.”  

We ended up trading stories about the loss of our virginities, about how, like Madonna and Britney Spears and Cyndi Lauper, we all became “touched for the very first time” and “hit one more time” and “time after time” after that.  

It all started in college. When I got to my room in Alumni dorm, I unpacked my Smiths CDs, issues of Nylon and Woody Allen movies to go out and party right away. It wasn’t long before I had a crush on a hipster I saw buying photo paper and film at the bookstore.

“He had glasses and a plaid button-up shirt – unbuttoned halfway,” I gushed to my BFF/roommate Tara as we ate mysterious dining hall casseroles. “I want to know his name.”

The very next day in the dorm,  I was listening to Belle & Sebastian and writing in my diary when our landline phone rang.

“He’s in my logic class,” Tara said. “My philosophy class. The guy with the glasses.”

“No effin way.”

I shadowed Tara’s next logic class for the purpose of learning this guy’s name. He turned out to be a senior named Tommy who said many intellectual things. I was swooning.

A couple days later, I was in our dorm searching for my clove cigarettes. The phone rang at 3:00,  about the time logic got out.

“Tommy wants to know if we can find him a syringe,” Tara said.

“My brother’s diabetic, so probably. For what?”

“His ‘Drug Life’ photo project.”

“I’ll go to LoGrasso. Have him come to our room.”

I walked to the health center, and believe it or not, there must not have been an opiate epidemic in 2005 or something, because I was given a syringe right away, no questions asked. Sweet!  I ran back to the room, and pretended to be working on something at my computer. The door swung open. Tara entered; Tommy was behind her.

“David LaChapelle, David LaChapelle,” Tommy was saying, wearing jeans completely frayed at the bottom with a giant hole exposing one thigh, Doc Marten boots, long wool overcoat and those glasses I had a thing for.

“I really appreciate you doing this for me,” he said while snooping through my bookshelf. He picked up my Annie Hall DVD. “When are we going to get married?” Turns out, Tommy was a huge Woody Allen fan.

“I have to find a few more things for the shoot,” he said. “Want to come along? I’ll grab you guys some wine afterwards.”

Oh yeah, Tommy was 21. It was all music to my ears.

“I saw The Dandy Warhols in London,” he said. We were squished in the backseat of our other friend Valerie’s broken-down Cutlass. She was the only one with a car.

We drove to Wal Mart, the only store in town, to find a “drug dealer-esqe” gold chain, Shower-to-Shower bath powder (“the only kind that really looks like coke,” according to Tommy), and a fake nail (“even though we could probably score one from a theater major,” he said). After Tommy purchased all this stuff, and a box of Franzia, we dropped him off at his place.

“Call me later and we’ll drink wine,” he said.


Tommy and I started hanging out after that – walking around campus, smoking cigarettes, that kind of thing. One night he invited me to his house – off-campus.

“Sorry, we don’t have heat,” he said, opening the door and wearing a coat.

“Oh, okay, that’s cool,” I said.

We went up to the drafty second floor. Someone with a tie-dye tapestry over their door was blaring Grateful Dead. Tommy took me into his room and closed the door. There were stacks of books everywhere, photos tacked to the walls, an electric keyboard, bong, pack of Ecstasy herbal cigs, Velvet Underground & Nico poster, and a carpet that seemed to double as an ashtray.

“Wow. Your room is so cool,” I said.

We sat on the floor. Tommy rolled a joint, took out his iPod, and put the Brian Jonestown Massacre on. We smoked, and I got super high and paranoid because I was innocent and had no tolerance for weed back then. Tommy’s face kept getting closer to mine, somehow. He was about to kiss me when suddenly a dreadlocked girl barged into the room.

“Do either of you have a cigarette?” she yelled.

I looked at Tommy. He looked at me and said, “She’s trying to quit.”

“Um..uh, here,” I extended a Marb Light her way, my hand shaking. She retreated into the hall, shutting the door.

“Damn,” Tommy said. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay,”  I said. “So, where were we?”

This blog never gives an explicit play-by-play because it’s better to leave things to the imagination, in my opinion. It’s classier. But when I left Tommy’s house that night I wasn’t as innocent as when I entered.

“Tara,” I said, turning the light on and waking her up. “It happened.”

“Oh. My. God!” She sat up in bed and hugged me. “I’m so proud of you!”

The next morning, we were celebrating over DIY omelettes in the dining hall when I felt nauseous.

“BLEEEEGHHHHHH,” I puked for a good five minutes in the bathroom then came out, pale and sweating. “Tara…I’m so sick.”

I was in bed for the next 36 hours, perspiring, worried I was pregnant, watching The Virgin Suicides.

“Baby girl…You can’t be pregnant,” Tara said. “It’s got to be the flu.”

Sure enough, it was the flu. The only “clean” glass I could find at Tommy’s was totally cloudy and under the bathroom sink, but I was desperate.

The following semester, Tommy left to study abroad in the UK. I thought I’d never see him again. But junior year, Tara and I took the school van down to Pittsburgh, where Tommy was in law school…


Great Expectations


This weekend, my maniacally reclusive BFF/fellow writer/ex-boyfriend, Eddie, is setting me up on a blind date.

Eddie gets me. We’ve shared many treasured moments. We used to have this thing where we’d get drunk at Hutch’s. We consumed their entire Fall/Winter 2013 cocktail menu. One time Eddie wore overalls there. Not really sure why, but I’m going to let him set me up on a date.

The man Eddie’s setting me up with is Kevin. Kevin’s the brother of a married man I know – one that I would have a scandalous affair with, given the opportunity.  In lieu of that, I guess his brother could suffice. The married guy never sealed the deal.

Eddie told me that Kevin is in desperate need of a woman. He’s allegedly “handsome” and a “talented musician.” Kevin is ten years younger than his married brother, aka in his forties.

Eddie arranged it so I’m supposed to show up at Kevin’s house this Friday night. I just got out of a strenuous three month relationship – it’s time to let my wild side back out.


Friday rears it’s head, like the Lockness Monster ready to party. I scroll through Kevin’s Facebook photos again. He seems fuckable. I apply scandalous perfume, Elizabeth & James Black, which has a similar effect on men as Calvin Klein Euphoria did in 2009. Men love that shit.

Then I realize something. I can’t show up at Kevin’s empty handed. I mean, I wasn’t planning to get tipsy at a stranger’s house. But bringing a bottle of wine is the polite thing to do. Luckily my favorite store, Liquors, is on the way.

It’s seven on the dot when I pull up to Kevin’s crib. He lives on Englewood. I think this is his house, anyway, or near it at least. It’s hard to see numbers this time of night. A tall, lean-bordering-on-skeletal figure is walking towards me. He’s coming from the driveway next door. Whoever it is, they’re concealed by shadows.

“Hey!” I say. “Kevin? I brought this, um, wine.”

The presence gets closer, until he’s standing next to me. Kevin has skinny legs clad in black denim. Thin, straight locks of hair brush against his sharp jaw. I zoom in on the outline of his lips parting through the night air.

“That’s great,” he says. “Well, let’s go inside”.

Kevin leads the way towards a house that’s kind of Frank-Lloyd-Wright at below-sea-level. He pushes the screen door wide. There are two lit stairways. One is ascending towards light, and the second is basement-bound.

We descend the basement steps. A thin veil of light slowly envelops us. I was told (warned?) by Eddie that Kevin lives in a basement.  It’s ok, though, because he owns the house and rents it out.

The basement is bare, not the cozy Man Cave I was expecting. There’s no couch. It doesn’t smell like weed. There’s not even a poster of Chris Cornell on the wall. My fantasy totally implodes. Kevin awkwardly pats at his midsection, like he’s broken out in a rash. Maybe female DNA hasn’t yet been introduced to this domicile.

There’s a mattress on the floor, computer desk, and tiny makeshift kitchen. Kevin heads towards an open bottle of Barefoot Refresh, sitting on the counter. I hear something…. the flaccid, jingling sounds of a song I haven’t heard since college. It can’t be. Is that the fucking Shins on the stereo?

I’m confused. Eddie told me that Kevin is “aggressive.” But Barefoot Refresh and The Shins are telling me otherwise. I pour myself a glass of the real shit I brought.

“So!” I say, “What did you want to do tonight?”

“Stay here I guess,” Kevin says. He sits at the computer desk. There is a guitar on the floor.

“Hey, play me a song! What kind of music do you like? Wait – is this Elliott Smith?” I pause. “A Fond Farewell” is on.

“Yes, yes it is,” he says.

“I’m a fan,” I say, “Do you think he was murdered?”

“I’m actually very into that idea,” Kevin says. “Yes, yes I do.”

I sit across from him in a shabby chic armchair with a hand-dyed tapestry flung across it. I have to say, Kevin could be sexy. He just needs self confidence. There could be a makeout session on tonight’s horizon. Especially since, let’s be honest, I’ll probably drink all of this wine.

My phone rings. It’s my friend Maurice. He’s a total social butterfly. I’m sure he knows what’s going on tonight.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Maurice says.

“I’m not sure. I’m on this date,” I say, sitting on Kevin’s lap. This surprises him.

“Ya, I’m not sure where I’m going, but I know I will be doing some dancing,” Maurice says, “There is a show at Dreamland, maybe Nietzsche’s.”

I put my hand over the receiver and ask Kevin, “Do you want to go out? To Dreamland?”

“Uh, I’ve never been there. Been wanting to, but haven’t,” he says.

I get back on the line with Maurice, stand up, pace around the basement in my black velour peep-toe pumps with metallic silver heel.

“I’m not sure what we are going to do, but if we venture out, I’ll call you,” I say to Maurice. “Ta-ta.”

Ciao,” says Maurice.

Spinning around, I see Kevin making himself cozy in the chair. I have a feeling we won’t be going out.

“I mean, we don’t have to go out,” I say. “We can watch a movie.”

“Yeah, uh, sure,” Kevin says.

Suddenly, he stands up and just kisses me out of nowhere. With his teeth. It lasts approximately seven seconds. His kissing style could be described as “Iguana-esque.”

“Oh, wow, ok,” I say.

He puts a movie on, “The Machinist” starring Christian Bale. We are watching on his laptop. The last time I watched a movie on a laptop with a guy was in my room at Hendrix Dorm. Who knew I could get nostalgic for my college days while hanging with a middle-aged dude?

Watching the movie is awkward because we are sitting in two different chairs. It’s not cozy. No couch, remember? The credits begin streaming down the laptop screen. I’ve had like four glasses of wine, and decide to teach this guy how to make out. Eddie’s words flash in my mind – “I think you could bring out his aggressive side.”

After forty minutes of intense, one-on-one makeout coaching, I consider him a lost cause, and pass out in his bed.


The next day, I send Eddie a Facebook message depicting my date. I’ll have to wait another day for his reply, since he’s not back from Portland yet. He was there hanging with one of his Craigslist sugar mommas.

“I really don’t know, I’m confused,” Eddie says.

I tell Eddie about taking my shirt off and passing out in Kevin’s bed. I tell him how Saturday and Sunday have passed, but Kevin hasn’t called me. I tell Eddie that I feel like I’ve made a lackluster impression. But why?

“I was tipsy,” I say, “I couldn’t drive home. But I’m proud of myself for only being mildly-drunk-in-high school slutty. Not full-blown, hit-it-and quit it-on a-first date-slutty. I left him wanting more.”

“Well ok, dear,” Eddie says. “I’m sure you did. I’ll email Kevin and find out what he thought.”

I just have the gut feeling that I scared Kevin away. But how?


“Kevin told me that he doesn’t want ANY type of relationship at all,” Eddie says. “Not sure what that means. He said you’re pretty and cool, but thought you were going to have sex with him. That’s why he thought you went over there, and why he can’t talk to you anymore.”

“He doesn’t want to talk to me…because I didn’t have sex with him the day I met him?” I say.

“Yeah, I guess so, dear,” Eddie says. “He is a lost cause.”

“Yeah, I’ll say.”

I learned a valuable lesson from my date with Kevin – the answer to the age-old question of “Is there such a thing as hittin’ it too soon”? The answer is yes, obviously, but the conundrum doesn’t end there.

Whatever energy I project to the male species, I yield the equal and opposite reaction.  I wanted a noncommittal makeout session. Kevin seemed like a good possibility for someone I could go out with casually from time to time. Who knew a socially-awkward, romantically-inept basement dweller would diss me? For not having sex with him two hours after meeting him? Maybe humanity really is fucked.

It was silly of me to try and make Kevin a stand-in for his married brother, anyway. Now the married brother probably found out an exaggerated version of the story, and is all jealous and annoyed. But maybe he has no clue. I think I’ll just stick to that pursuit for now.

new new new!


Dick Fuzz


There comes a time in every girl’s life when she must break a man’s heart. What the fuck is the point of monogamy? I mean, every time I find myself in a “Monogamous Situation,” I have to deal with some pigsty of an apartment. I’m starting to think some guys go out of their way to make their dwellings completely disgusting. How else can one explain the sinks, the tubs, the diseased sheets that I’ve seen? Ugh!  I once saw an episode of Hoarders where a family of possums were discovered in a man’s home. There was also an actual tree growing in his living room. Despite this glamorization in the media, men’s apartments IRL can be like that. The discoveries are endless…and they can be rather gruesome. At least, I’ve endured some gnarly experiences AND I KNOW I CAN’T BE ALONE!

All the men I dated with clean, well-appointed residences didn’t venture into Monogamous Situations. The sloppy niggas got monogamous right away- probably because all they wanted was a maid!

This is my list of the Signs Your Man Lives in Filth. (Note: all characteristics described do not refer to specific people ).

The only bowl in bed should be one full of weed.

The only bowl in bed should be one full of weed.

Pets You Smell Before You See

“Baby, you lack focus when it comes to BJ’s” he said, with cat hair stuck to his dick. “I don’t know why you can’t pay more attention to me.” Wah wah wah.

“It’s because your dick is fuzzy – that’s why!” I said.

Yes, the dick fuzz was the beginning of the end for one relationship. It came from hair left not by one, not by two, not three , but four -yes, four – cats. One of them was literally plucked off the street like a prostitute with Catmydia. It’s pupils were always dilated. The thing would jump out in front of me so I tripped down the stairs, almost to my death.  Another one of the cats barfed right next to me, right when I was starting to let down my guard. Plus they were so damn hairy.  It got everywhere. All surfaces were covered with cat fuzz balls. Faux fur IS in this season, but whatthefuck.

This dude’s apartment smelled like a zoo, so I bid him adieu.

He Doesn’t Own a Trash Can

If there’s no trash can, his place will become a trash can. One’s home reflects one’s sense of self. When his place is literally overflowing with trash, it could mean he has no self-respect. It doesn’t bode well for success in relationships, or in fact, anything.

Used Dishes Where They Don’t Belong

With one ex, I’d have to pick up and move empty food containers if I wanted to sit on the couch. If you are sitting on the couch, eating out of containers, why do you lack the energy to throw out the remains? (Oh, wait, you don’t own a trash can). Don’t act surprised when I tell you that you’ll never be my Baby Daddy. I had to be careful at one man’s house. Lounging around in the nude is all well and  good. That is, until  you discover a wrapper stuck to your ass. If there’s wrappers in bed (instead of rappers; that would be OK), your sex life will suffer. Trust me.

American Horror Story Bathtub

Pulling back the shower curtain in my former lover’s toilette revealed a tub so caked with grime, it probably caused Billy Mays’ heart attack. No amount of fucking Kaboom! would ever cut through the filth. How long it took to get that way must’ve been significant. The only thing in there was a bar of soap.

My personal stash of 90s Playboys

He Owns a Bitchin Porn Stash – But Not a Single Book

This is more common than you want to believe, and is an AUTOMATIC DEAL BREAKER in my world.


I love men, their smells, and the way they make me feel inside. There are great guys out there who are intellectual, generous, and handsome. There are some men strutting around with pierced ding a lings, and  I love that. Many have suffered heartbreak just like us. Many are in touch with themselves and are comfortable with their emotions. I’ve met gentlemen with style, manners, and elegance. Most men are lovely – yeah, I’m just feeling that type of way tonight!

There’s a percentage of men, however, who are serial monogamists. I’m talking about the ones jumping into relationships in order to be “fixed” or “validated.” These are usually the ones whose homes should be condemned by the City. My theory – some go looking for love in order to heal from other things they never dealt with. The men who inspired the aforementioned examples didn’t have their shit together, despite their pseudo-readiness to jump into a Monogamous Situation. Relationships are work – a lot more work than doing dishes or cleaning a bathroom. If those areas are in disrepair, well, it’s only a matter of time before your romance goes to shit.

Tragic Mike


I’ve taken a new number at the meat market of life. The edges of my soul have hardened, like cheese left in the sun. With that salty taste always deep in my throat, I’m forever thirsting for more.

That’s what I should have expected, after going out with someone I met at The Bend.


When I came back from Austin, I met some guy at the place formerly known as The Bend. It’s now called “The Exchange.” Honestly, we only went in there to see if it still carried the same seedy ambiance.  Sure enough, my friend Maurice and I found ourselves seated besides two guys in their early thirties. Something in the air between us whispered “I’ve got issues.”

It was early evening – cocktail hour. We’d gone to some old crusty hippie gathering at Nietzsche’s, featuring a crock pot of slop. I met DBGB’s handsome new bartender. Ladies, he has a man bun. Maurice and I were topping off my homecoming with the rest of The Exchange’s wine when I began a questionable flirtation with one of the weirdos there. He had narrow droopy eyes and muscles, which I never really care for. Honestly, I prefer hairy torsos and bellies that double as a comfy pillow when I drink too much. His stance seemed apropos for hanging at Bottom’s Up. His friend’s glasses were clear plastic frames with tinted lenses, which might insinuate he sells coke. But despite all these oddities and incongruities, we exchanged phone numbers, because well, I haven’t written a blog in a while.

Sure enough, my date with Justin proved to be very bloggable indeed.



Go figure, Justin’s house is near mine. We meet up at the neighborhood tavern. I’m not super aroused by the sight of Justin, and literally exhale a poignant sigh of despair while getting ready. I just need some writing material. A writer’s life is filled with sacrifice.

Justin’s puffing on a cigarette like it’s 2006 when I drag my lazy ass feet to the door. We sit at a lopsided table with a bucket of ale. Justin’s all about the baseball game on the TV – and is that a tribal tattoo peeking from under his tee shirt? I begin drinking. Justin’s got a serious look on his face. Sure enough, he begins an elaborate story.

“Century Grill never gives me many hours bartending,” he begins. “I used to work way more at Templeton Landing, but after the summer they always get rid of people. So I’m kind of strapped for cash.”

“You just need a side hustle,” I reply. “I’m going to make candles!”

“Well, I used to be a dancer,” Justin continues. “My friend Mike and I, we were strippers. His name’s Mike so we called it Magic Mike’s, showed the movie, and after did our dance performance. We sold tickets and had it at this hotel in Corfu, and later ended up doing a bunch of bachelorette parties.”

“Ok. How innovative.”

“My girlfriend at the time, she didn’t care for it. She was a lawyer and 10 years older than me. She bought me this Cadillac and I was making payments on it and everything, but when she broke up with me she took away the car and now I don’t have one. I had saved up $10,000 but I wasn’t working so that went pretty fast. So I have a rental car, which is expensive.”

“Why not just get a hoopdy for $700?”

“I have credit issues, financial issues. My dad, he’s paralyzed after an accident. I have to go up to the Adirondacks and see him. It’s stressful and hard, but I’m dealing with it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“And also, my other ex girlfriend, I asked her to move in with me, because after a month of seeing her I realized she was living in a grimy basement on the Lower West Side and I felt bad. So she moved in, and one day she got all dolled up for a ‘job interview’ at nighttime, and didn’t return for six hours. She was all glassy eyed when she came back, and turns out she sold her phone for heroin. I forgave her, and a few weeks later she disappeared again and I never saw her since.”

“Since when?”



I feel like Justin just dropped a whole JFK terminal of baggage on my shoulders. So me being a pretty empathetic person, I agree to accompany him to Hardware for his “friend’s birthday celebration.” It’s Monday after all –  it should be a chill, drama-free evening…



I’m texting with my mom while Justin’s outside smoking. She’s asking me all about Justin’s last name, which I’m going to find out asap, since the last guy I met in Allentown turned out to have been in prison for holding his girlfriend hostage at gunpoint.

“Justin what? I’m sure he’s a nice man.”

“No he is BORING *yawn*.”

Justin suddenly shows up and starts reading over my shoulder.

“Justin…?” he says.

“Oh yeah, sorry, my mom, she just likes to find out who I go out with and stuff.”

“My name’s Jason.”

The shards of strength it’s taken to maintain my stoic expression disappear. My mouth slackens; my eyes become a blank stare.

“No, I know, I just told her the other day when I first met you, I must’ve said Justin.”

Jason rolls his eyes but buys me another drink so it seems he’s gotten over the error.


Jason is driving me home in the  rental car. I rejoice in the night finally coming to its conclusion. He lives in the hood, not gonna lie, but I agree to check out Jason’s paintings. They’re landscapes and actually pretty good, if the photos of them on his iPhone are any indication. Besides, Jason’s friend, the one with the glasses, has given him some “epic pot” that he says I can try.

We enter Jason’s clean, well-lit dwelling off Genesee. Sure enough, his landscapes glow from the walls in blue and green hues.

“Wow, neato! Loving the colors. They make me happy!”

Jason’s dug out the marijuana, a couple hundred dollars worth in a large Ziploc – quite a bit for someone who by their own admission “rarely smokes.” We sit on the couch. I’m moderately buzzed, not in a bad way, and when Jason begins making out with me I go with it for five minutes or so. A make out session never killed anybody.

I turn away and start puffing away on the weed. When I look back at Jason, he has removed all of his clothes. He stands up and moves toward  me in true male stripper fashion.

“No, wait -” I say. Overwhelmed, I burst into tears. “I don’t want to do anything,” I choke out between sobs.

Jason looks confused and sad, then his expression shifts to annoyance.

“Are you on something?”


“Do you have issues, were you raped as a child?”

“What? No!”

“Are you worried I’ll never speak to you again?”

“Definitely not.”

I continue bawling and dry my face on a couch pillow.

“I don’t want to sleep with you. You look like my cousin.”

The cousin thing – which hit me about halfway through the night, a cousin I don’t really like on my mom’s side – pisses Jason right off. He starts pacing around, still naked.

“Your cousin? That’s the most goddamn stupid thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Just take me home!” I shriek, cry some more.

Jason drops me off down the street from my house. I run across the muddy lawn, breathing a sigh of sweet surrender at being home.



Update: One week later, I was in Rafferty’s (the local tavern that Jason and I went to) with Maurice. A random biker approached us and told me, “The guy you were here with last week is a convicted sex offender.” He found his profile  for me on the U.S. Dept. of Justice Sex Offender Web site. Sure enough, it was really Jason. He date-raped a 19 year old ten years back, when he was 22.

Pleading Guilty To Love


With a mouthful of quesadilla I get an eyeful of a tall, handsome man. He has the tattoos, the haircut, and the glasses I adore. I’m eating a late dinner with my girl Gina, inside an otherwise-empty DBGBs. It’s a freezing Sunday evening. The wind whispers sweet nothings outside, telling us the lie that everything is going to be okay.

“Where are you going now?”

This tattooed homeboy has injected himself into our conversation. His voice is deep, and his hands are large.

“It doesn’t matter,” I down my wine. “You can’t come.”

His blue eyes look hurt, or maybe that’s just the beer. Either way, he follows us down the street, rambling about how much he loves his grandma, his daughter, and his job at UPS. Somewhere along the line, I decide to give this one a chance. He seems really honest.


Rufus – the tattooed homeboy – and I are going to a hip-hop show at The Waiting Room. He’s  27 and 6’ 5’’ and rides around bumping 93.7 WBLK. Where’s he been all my life?  We get to the spot and everyone is there – Eugene, Bagel Jesus, everybody. Rufus and I go into a dark corner, where we drink hard cider and Rufus shows me something I’ve never seen before – Mobile Patrol.

“It’s an app for your phone,” Rufus says, passing his iPhone down to me. “You see everyone who’s been arrested, up to the second.”

I scroll through mugshots of locals who got arrested today and read what they got arrested for. It’s pretty fun. You can even look back weeks, months. I’m wondering if Rufus saw me on Mobile Patrol. I reassure myself with a probably not.

I introduce Rufus to some girls I know, who all comment on his large hands and tall stature.

“I also have size 13 feet,” Rufus says. I’m growing increasingly interested in Rufus.

After he replaces my empty cider can with a full one several times, I (once again) toss any first date repression to the dogs. Rufus is a hottie, what can I say.


Rufus just canceled our date to the North Park Theatre. He has to bring his grandma food at the nursing home.

“Don’t worry,” I text. “Some other time! :)”

Two days go by and Rufus doesn’t reschedule our date. He’s either an altruistic grandma’s boy or a douche, I can’t tell. I consult his Facebook status.

To all the girls out there,” it says, “If you’ve got no job, no car, no goals for the future – keep it moving that way! I’m on some new shit.”

What kind of hoes is Rufus fucking with? I will not be lumped into a blanket statement – which doesn’t even apply. He had his chance to date a girl with “goals for the future” – and tossed it away! I delete him as a friend. A week passes with no word from Rufus.


It’s Saturday, again. I’m at DBGBs with Gina, again. My life is like that infinity symbol. It’s that time of night when no good decisions are made. The correct decision would be to remove your eye makeup and go to bed.

“It’s that guy you’re talking to,” Gina says.

Whom?!” I narrow my eyes. “I’m not talking to any man.”

“Over there,” she says. “Isn’t it?”

I can’t see who she sees, but I stomp to the opposite side of the room. Sure enough, I’m right in front of Rufus. He gives off a surprised shout, kind of smiles.

“You deleted me as a friend,” Rufus waves his arms in the air.  “Why?”

“I didn’t feel like being your friend anymore,” I say. “Your status,” I poke him in the chest. “was dumb.”

“But it wasn’t about you,” Rufus says.

Rufus is hot, what can I say. I give him a big old hug. Not long from now, I’ll be in the passenger seat of Rufus’s black Impala, with one of his sketchy Riverside friends passed out in the back.

“You, um, are definitely the most together out of your friends,” I say. Rufus seems to roll with a tattered, thug-esque clique.

Rufus shouts in his friend’s face until he wakes up and drags himself into his house. The two of us drive to Rufus’s apartment on Tonawanda St. My over-accessorized, leopard pants outfit is going to make for one hell of a morning-after look.


A vintage chain necklace given to me a decade ago, headband from Saks 5th Avenue and ring were left at Rufus’s crib.

“We will do something this weekend, and I’ll give everything to you,” texts Rufus.

Of course, that never happens. Rufus, despite his many charms, just wants to fuck bitches. Nothing wrong with that, but if he is going to disappear, it won’t be with my stuff.

For two weeks, I text Rufus incessantly about meeting up to grab my things, and he always replies. The time never comes, though. Am I overreacting, or is Rufus brushing me off? And why?

“Look, if you lost my jewelry you can tell me,” I say.

“I didn’t, I have it. It’s safe.”

“Can you just mail it to me then?”


A week passes and I’m feeling unadorned. A text asking him to bring my accessories to Spot is ignored.

“Look, if you gave my stuff away…”

“You are acting crazy!” Rufus says.

Am I a demanding, materialistic bitch? Is Rufus a lazy dumbass? This relationship was doomed from the start. I don’t see how he can even still have my stuff at this point. Why does he want me to keep blowing up his phone?

I’m confused. I feel played and robbed. Something just doesn’t seem right. I get stern with Rufus.

“Look, I don’t know who you think you are, but you are definitely an asshole. I’m not a pushover and have no intention of giving up on my shit. Either you mail them, or I’m coming to your place and collecting my things. I can always send someone to get them from you.”

“Oh nooo,” Rufus texts. “Is that a threat? Google my name and see if I’m the one to threaten.”

I Google Rufus. “US Department of Justice – Rufus Press Release” is the first result. It’s from May 2012. “Rufus Dicklebaum, 25, of Amherst, NY, who was convicted of unlawful possession of a firearm, was sentenced to 51 months in prison by U.S. District Judge Richard J. Arcara,” it reads.

“Assistant U.S. Attorney Melissa M. Marangola, who handled the case, stated that in February 2011, the defendant physically assaulted his girlfriend at his Amherst residence and held her captive for several hours before letting her leave. During that time, [Dicklebaum] threatened to kill his girlfriend with a gun. The girlfriend reported the incident to police and the defendant was arrested a few days later….

One can only imagine how terrifying it is to be held at gunpoint,” said U.S. Attorney Hochul. “Where federal statutes provide an effective means by which to punish this sort of despicable behavior, our Office will not hesitate to act.’”

Right, so, why is Rufus out and about? If his prison mug shot didn’t come up too, I’d find it all hard to believe.


The following afternoon, I realize that Rufus is using my jewelry as a pawn to manipulate and control me. Like I am supposed to beg for my own belongings. Right.

And then some jailbird – out early on parole – is going to threaten me?

“This is the last time I’ll be polite,” I text. “If you plan on keeping my stuff, I’m sure stealing girls’ things is a violation of your parole and I’ll ask my lawyer what I should do. I don’t want to talk to you ever again.”

Immediate reply from Rufus. “I’m mailing your stuff right now. Text me your address again. Like now, so I never have to hopefully see you again. It’ll be in the mail today. You are the most difficult woman I’ve ever dealt with.”

Coming from Rufus Dicklebaum, I will take that as a compliment.

Giving & Receiving

Celebrating with those you can’t publicly acknowledge


I’m at work early in the a.m, when a handsome late-thirties yuppie rushes up to me. “Please tell me this is part of the sweater sale?” he implores, holding up a gray French Connection fuzzball.  It’s a former state Assemblyman and DA, whom I immediately recognize. Hello, he’s Kennedy status, in Erie County anyway – strapping, privileged, and just a little naughty.

“Oh, don’t worry,” I reply, running a hand down the front of the sweater, “It’s included.”

My eyes trail the outline of his moisturized jaw. “If you open a charge, you’ll save another 15 percent.”

“Oh, I have way too many store accounts,” he says with that mischievous political smile. “I’m sure you can understand?”

“All too well,” I say, sashaying away to the register. “Let me just wrap this up for you.”

The brief affair that I had with this politician (in my mind) ended way too soon. Is he married?  I wonder who he was buying that women’s sweater for.  The encounter got me thinking about the salacious sex scandals of politicians’ past. How their hot steamy nights turned into blinding media-frenzied mornings. Politicians enjoy more than their fair share of extracurricular boink fests, as those with money power and respect are prone to do. Much has been written after the undercover lovers got busted. I’m more interested in the hotel room highs – the mini bar fueled confessions of a Senator blindfolded with his own necktie, before the National Enquirer comes to take the piss out of the whole thing.

So, I’m going to shamelessly glamorize some famous yet fleeting Politician/Other Woman couples. I also included cocktail and music recommendations to party in style. This should break up any winter monotony at home.  Let’s examine some scandals, shall we?

Eliot Spitzer/Ashley Dupre

After his bank activity drew suspicion and he was wiretapped by the feds, Eliot Spitzer got busted. Busted for what, you say? Old Spitzy (as he liked to be called between the sheets, but you didn’t hear it from me) dropped $80,000 on call girls, most prominently on a bae named Ashley Dupre.

In 2008, Dupre – who worked for escort service Emperors Club VIP – took a train to DC to meet Spitzer at the Mayflower Hotel. This transaction eventually led to the arrest of four Emperors Club employees for prostitution and money laundering. Eventually, it was deduced that “Client 9” – who by all accounts was considered “difficult” – was in fact New York Governor Spitzer. “Kristen,” her escort alias, was identified as Dupre- a girl trying to make it as a singer. Listen to her song “What We Want,” where she sings “Can you ride with me boy, Bonnie and Clyde, die with me boy?” Considering Spitzer and his wife are still a thing, I guess the answer’s no.

It all ended happily for Dupre. She wasn’t prosecuted for prostitution. She got a sex advice column in the New York Post, “Ask Ashley.” She’s featured in the May 2010 issue of Playboy. Last year she got married in Paris to a “construction magnate beau” and had a baby girl! Follow her on Twitter @AshleyDupre.

Drink: The Spitz on Your D**K Ciderhouse Bourbon

2 oz bourbon

1 oz boiled cider

Strip of lemon zest

Combine bourbon and boiled cider over ice and gently stir. Twist lemon zest, drop into drink, and stir some more.

Listen: Black Sheep “The Choice is Yours”; “Bad [remix],” Wale feat. Rihanna.

Bill Clinton/Monica Lewinsky

Maybe it was Clinton saying he “didn’t inhale.” Maybe it was the semen stain held in tact. Any way you slice it, the Monica and Bill scandal had television audiences hypnotized. “I never had sexual relations with that woman,” Clinton insisted.

While I usually root for the underdog, I never really bought Lewinsky’s schtick. Oh, she just so happened to have the notorious blue dress with presidential jizz all over it ready to use as evidence? I was eight years old at the time, but I still thought Lewinsky was being a traitor.  When two consenting adults engage in oral sex, it’s with the unspoken agreement that one will not save bodily fluids to be used against the other in court.

As president, Clinton was a  jovial, saxaphone-playing charmer everyone liked. Maybe he inhaled that day and allowed Lewinsky to fellate him. Maybe she was just  a young girl who couldn’t resist blowing his saxophone. Perhaps Lewinsky never had the desire to capitalize on notoriety. They both went on to publish memoirs, and Lewinsky started a handbag business. On an episode of The Tom Green Show from 2000, Lewinsky and Green searched for new handbag fabrics. It’s a killer episode.

Follow Lewinsky on Twitter, @MonicaLewinsky.

Drink: The Backstabber in Blue

Fill shot glass halfway with peach schnapps, then some Baileys, then blue curacao, then top with grenadine.

Listen: “Peaches,” Presidents of the United States of America; “Loyal,” Chris Brown.


John Edwards/Rielle Hunter

When Southern fried presidential hopeful Edwards was splattered on the cover of the National Enquirer with headlines about an affair, he denied it. He let his aide take the blame. His family-friendly stance was a major playing card with voters. But when the Enquirer ran another story about Edwards’ soon to be born love child and the mistress hidden away in a Beverly Hills hotel, there was no denying it.

After meeting and beginning an affair with Hunter, Edwards hired her to create videos for his website. She was to help with his political campaign – what a joke! After the media scandal, Edwards dropped out of the race. His aide shuttled pregnant Hunter to hotels all over the place. Rumors of a sex tape featuring Hunter and Edwards surfaced (she was his videographer, after all).

What’s totally fucked up about Edwards is that he was supposedly SO ABOUT “family values,” while not only cheating on his wife, but denying his own daughter for TWO YEARS. Hunter seems like a total hot mess, too. She posed for racy photos in GQ  (she said images the media used weren’t flattering and came off like a desperate old person) and even claimed the two were still a couple after Edwards went to trial for alleged misuse of campaign funds. (He was found not guilty).

Drink: The Love Child Iced Tea

1 oz rum;1 oz vodka; 1 oz gin; 4 oz lemonade; 1-2 oz simple syrup; 3 oz unsweetened iced tea; mint sprigs and lemon wedges for garnish. Mix into a mason jar.

Listen: “Johnny I Hardly Knew Ya,” Dropkick Murphys; “Big Poppa,” Notorious BIG.

This short list does not include political sex ending in murder (Gary Condit/Chandra Levy), closet homosexual solicitations (Larry Craig, Mark Foley) and inappropriate sexts gone viral (Chris Lee). I tried to stick with the most romantic ones (except John Edwards- I fucking hate that guy, and his hair). Never trust a man with  a schellacked ‘do.

If you think having an affair with a politician will make you go from 0 to 100 real quick – it will. You will have to write a memoir, do interviews with Barbara Walters, maybe even Playboy. But, it will hopefully recoup all the money you’ll have to spend on legal fees.  Trouble will no doubt come your way. Your politician flame will probably just deny the whole thing and fall back to his wife. Who wants to be second fiddle?

You don’t see Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg out chasing tail like some liquored-up tomcat. Or, do you? At least not yet. Clearly, male politicians are a horny bunch.

Moral of the story – there should be more women in politics.

How to Get F’ed Up For Free: The Lackawanna Scene


This is the scene I observe, while peering into a vacant Ridge Road bar called “Cherry Stone”…

A television broadcast of the Miss America pageant flickers down upon a bedraggled bartender. He’s perched upon a stool, hunched over, gazing at his reflection in the lacquered bar top. No customers are in to dirty its surface. The clock on the wall tells an incorrect time. Miss America accepts her crown, drips Absolut Raz tears and grins her angel dust smile.

This is the Lackawanna scene?” I ask my co-worker and companion ,S.

“Let’s go inside. Clear our minds. Decide our game plan,” says S.

“But this guy probably won’t give us any drinks for free, since we’re his only customers,” I reply.

Earlier today, I sarcastically mentioned to S. that I’m suffering from a dating dry spell. Also, that I need a change of scenery.

“Every man I meet and date has a beard, tattoos, a bicycle, and emotional baggage,” I said. “I mean, does anyone else exist?”

“Come over later,” S. casually invited. “We can go out in Lackawanna.”

“Go out…in Lackawanna?” I stopped walking. “I’ll pack an overnight bag and be over by ten.”

I’m already a familiar degenerate within the Buffalo Scene, the Cheektowaga Scene, the Hamburg Scene, and definitely the Tonawanda Scene… so it’s time to penetrate  the Lackawanna Scene.



So here we are, at the wood-paneled pit with a questionable smell known as Cherry Stone.

“Well, we’re here,” I say, coming through the entrance and sitting down with a sigh. “Do you have any wine?”

The seemingly-intoxicated proprietor – sitting on the stool next to me -shakes himself from his stupor and runs behind the bar. This man – short, with a snowy mustache, ripened age of 60-something – removes a Barefoot bottle from the top shelf. It’s empty, except for maybe a quarter-ounce. He gives it a swirl, and pours the remains into a plastic cup, offering it to S. as a sample or something.  We look at each other.

“I’ll get a new bottle from the basement,” he says, and disappears. S. and I settle into our chairs, and I brace myself for a potentially boring night. A night free of chaos and lawlessness, unusual in its usual-ness…? Shit. I might even be in bed by midnight.

The tipsy barkeep returns from the wine cellar. He fills two glasses with ice and pours wine up to the brim.  Us girls whittle away some time, kind of ignoring the ceaseless stare coming from the bartender/owner guy.

“So, is there another joint around?” I inquire.

“I don’t know, I’ve only lived here two weeks,” says S.

“Around the corner, on Electric, there’s the old C2’s,” Mr. Cherry Stone says with an ominous look, eyeballs drifting in divergent directions. “That’s where all the real weirdos are…”

We close our tab and set sail for C2’s.



Coming around the bend, I see a man in a motorized wheelchair zipping away down the middle of the street, away from a tiny brick shack. A Labatt light illuminates the threshold of “the old C2’s.”

We enter; the place is packed with sloppily-dressed, dirty, and drunk white guys in their thirties and forties. Some lean against walls like moths; some are engaged in an infinite game of pool. Many linger around the lengthy bar, with a stumbling 40-something behind it.

I sit down at the end of the bar.


“I”ll just have a chardonnay,” I say to a drunken dad in a baseball hat.

“Three dollars.”

He hands me a giant goblet brimming with wine. I begin to hand him my credit card.

“We’re cash only, though,” he tells me.

“You are? Shit.” I  take a slurp of chardonnay. “ I don’t have $3…” I look around the room.

“It’s fine, I don’t care. There’s an ATM over there but whatever. I’m the owner too.” I’m realizing the bartender/owner thing is popular within the Lackawanna Scene.

“No, I’ll get $3 before the night is done. Don’t you worry!”

I revolve around the room and start talking to the Lackawanna lads.

“Hi!” I enthusiastically squeal, running up to a skinny, discolored man in a gray Marlboro tee .

“Hey there,” he says.

“So, what’s your name?”


“Is this the happening scene or what? I haven’t been here in gosh…ages! So  what are you drinking?”

“Uh, just a Bud.”

“Wow! You have great taste. I didn’t know it was cash only, and haven’t even paid for this yet…I just don’t know what to do.”

“Uh, there’s an ATM right there.”

I immediately bail on Steve and strike out with a few more bar flies. I’m surprised they don’t interpret my frenzied advances as an offer of sexual favors. Please. They can’t afford my sexual favors.

Turning around to the back of C2’s, I find myself at the pool table. Three sturdy gents with beer bellies are standing around holding pool ques, although I’m not sure if a game is actually in progress.

“So what’s the story here guys, are we the gambling sort?”

I can tell that one of the guys – a blonde, full -figured fellow in a plaid scarf  -is Top Dawg of C2’s.

“Nah, we just come around here and act silly!” The guy with the scarf bellows, grabbing his friend and putting him in a headlock. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Sure! But actually, I haven’t paid for this yet. I’m in debt.”

“I got you, girl!”

He runs up to the bar and throws a wad of singles at the bartender/owner, who shakes his head in mock exasperation.

“I’m going out to the back patio,” this fellow declares, raising a hand to his lips to insinuate smoking a blunt. His green scarf trails behind him elegantly as he strolls outside. He beckons me to follow him.

“Oh, that darn Schmitty!” The owner jeers, drinking a shot.

I follow Schmitty outside, and despite the freezing temperature, there’s a group of maybe 15 people chilling on picnic tables. A couple more guys – Schmitty’s pals – sit down at our table. One of them pulls out a Seneca and removes half its tobacco. Schmitty unearths a plastic baggie from his pocket – cigarette pack cellophane with weed inside, lighter-sealed shut. Quaint.

Our crew – yes, I was adopted into the C2 crew – stroll inside with a new vision. An emaciated guy, obviously same-sex orientated, is twirling around the room in a Fruit Loops hoodie. From the looks of his pupils, he’s eaten some pills. I’m accosted by a man with a ‘stache and a margarita glass full of ice and Pepsi. He divulges that my wine glass inspired him to get his drink in a wine glass, too.

My night with the triple OGs of C2’s is turning out to be pretty great. I wouldn’t necessarily be caught here again, but would definitely rate the Lackawanna Scene four stars in terms of hospitality.


Finding True Love At Sex Addicts Anonymous


Disclaimer- Sex Addicts Anonymous, Alcoholics Anonymous, Narcotics Anonymous,  etc. ask that addicts keep fellow addicts anonymous, hence the name; therefore, all names and verbatim sentences are fabricated to protect those involved. Also, members of the SAA program depicted in this article, as stated in their booklet, “are not [SAA] representatives or claim to be spokespersons for the press, radio, TV, films , or the Internet.


One month ago, I briefly dated a sex addict. It’s hard to be sure, because I’m fairly certain that he’s also a pathological liar. Then again, from what I know, many addicts are also liars.

I only went out with him because he wouldn’t leave me alone. He kept showing up at my job.

“So, when are we going out to dinner?”


It went on like that for a couple of weeks, until finally, I relented. We went to Taste of Siam. Over dinner, he opened up about his wife who suddenly died of cancer four months ago. I realized he was still wearing a wedding band.

“Isn’t that a little quick to be dating?” I asked my 81-year-old friend Annette, afterwards.

“No, you’d be surprised how quick men are able to move on.”

I figured Annette knew what she was talking about, being 81 and all. But only a week into our frenzied fling, my stalker opened up to me at Spot Coffee.

“I’m a sex addict,” he said, looking over his thick black frames. “It’s how I’ve been grieving. It’s hard. I’m dating multiple cougars…” He began to scour the Spot scene with frantic eyes. “You’re the only non-cougar I am seeing.”

He then called over a random woman and  invited her  into a threesome with us.  Not many  situations embarrass me, but that did. I never spoke to him again.

He still stalks me at my job.



That confession of his has never left my mind. I don’t think about it daily, but sometimes I wonder if he was truly sincere. Probably not. But that isn’t stopping me from investigating the reality of being a sex addict by attending a local chapter meeting of Sex Addicts Anonymous.

I called a phone number I found on the Sex Addicts Anonymous database two days ago; apparently there’s a suburban Christian fellowship that hosts many AA and SA meetings. I pull up outside; a few women are smoking cigarettes in their cars. Armed with a venti Starbucks, I attempt to project a seen-it-all, done-it-all demeanor. In reality, I have no idea what to expect.

I’m worried that my all-black outfit is too sexy for Sex Addicts Anonymous. I mean, vintage leather mini skirt? Hugo Boss blazer? Motorcycle boots? Stockings?

Upon entering the building, I’m greeted with inspirational Christian banners. A few women are heading into an alcove at the left side of a roomy foyer. I follow them. A pot of coffee is steaming on its burner, but it appears to be decaf. Fuck! They start talking about “back when they were drinking.”

“Um, I think I have the wrong meeting,” I meekly express.

“This is a womens-only AA meeting,” says a 30-something with a pleasant face. “What group are you looking for?”

“Well…. well, I must have the wrong place…Maybe it got rescheduled?” I say, walking into the carpeted foyer.

“What group are you looking for?” she asks again, following me.

I swivel around once we arrive in a shadowy corner.

“The sex addicts!”

“Oh, they meet in the basement pretty much every day.”


I go down a few steps into an olive green annex. A guy in an olive green dress shirt, cuffed loose-fitting slacks, and orthopedic shoes beckons me into an adjacent room.

“Is this – Sex Addicts Anonymous? I called Tuesday – are you Bruce?”

The guy in olive green confirms that he is Bruce. He facilitates the meetings. I look around; only one other person besides Bruce is present. He’s well into his 70’s and wears sweatpants.  There are a few mismatched recliners and armchairs to choose from, but I opt for the folding chair by the window.


I’m surprised there are only three of us here. That is, if you include me, and I’m not even an addict. Or am I? Why the hell am I here? Why do I have a compulsion to do these things? My thoughts aren’t that different from the others in this building. I’m given a blue pamphlet which lays out today’s meeting, two green books about beating sex addiction (which Bruce wrote, impressively), and the monthly group newsletter. We begin with the Feelings Check.

“Russell, would you like to start, since we have a newcomer?”

Russell begins by choosing two adjectives to sum up his feelings of the day.

“I feel appreciated -”

“Yes you are!” Bruce reinforces, winking at me.

“And, um, hopeful.”

“Yes you do!” I chime in this time. For some reason this makes me blush. Then it’s my turn. I start to sweat, and roll up the sleeves of my blazer. This exposes the burn from my stove on my wrist and armful of bracelets. Great, I probably look like a cutter.

“Hi, I’m —-, and  I am a recovering sex addict.  Today I feel calm, because well, this is a pretty laid back setting – and inspired, because I like meeting new people.”

“Yes you are!”

We then recite the Serenity Prayer (“God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change…”) together. However, the group maintains a casual, open, accepting, non-religiously affiliated vibe. I actually learn a lot from Bruce. For example, AA meetings (12 Step programs) originated in the 1930’s, when people asked God to fix problems instead of seeking medical explanations. Bruce finds error in the fact these methods are still used today to mend complex addictions. The man who developed AA in the 30’s apparently got sober from alcohol, but remained a smoker, compulsive spender, and sex addict until his death.

Right in the middle of our Validations – “I am acceptable, competent, and focused; I trust my own thoughts and emotions; I have positive expectations for today and for tomorrow, etc” another man walks into the room. He’s clutching a liter of Coke and filling the room with the aroma of a Marb.

“Are you here for the meeting?” asks Bruce.

“Yeah, uh, SA?”

“Yes, are you Patrick? Weren’t you here last week?”

“Yes I was.”

He takes a seat, and I catch him looking at me many times. He probably wants to bone, I think to myself. But what’s so erroneous about that?

We continue the meeting, reading through a chapter in the green book about the basis of sex addiction. According to Bruce, his group uses the most up to date, medically sound information regarding the nature of addiction. While medical knowledge 25 years ago relied on pegging addiction as a “disease,” that isn’t entirely true. Also, the only addiction relying heavily on genetics is alcoholism.


Rather, addictions which are “learned behaviors,” like sex, shopping, eating disorders, and gambling,  can also be un-learned. It all goes back to conditioning and feeling abandoned as a child. This “trauma” increases the likelihood you will develop the Addict Personality.


I wasn’t abandoned as a child, but I have an Addict Personality. Bruce says some people with Addict Personalities weren’t traumatized as children. Addiction can just form from faulty wiring in the brain, dopamine and seratonin receptors. He tells me you can work hard and re-wire the brain, if you work at it every day for three years.

Staring down at my sex addict literature, I’m forgetting that I’m not really a sex addict. Or am I? No, I’m not. Our generation just has a problem with intimacy as a whole. I’m sure  some will wind up in SAA when they’re a sweatpants-wearing age 70.  But while I’m not a full-blown addict of any sort, I know that I chemically possess the Addict Personality.  Sex addiction was never my problem, not at all. I’ve already marked a nearby wine store, so I can buy a bottle of pinot grigio after this meeting. Am I an alcoholic?  There have been downward spirals and self-destructive benders, over the years. But I think I manage to toe the line before I hit full blown addict rock bottom. I have too much to lose; I always have to keep myself in check.


The meeting draws to a close, and I thank Bruce. I might return, because I don’t want Bruce to feel Sad during the Feelings Check, sad that I never showed up again. Sad that I gave up my recovery and returned to an addiction that I never really had.  

This thought almost makes me burst into tears, as I walk to my car, smelling a clove cigarette in the night air.

But I need to stop with always putting others’ needs/wants before my own…I need to affirm my own needs/wants…Maybe I will check out the womens-only AA…

I am competent and capable.