How did I get here?’ she asked. If Danja didn’t remember the details of last night, Moe wasn’t obliged to fill her in. ‘You were playing cocktail girl at a poker game. You seemed to need a break.’ ‘A poker game?’ ‘Something set up by Councilman Boch.’ ‘Karl was there?’ Moe nodded. ‘Him and some cronies I wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley.’ ‘I do not understand.’ Her brow furrowed like she was taking an IQ test. ‘I remember drinking a golden monkey.’ ‘What’s a golden monkey?’ She gave Moe a look he’d seen a thousand times in his life. A look that said Moe was a low-brow – no culture, no sense of style, and no money. ‘Golden monkey is tea. From China.’ ‘You drink it often?’ ‘Every evening since ….’ Grief swept across her face like tumbleweeds on the plains of Texas. ‘Every evening since my brother died.’ ‘Peter Schmidt?’ ‘Yes. How d-did … wait. Now I remember you. You are Mr. Gafferson, the man who was there the night Peter was killed.’ With the lamps in her brain finally switched. I like the pleasure of feeling a man’s body against my own, hearing him gasp when he slides inside of me. I like strong hands gripping my hips, pulling my hair, and even squeezing my neck as I reach oblivion. In those moments, every orgasm, I am empty of all hurt and taunting thoughts. For that finite amount of time, my brain stops and I feel light in every nerve ending. I become a spirit, floating outside of my quaking human form, and hearing my moans and breath in the distance as if they were coming from somewhere else. I am released from bondage of anxiety and brokenness, until the moment passes, the shaking subsides and my spirit form is forced to return to its hollow shell. Then the longing begins again. The more times in one night I can fulfill my hunger for release, the smaller the ravenous monster of desire comes back, taking longer to grow until it devours me in another partner, but he always comes back. Is this not the definition of addiction? Enter the man child, stage.
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