Speedball

They say a speedball is one of the most dangerous drug combinations known to man. Sure it is, I tried.

I was pretty much fucked the moment I saw her. Beautiful, shy and confusing, giving me all kinds of feelings at once, from heavenly highs to abyssmal lows. From extasy to utter desperation and back again — plus everything in between. And I never fully recovered from a decade-long cold turkey, only to have fallen for a faithful vice again. I’ve signed my soul to her.

I’m a junkie, never having enough. It’s been years, decades, eternity.

Ride the wave, they said. I’ve ve been tryin’, with long intervals reserved to simply staying afloat, or just casually drowning here and there.

I’m a hopeless junkie, I love my fix.

Always and forever, till the day I’m gone.

Abyss

We go on a road trip together, only to fall out within days, the fragile tie shattering into thousands of irreparable pieces.

Yet we’re still sharing a bed — night after night, motels and inns — until we reach the city. Breathing so close to each other, without a single hint that it means anything more. I manage to stay lucid. Lucid and calm.

Until that morning.

I turn my head toward her and she smiles like an angel.

— Wanna fuck me?

An everyday man’s dream come true. An easy answer.

Yet my romantic thoughts have just been murdered. We’re about to become fuck buddies. I need to adjust in an instant to this new normal as my heart is sinking.

— I do want to fuck you.

The next second, I’m ripping off her pyjamas, exposing that ivory flesh of hers, every inch of it ready to be taken. There isn’t a moment of hesitation before I enter, pushing hard with lust and greed.

I love it and I hate it. The closeness is gone, the bond seems never to have existed, morphing into a hollow affair with seemingly no connection.

Fuck me.

How easy. Just not for me.

Few days later, I wake up with a massive morning glory. She’s fast asleep, and I know better than to wake her. She only messages me once I’ve left for meetings. And I reply, letting her know how I feel:

— I wanted to make love to you in the morning.

Making love. It suggests romance, a link, or at least a hint of a liaison. I’m far from young, but I’ve had feelings for all those comets that passed by. I do care. And making love means far more to me than just fucking. This is how I operate.

We’re apart for most of the day. And then, just as I’m approaching the gate, a message arrives:

— Will you please fuck me when you come home?
— Certainly.

I do. And afterwards, I sink deeper into nothingness, a switched-off state with no release, no nauseating pain, just a pure abyss of nothingness. I wanted zen. Here it is.

Still, it lingers.

And we fuck again, maybe a couple of times more, whenever she feels like it. Until our ways part. In the middle of an airport, I’m turning left, she’s turning right, a fleeting kiss and it’s all gone.

We’ll always have Prague, Chicago, Vegas. And Paris.

But the romance, it is gone.