Fuck Buddy (33 page)

BLAKE

I had felt for the last month that Riley and I were making progress and working toward a meaningful relationship, but hadn’t really felt the relationship was solid until the previous night in her room. Now praying Mr. Racine didn’t press the subject, I hoped to be in and out without any problems or red flags.  

“The meetings, Mr. West. Let’s talk about the meetings,” he said.

“Progress, not perfection. That’s what they teach us, and that’s what I’m practicing. I’m making progress. Next subject, please,” I said.

“No, we’re going to discuss them and what your expectations are surrounding the meetings,” he said.

“Fucking whatever. You ask, I’ll answer,” I said.

As he scribbled on his pad I began to pick at the sole of my shoe.

“Alright. We have both agreed your problems with drinking spawned the desire to attempt another approach at life, and the meetings were a proven method for many people to stop drinking.” He paused and glared at me.

I tossed my hands in the air. “What?”

“I’d prefer that you pay attention,” he said.

I glanced up from my shoe. “Drinking spawned meetings. Meetings are good for many people. I’m a multitasker, Mr. Racine. Continue.”

He tapped the pen against his lip, eventually stopped, and allowed it to dangle loosely from between his thumb and forefinger. “Very well. Now, what I would like for you to discuss is why you feel a need or necessity to utilize the meetings as a stepping stone to recover from an addiction to sex and drugs when neither have been of concern. Can you expand on your thought process?”

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“Mr. West. Unless something has happened I am unaware of, you aren’t nor have you ever been sexually active,” he paused and raised the pen to his lip.

“What’s your point?” I asked.

“Mr. West. Your application of the principles of the twelve step program to recover from sex addiction is without merit. We discussed this briefly six weeks ago, and you refused to discuss it in the last meeting, choosing to storm out and…” he paused and flipped through his notes.

He studied the pad of paper for a moment and eventually glanced upward. “Demand that I refer to you as ‘Brainiac’ upon your return.”

“Okay. Are you going to make a point?” I asked.

  “My point is this. You’ve suffered from grandiose delusional disorder in the past, and it appears you’re suffering from it again,” he said.

“I’m good,” I said.

“Are you of the opinion you’re a sex addict?” he asked.

I shook my head, “Nope.”

He nodded his head and pressed the tip of the pen to the pad. After writing for a moment, he shifted his gaze upward and locked his eyes on mine. “And why aren’t you of that opinion?”

“Never had sex before,” I said.

“So, you haven’t had problems in the past with having sex with your clients?” he asked.

I shook my head from side-to-side. “Nope.”

He scribbled on the pad for a moment, paused, and then continued scribbling. After exhausting himself and flipping to one more new sheet of paper, he placed the pen beside the pad and nodded his head.

“Have you had the urge to drink?” he asked.

“Well, no shit, Doc. I’m a fucking alcoholic. I want to drink right now. I want to drink when I wake up. Before I go to bed. Hell, I wish I had a beer to drink while I’m taking a shit. Yeah, I got an urge, but I’m not acting on it,” I said.

“Very well. Have you seen improvements in your life since you’ve chosen to abstain?” he asked.

“Yeah. Big ones. I met the girl. And, we’re sexually active,” I said.

He cocked an eyebrow.

“No, really. We are,” I said.

“And how does that cause you to feel?” he asked.

I shrugged my shoulders. “Okay, I suppose.”

“Any problems with repressed memories or flashbacks?” he asked.

I shook my head. “No. I mean I remember all that shit, but it doesn’t bother me so much. I mean it does and it doesn’t.”

“Can you explain further?” he asked.

I shrugged my shoulders. “Well I went to her mother’s house and met her mom and everything the other night, and after we were done eating her mom got sick and left and then she gave me head in her old bedroom. Riley, not her mom. Just to clarify.”

“Oh, and it was awesome,” I said.

“The memories, Mr. West., explain the memories,” he said.

“Oh. What about them?” I asked.

“You said the memories do and don’t bother you. Until you rid yourself of the cross, Mr. West, I fear you’ll have a difficult time ridding yourself of the feelings. Would you like to explain your thoughts?” he asked.

I shook my head. “There’s nothing to explain. You know what happened. If it happened to you, would you want to sit and think about it?”

“We’re not talking about me, Mr. West. We’re talking about you.”

“The fuck we are. I’m talking about you right now. That’s what I’m talking about, you. What would
you
think about it? You know, if it happened to you? Would you feel good or bad when you thought about it?” I asked.

“It didn’t happen to me, Mr. West. It happened to you. Now, would you like to talk about how the memories make you feel?” he asked.

“Nope,” I said.

“Very well. The sexual act. Did the act bother you or was it pleasurable?”

“Pleasurable,” I said.

“During the act were there any periods of flashback or thoughts of the past?” he asked.

“No, not really,” I said.

“I see. Have you any fear if you continue there may be?” he asked.

“May be what?”

“If you continue sexual activities have you any fear there may be flashbacks or recurring memories?” he asked.

“I think I’m good,” I said as I glanced at the clock.

“Based on…”

I sat and glared at him. I was done talking, and all I needed to do was make it another ten minutes and I could leave.

“You believe ‘you’re good’ based on what, Mr. West?” he asked.

“Based on the fact I believe I control that shit. You know it doesn’t come from outer fucking space, it comes from my brain,” I said.

“So, you’re in control?”

“Yeah, I’m thinking so,” I said with a nod.

“So, the belief of sexual addiction. Were you in control of that?” he asked.

I nodded my head. “Well, if you want my opinion, I created it to keep from being sexually active because I either had fear of the old memories or because I didn’t want to hurt anyone. You know. Sex has always been off limits to me, and short of whacking off I’ve always avoided it.”

“And your stories of sexual exploitations?” he asked.

“You know what they were,” I said.

“I believe I do. Do you?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said.

“Care to explain?” he asked.

I glanced at the clock. It was nine o’clock and I needed to get to work. I stood from my seat, cracked my knuckles, and popped my neck.

“Sure thing Doc,” I said as I walked across his office.

I opened the door and turned to face him. “They were stories I made up in my head that never happened. I think my subconscious wanted an excuse to avoid sex because I was afraid of it. Well, now I’m not afraid. See you in two weeks.”

“Mr. West. One more thing,” he said as he raised his hand in the air.

“Sure, I’m in a good mood,” I said. “What you got?”

“Are you going to be honest with your female companion and let her know you’re a virgin?” he asked.

“Not planning on being a virgin for long, Doc. See ya in two weeks,” I said.

And I walked out the door.

RILEY

At eighteen years old, we’re provided with the label of an adult, but being an adult at an early age requires making adult-like decisions. I sat three years beyond my declaration of reaching adulthood and watched Blake eat his sandwich convinced I didn’t ever want to be an adult.

I preferred to live the remaining portion of my life not dealing with the decisions and complexities associated with being an adult. Remaining a little girl forever would allow me to live a life without complications, responsibilities, or making decisions which were potentially life-altering.

Yet.

It was time I acted as an adult.

“How is it?” I asked.

With a mouth full of food and a combination of vinegar and oil running down his forearms, he raised the sandwich in the air slightly and continued to chew.

“Good,” he said over the mouthful of food.

He nodded his head toward my sandwich. I glanced down. I hadn’t so much as touched my food. I reluctantly reached down and picked up the hoagie, feeling if I didn’t at least eat a portion of it we would probably end up in an argument of some sort.

“Good call on the sandwich. This bread is soft as fuck,” he said as he wiped the oil from his arms with a napkin.

“I like this place,” I said.

“Not hungry?” he asked as he tilted his head toward my plate.

I shook my head and lowered my sandwich to my plate. “My stomach’s upset a little bit.”

“Well, it’s not something you ate, because you haven’t eaten yet today. Maybe ‘cause you need to eat,” he said.

I shrugged and picked up the sandwich. “Maybe.”

I wanted to find out what he knew about the murders, and if he knew nothing, I preferred to be the one to tell him what happened. I had tried to place myself in his shoes and consider if he had told me what happened to my parents, and consider how I would have felt hearing the news from him. My belief of the sadness and rejection which would have followed is what prevented me from proceeding to tell him so far.

But I felt I needed to.

For us both.

The thought of us being in a meaningful relationship and me keeping secrets from him was impossible for me to process as a necessity. I sat watching him finish his lunch knowing at some point I would have to tell him something, and allow the morsel of information to lead into a conversation revealing everything I knew about his parent’s death.

When
was the question.

I tore the sandwich in two, took a bite from one half, and placed the pieces on my plate. After studying them for long enough to convince myself it looked like I had eaten much more than I actually had, I shifted my eyes to Blake.

“Can we go sit somewhere when we get done?” I asked.

He shrugged his shoulders. “Sure, where are you thinking?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe like a park or the Waterfront by the lake or something.”

“Somewhere peaceful,” he said.

I nodded my head. “Yeah.”

“Sure. You gonna eat that?” he asked as he motioned toward my plate.

“I don’t think so,” I said. “My stomach still feels icky.”

He reached for my plate and picked up the half of the sandwich I had taken a bite of. I grinned at the thought of him choosing it over the uneaten half. As he proceeded to devour the sandwich I realized just how simply he lived his life. Had I not asked about his parents, I was convinced he would have never mentioned them. Had I never asked about the toolbox on the sidewalk, he may have never mentioned Tyler again.

Blake was different.

As he wiped his mouth with a napkin and checked his fingers for residual matter, I ran through potential scenarios in my head of how to propose what I had learned of his parent’s death. Upon deciding I would simply proceed with whatever felt best, I picked up the remaining half of the sandwich and took a small bite.

“I’m just goofing around,” I said. “You ready?”

He nodded his head and stood. “Sure you don’t want that?”

“No, I’m really not hungry,” I responded.

After paying for the food and walking out to the motorcycle, we rode six blocks to the Waterfront, an outdoor mall which had been developed around a lake. The lake had several benches and a walking path, and I hoped I felt more comfortable talking once we sat down and relaxed together.

We walked half way around the lake hand in hand, and eventually chose a bench on the far side of the lake. As he gazed out at the body of water, he crossed his arms, sighed, and sat down.

“This is peaceful,” he said.

“It is,” I said as I sat down beside him.

In comparing the Blake I met to the Blake sitting on the bench, the differences could almost be described as drastic. When we met, he was fidgety and nervous acting. Now, he sat quietly and gazed out at the lake, seemingly at peace with life and everything around him.

“I like it when I think about us,” I said.

He continued to gaze out at the lake. “You mean like us as a couple?”

“Yeah. Like
us
. You and me together,” I said.

“Yeah, me too,” he responded.

“You know,” I said, pausing as I realized I was speaking much sooner than I was prepared to.

He turned his head to the side. “What?”

“Uhhm. Well, I wanted to talk about secrets. Like maybe not secrets in a secretive sense, but things we should share with each other. Maybe something we want each other to know eventually, and are kind of like scared to say. I think we should take an opportunity to do it now,” I said.

“Okay, you go first,” he said.

It was going to be tough to do, but I decided if I told him the truth about my father, it may prompt him to tell me about his parents, as long as he knew what happened. I inhaled slowly, stared out at the lake, and exhaled.

“For my entire life, I thought my father was killed in a car accident,” I said.

The words came much easier than I had expected. After glancing at Blake and confirming I had his full attention, I continued.

“But I found out yesterday that all this time my mother was protecting me from what really happened. She didn’t want to tell me because she was afraid it would have hurt me more. I’m glad I know now, but she was right,” I said.

With his eyes filled with concern, and his hands clasped together in his lap, he inhaled a shallow breath and spoke.

“What happened?” he asked.

“He was murdered. The guy came in our house, killed my dad, and tried to uhhm…he tried to kill…” I glanced up at the sky and took a shallow breath.

“He tried to kill my mom, but uhhm…she…well, she lived. She walked to the neighbor’s, called the police, and then she uhhm…she testified against him. You know, in court. He got eight life sentences after they tied him to a string of murders over something like twenty years. It’s why she has that scar.” I pointed to my neck. “You know, on her neck.”

“I’m sorry,” he said as he lifted his arm over my shoulder.

“It’s okay,” I said as I leaned into him. “It happened a long time ago.”

It felt good to tell him the truth. It was easier than I thought, and I felt tremendous relief knowing there was really nothing about me or my past that Blake didn’t know; short of the fact I knew about his parents. After he held me for a moment, he released me, leaned into the edge of the chair, and turned to face me.

“I really hate even saying anything after you said what you said, but I guess I will,” he said.

“It’s okay. Whatever you have to say, say it. I’m okay, really,” I said as I wiped my eyes with the tip of my finger.

“I uhhm. I was an orphan. I lived with this preacher. He uhhm, he adopted a few kids, and he had some others he kept in foster care, but he didn’t adopt them. I was one of the kids he didn’t adopt. But uhhm.” He shifted his eyes from me and gazed blankly out at the lake.

After several seconds of silence, he stood, crossed his arms, and continued to speak, but focused on the lake the entire time.

“He wasn’t…uhhm…he didn’t…yeah, he didn’t treat us all the same. He uhhm. He had his own…his own kids. There were boys…some boys. He uhhm. He took me one day…” he paused and bit his lower lip.

I didn’t like the way I was feeling. The thought of someone hurting Blake, especially as a child, wasn’t something I wanted to try and understand. As I sat and fidgeted in my seat, he chewed his lower lip and continued.

“It was a Tuesday. I was eight. He and his son…you know…they uhhm. They molested me. It happened…more…uhhm. More than once. The cross I wear? I took it from his home. It’s the only thing I’ve ever stolen. I felt like it had some special power or something, I don’t know. I just knew he took something from me, and I wanted to take something from him. So I buried it in the yard. When I finally left the foster home, I took it with me. Wear it every day now.”

He turned to face me and shrugged his shoulders.

“I’m so sorry,” I said as I stood.

He raised his hand in the air between us. “I’m uhhm. I’m not done.”

“Okay,” I said.

I sat down, crossed my legs, and folded my hands in my lap. Feeling sorry for Blake, angry at his foster father, and disgusted with the system for allowing people to adopt children and not take proper care of them, I realized Blake’s parents being murdered was the start of it all. In the grand scheme of things, it really didn’t matter what started it, but for some reason, it mattered to me.

He turned toward the lake and continued. “So…I’ve uhhm. I’ve created a safe place for my mind because of all of it. I kind of developed a subconscious fantasy or something. It…I…it’s just…I’m…”

He turned to face me. “I’m a virgin.”

I sat and stared, shocked almost more by what he said than I was when I read the newspaper article in my mother’s room about my father. It made sense now. His running away, his reluctance to proceed sexually, and his constant excuses for needing to leave when things got heated between us.

“I’m really sorry about what happened when you were young. I hate people sometimes. Have you like…have you talked to anyone? You know, like a professional? I asked.

He nodded his head. “I see a guy.”

“Like a doctor?” I asked as I stood.

“Yeah, a doctor,” he said.

I opened my arms and hugged him. As we stood holding each other his breathing changed from labored to shallow. After a few more seconds, he relaxed into my arms and sighed.

“That wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be,” he said.

“Mine neither,” I said.

“I’ve got one more,” he said as he pulled away.

“Okay,” I said.

He pointed to the bench. I sat, crossed my legs, clasped my hands together again, and waited. After he inhaled a deep breath he tilted his head back, exhaled, and turned toward me. “My parents were murdered too.”

I waited for more.

He raised his eyebrows. “Nothing? No comment?”

I twisted my mouth to the side and nibbled on my lip. “Uhhm. Yeah. They were. Your parents were murdered by the same guy that murdered mine.”

His face washed with wonder. 

“What…why…why would you think that?” he asked.

He stumbled backward and sat down at the end of the bench. As he gazed at me with confused eyes, I explained.

“When you were over for dinner, mom said she was sick. She wasn’t. After what happened to her and my dad, she said she became uhhm… like obsessed with the…you know, with the killer. She felt she needed closure. So she collected all of the old articles from the newspaper and kept them in a box.” I paused and turned my palms upward.

“She recognized your last name, realized your parents were both dead, and went to her room and got down the box. She must have fallen asleep while she was going through everything. After you left, I went to check on her, thinking she was sick. I found the article. Brandon and Velma. Was that their names?” I asked.

As he nodded his head slowly, his eyes welled with tears. I spread my arms wide as my eyes did the same.

We scooted toward one another, met in the middle of the bench, and collapsed into each other’s arms.

And we both shed tears we had spent a lifetime reserving for just that moment.