Yoga Cocaine

Chapter 5

5

I meet Oliver at the Saturday Serenity Meeting on the first Saturday in April. Looking at him, I can’t help but think of sailing regattas and country clubs. But, to hear him tell it, before he got sober, he was more Motley Crew than J. Crew. He raises his hand and, when the meeting leader calls on him, talks about how he has nearly eleven months sober and how, when he’d first dragged himself through the doors of AA, he’d been an unwashed, angry mess.

“It didn’t matter though. In AA, the uglier you are, the more love you get.”

Everyone laughs. He’s right. Twelve-Step fellowships are a conglomerate of misfits.

After eleven months of sobriety, Oliver is no longer disheveled. On this crisp, spring night, he’s wearing a button-down polo shirt, Ralph Lauren khakis, and a friggin’ cardigan. He’s way too straight-laced to ever be my type, but his share about redemption struck a chord with me. More than anything, I want to be saved—from myself.

After the meeting, Oliver approaches. “How are you?”

“Fine. You?”

“Good.”

I don’t say anything.

“I haven’t seen you at this meeting before.”

He’s cute—in an unremarkable, boy-next-door kind of way. “I haven’t been to this meeting before.”

“So, how long have you been sober?”

“Long enough.” Eight days. “Congratulations on your eleven months.”

“Thanks. Want to help me celebrate?”

I lean in, the way I would if I were at a bar, trying to entice a stranger into buying me a drink, and whisper low, so only he can hear me. “What do you have in mind?”

“You’re so f*****g hot!”

I’m not sure who’s more surprised by the outburst—me, Oliver, or the old guy at the coffee pot who snarls his disapproval.

Oliver claps a hand over his mouth and turns a deep shade of burgundy. The old guy mutters something about AA not being a pick-up joint and how, back in his day, thirteenth-steppers got what was coming to them. I bite my bottom lip to keep from laughing.

“I can’t believe I said that.” Oliver’s voice is a whisper now. “You seem like a great girl. I just don’t know if I’m ready for a relationship. You are sexy though. During the meeting, I couldn’t stop looking at you and fantasizing about–”

I cut him off. “What makes you think I want a relationship?”

“Um… Well… I… Um… We…”

“You’re pretty hot yourself.” I hand Motley Crew Makeover ten digits, scribbled on a scrap of paper. Halfway through the meeting, I pre-wrote my number just in case. “Text me. We’ll see where it goes.”

An hour later, I’m on the couch—a Bioré Pore Strip on my nose—watching Mr. Belvedere on ANT when my cellphone pings.

I just thought about you.

Yeah? What were you doing?

Jerking off.

To keep it interesting, I wait ten minutes before replying.

It’s easy to be bold via text.

Oliver tells me he wants to f**k me. I tell him I want to lick him—flaccid and erect. We pick a date. Establish a time.

Do you want to meet for dinner or something? he wants to know.

No relationship, I remind him. I’m not interested in making small talk, just in f*****g.

And in forgetting I should write. s*x is a mode of escape for me. It fills the empty spaces.

For a while, my stepdad and I had a good thing going. He’d give me money for clothes and alcohol to bring with me to parties and cover for me with Mom when I stayed out past curfew. After all, the boys my age were hopeless. They never knew what to do with their lips and tongues and hands. Not like Dwight.

Before I even have a chance to knock, Oliver opens his big, wooden townhouse door. I fight the urge to laugh. Is he really wearing an olive green sweater vest?

Hard to reconcile this Mr. Rogers look-alike with the s*x-obsessed p*****t who’s been sending me What’re you wearing? texts.

“Do you want a tour?”

“Not really.”

“Want to watch TV?”

I shake my head.

“Can I get you something to drink? Orangina…? Cream Soda…? Fanta…? Perrier…?”

I interrupt him before he can rattle off any more beverage offerings. “I’m not here to get a tour of your place or make conversation. I’m here to fuck.”

I hadn’t realized a jaw could come so unhinged without serious, surgical intervention. It takes Oliver a full thirty seconds to collect himself. When he does, he pulls me close and presses his lips to mine. I open my mouth, inviting him deeper. As our tongues tangle, I can feel his expanse of well-muscled chest beneath his ridiculous sweater.

We stumble awkwardly up the stairs to his bedroom, tripping through what should be an easy ascension because neither of us wants to stop kissing long enough to look where we’re going. When we reach his bed, I push him down and let my lips descend, tracing Oliver’s midline with my tongue, until I arrive at the center of his s*x. Then, I take him into my mouth and feel the pleasure-wave that sweeps through his body, threatening to pull him under.

I am a d**g, powerful and thrilling.

“Oh, God!”

Why do people call out to God during s*x? If there is a God, which I’m not sure there is, do we really want to call His attention to the fact that we’re f*****g? And, if there isn’t, then isn’t calling out “God” the equivalent of being in bed with one guy and accidentally screaming someone else’s name?

“Hold on.” Oliver pulls me up by the shoulders, reaches into his bedside table, and takes out a c****m.

I slip out of my underwear and unhook my b*a. It’s been a while since I’ve had bedroom s*x. The last few times have been in backseats or bathrooms. Or in alleys, like feral cats. But here Oliver and I are, two virtual strangers, n***d and sober.

He rolls on. Or tries to. The c****m won’t adhere to his shaft.

He smiles at me, mildly abashed. I smile back. His p***s pulsates, keeping rhythm with his heartbeat, as he pulls out a second c****m and…

Oops. It slips off too.

His smile falters. “What the hell?”

I want to tell Oliver that he needs to dry off his junk, so the rubber has something to cling to, but advising a guy about prophylactic application is like trying to give him driving directions, so I sit, unmoving, on the edge of the bed and wait for him to figure out what I already know.

Another c****m—the last one—this time snatched furiously from the same bedside drawer. Another failed attempt. The three, useless condoms form a pile of wet rubber on Oliver’s bedroom floor.

“It doesn’t matter,” I tell him.

And it doesn’t. Not to me. Not in this moment anyway.

I take Oliver into my mouth again and lick, suck, kiss, and caress until he forgets about the wet, wilted schlong shields and writhes in ecstasy, overpowered by desire. I climb on. Straddle him. Gyrate—slowly at first, then faster.

Beneath me, Oliver is equal parts sexy and pathetic.

Why do men, even grown men, always make that stupid little-boy face when they’re coming? A few weeks after I turned fifteen, my stepdad and I started f*****g. I look at the headboard to avoid making eye-contact.

“Yeah, Jesse. Just like that.”

Jesse? Really? Dwight used to call me that, and Daddy before him. Only, I liked it coming from them.

I ride Oliver a little longer. Not too long. Fifteen seconds. Maybe twenty. Until a look of panic sweeps across his face.

“Oh God!” He shoves me off with one hand and reaches between his legs with the other.

Four swift motions. Semen squirts onto the sheets.

Great. I wanted to be f****d, and now I have been.

I almost laugh, but Oliver’s expression is that of an abused puppy and I can’t bring myself to do anything but pet him. “It’s okay.” My tone jizzes reassurance. “It was good for me too. Really. These things happen…”

But it isn’t okay. It’s like showing up at a yoga class and finding out the teacher is a no-show. Or driving all the way to your dealer’s only to discover that he’s been arrested—again—and your supply is cut off.

“Look,” I tell Oliver, “no hard feelings, but I’m gonna go.”

“Stay.”

For once, I’m grateful for boundaries. “Remember, we agreed. Just fucking.”

“Can I see you again?”

Is he kidding with this s**t?

“I think that might be too relationshippy,” I say, pretending our terrible s*x isn’t the reason for my refusal.

It’s a relief to get back to my car, where I can finally let my laughter out. I giggle and guffaw and chortle and chuckle until it doesn’t seem funny anymore. Then, I beat the steering wheel with my fists and yell until I’m hoarse. But I don’t let myself cry.