He, She and I

by Alex

Disclaimer: parts or the entirety of this story may have been invented.

He had been the fastest reader in my class, but his parents told him not to go to high school because they feared he would struggle with math. Later, he worked in a dairy, then fixed rooftops. From elementary on I had lost contact with him. In-between that time he had grown frustrated with his job and life position, become addicted to heroin and quit it a few times. He was sensitive and talented, but a combination of life circumstances and personal decisions had gotten him to a point that it is difficult to get out of: get a decent job even though he had very few qualifications and his habits had made him unreliable. His prospects were rather grim until he got together with her.

I love what she does to him. She is the greatest ray of light in his life. She helps him out in a manifold of ways: getting him to organize, helping him apply for jobs. borrowing him some money when necessary. I would remark to her that she truly was his better half. She replied that it was just true the other way around as well.

I still know little about her, I have only met her twice, but I immediately noticed her kind soul. She is a punk girl with a masculine streak, an educator, an anarcho-syndicalist and a former Marxist. Her face is soft and her demeanor is welcoming, but her inner hurt is rarely masked completely. Her appearance is demonstratively casual but mostly free of aesthetic signs of rebellion and slightly voluptuous. Her eyes shine brightly.

Why do I notice this? I would never have allowed myself to feel any attraction to her had he not prompted me to:

Maybe you can impress her with your intelligence.

The same day we would have a threesome, and, oh lord, was I reminded of the joy of lying with a woman again. Their warmth, their softness, that wonderful smell that I forget each time I’m not close to it! I was so close to “going gay” for real, coming out to my parents and maybe finding a nice boyfriend, but what do I do now that I remember? But what makes this situation interesting is not the attraction I feel towards her.

I had always been careful not to let my male friendships mingle with my sexual relations. The latter I knew I would sooner or later cut out of my life, something I would never do to my friends. So on a deeper level I did not allow myself to be attracted to him. Yet, I could not help but notice the muscular lining of his physique or feel a surge of pride when he would “jokingly” slap my ass or make an “ironic” advance on me. If he was inviting me into his girlfriend, then how much of a joke was it really?

A woman in the mix changes the dynamic not least because it gives us provides us with an excuse to feel and do things that would otherwise be too gay to be part of a male friendship, not just on a physical but an emotional level. Really, the hardest part is in displaying vulnerability to another man. As a bonus, my attraction to him could pre-empt feelings of jealousy better than any conscious decision.

And that day we were going to take LSD together. Talk about a setup!

But that is not all. My friendship with him is the only window I have into the world of the proletariat and over the years I have benefitted enormously from it. I, in turn, have done my best to get a condensed version of what I know into his head. This was not unprompted: he is often very interested and holds a great deal of respect towards me. But that day he seemed unusually eager, as I explained to him in a quick two-hour session how Marxism arose to tell the utopian intellectuals that the working class movement was the key to achieving socialism and the workers that the intellectuals were the ones who could clarify the purpose of their struggle to them, how it took an intermediate position between anarchists and Lassalleans and fell with the Second International. He was the most attentive student and my heart skipped a beat as I felt the joy of helping him understand his position in the world!

“Say, can you explain the political position of Hamas to me?” he asked.

“Well, they’re Islamists.”

“Like, leftist Islamists or…?”

“No, not really.”

“Then why are there leftists championing them?”

“Oh, because they say that, even though Hamas is subjectively reactionary it is objectively progressive because it fights for Palestine.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Except it doesn’t work at all!”

He laughed. “No kidding!” He hesitated for a bit. “You know, I have some understanding for the Israeli reaction to that attack, as brutal as it may be. Like, if you always have to fear being attacked in that way, well, what the fuck do you do?”

“Well, you know, it’s not really constructive. But the thing is, there are Israeli politics and Netanyahu has hardliners in his coalition he has to keep happy…”

“Yeah, but I don’t get at all why leftists would cheer Hamas when it’s not even on their side!”

“Yeah, but the left does that kind of thing all the time. That’s why I’m always angry at them. You know, my Viennese friends, the ones I broke up with, were annoyed I constantly attacked the left. ‘Why don’t you ever attack the right?’ they asked. And I said ‘Because I don’t expect anything from the right. I do expect something from the left though!’. And that was when I was still a social democrat!”

And so it went on. The only time he disagreed with me was when I brought up Adorno’s saying that a wrong life cannot be lived rightly.

“What a bunch of bullshit!” he said.

“Really? Why?” I asked, surprised by his strong reaction.

“Well… just because you’re born into an immoral family doesn’t mean you can’t be moral.” he replied with some hesitation.

“Oh! Well, it’s not so much about that and more about, say, for instance these fair trade products. Like, if everything you bought was fair trade and sustainable and all, then you couldn’t possibly afford it, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, it’s more about, that it’s practically impossible to live morally in a lot of circumstances. But I get your point that it makes not much sense to base your personal ethics around that. But, you know, you have to keep that distinct from politics.”

Around that time she arrived and brought us food, beer and juice, as well as snooze tobacco for him. I had brought them some nootropics, hand-mixed according to my special recipe (40mg NSI-189, 10mg Noopept, 10mg Coluracetam, 10mg Sunifiram, 10mg PRL-8-53, 2mg Compound 7p, usually served with about a gram of Acetyl-L-Carnitine and some CDP-Choline). “Don’t these only work long-term?” he asked. “They also have some neuroprotective effects” I replied, which is true, but really I just like to take nootropics to psychedelics because I’m hoping they synergize.

We swallowed our nootropics with beer and she lined up some speed for the three of us.

“That’s the last I have. My other boyfriend and he snorted up all I had.”

“Wait, he just snorted your speed while you weren’t there?” he asked.

“Oh, I was with him. Only got two hours of sleep. But he did snort all my speed, yes.”

“Okay, if you were with him that’s a bit different.”

They snorted their lines immediately, I only snorted part of mine. “I’ll leave the rest for later.”

Then made our way towards a small cave in a nearby park, where the freemasons used to meet. I had proposed to start in the early afternoon but with the delays we started a bit late and the sun had set before we even felt the effects of the acid. I tried to use the way there and back again to understand her politics: why did she stray from Marxism? Was it the perceived authoritarianism? I asked her about Lenin and she gave me a defense of the Russian Revolution. Why then was she advocating propaganda of the deed? And how did she know who the Second International was? I’m still not sure how all this fits together, but she is probably the most politically educated person I met outside specifically political circles.

“You heard of Hegel?” I asked her.

“Sure!”

“You like him?”

“Too mathematical for me.”

“You don’t like math?”

“Nah. Except for probability theory.”

“How so?”

“I dunno, but that just seemed natural in a way the other stuff wasn’t.”

“Yeah, I can see that. I’ts certainly more conceptual than most high school math.”

“But really I would have liked to skip math overall, except maybe the elementary stuff. In general I’d say you should be allowed to skip one major subject in high school. Not German though because… well…”

“For integration.”

“Yeah.”

“I get it. About math though, when I think about our education I’m just thinking you have to burn the whole thing to the ground and start anew.”

“Yeah.”

“Say, have you ever read Lockhart’s Lament?”

“No, what’s that?”

“It’s great, you should read it sometime!”

“Yeah, maybe.”

One thing that surprised me was when she told me that, in spite of her cynical attitude towards educational institutions, she was for getting children into them as soon as possible.

“Well, I’m just thinking that, if that’s necessary, it would be a chance for a left. Like, these should be should be our institutions!”

“Oh, sure! You can’t trust the state about anything. But, you know, there is no left.”

“Well, sure. Say, have you heard of the Platypus Affiliated Society?”

“No, who are they?”

“Oh, like, a small sect. They’re interesting, but if you don’t know them… but have you ever been in the Antideutsche?” I thought maybe she got her education from them.

“Oh no! In fact, I usually argued against them in debates. Like, I hate the Germans too, but that’s cause I’m an Austrian!”

“Yeah, I make that joke too.”

“Like, I don’t think that the Germans are particularly prone to fascism. Or maybe they are, but…”

“Yeah, I know, they’re awful! They treat being German like some kind of original sin or something.”

It is always a joy to find someone who is educated about your specific niché interest, and this was no exception: I felt happy to have met someone who actually knew what I was talking about! But when the effect of the psychedelics made itself felt she told me that she wouldn’t be able to clearly reply anymore. I told her not to sweat it. I treat psychedelic talks differently from others, their purpose is less coherence and more depth of recognition. But it was becoming clear that I was being over-enthusiastic on the topic, which is not to say that they didn’t bring it forth themselves. In fact, a consistent theme of the night was in them, and her in particular, raising an issue and me running with it. They also seemed personally angry in a way I’m not.

We found a private cemetary blocking our way to the bus home. He started climbing the gate. “Can you climb over it?” he asked her.

“Of course! But we shouldn’t force him…”, meaning me.

“I can go with.” I said, though I wasn’t particularly enthused about it. It seemed more trouble than it was worth.

“Nah. Let’s go around it!” he said, jumping back down.

“I like cemetaries.” she said. “One day I’d like to fuck in one.”

“I think that’s one of those things that sound fun but when you really do them they are too uncomfortable to enjoy them.”

“Fucking on a cemetary? I dunno…” he said.

“Huh!” I said, looking at our path. “Look at how dry it is!” I pointed at tears in the soil. “Freaky. Almost like in Africa or something.”

“Those? I’ve seen those a few times by now.” she said.

“Really?” I was surprised.

“Yeah. They’ve started to appear in the last few years.” he noted.

“Hmm.”

“Yeah. Not good. Let’s talk about more pleasant things again, like fucking on a cemetary!”

“I dunno, seems kind of morbid.” he said.

“It could be kind of like a fertility ritual.” I said.

“Yeah!”

“Hmm. I just… I dunno…”

“I mean, I kind of get it.” she said. “Like, I find it darkly romantic in a cemetary, but I wouldn’t do it, like, in Auschwitz or something.”

“Oh yeah, you were there, right?” he asked.

“Yeah, but you don’t wanna hear about that.”

“Why not? Come on!” he said.

“Well, I was at Mauthausen, but that was a completely different experience. It’s… like…” she was struggling for words.

“I can imagine the scale of industrialization creates a different impression.” I said.

“Yeah. And then there’s Auschwitz II…”

“Wait, what’s Auschwitz II?” he asked. I had not known, but guessed correctly.

“I won’t talk about that. You can’t handle that.”

“I mean if you don’t wanna talk about it that’s fine, but we can handle it!” he said. She looked at me.

“Oh, I definitely can handle it!” I said. Stuff like that leaves me almost completely unfazed.

“Well, Auschwitz I is what you see in movies. Auschwitz II is where the actual processing happened before they sent them to the ovens. It’s like, there’s, like one room is just to store hair. Another is just for children’s toys. And so on.”

“Wow.” he said, slightly at a loss for words.

“Yeah. I can’t imagine going to Auschwitz and still being a racist afterwards. But there are people who do, apparently. Neonazis who celebrate there and stuff.”

As the bus arrived the conversation turned towards the left. She told me the mere name was painful to her.

“Who is the left?” she asked. “The left is always at each other’s throats while the right is gaining.” I told her that I thought the right’s gains were overstated.

“No, they’re real!” she said.

“Are we talking about Austria or Germany?”

“Austria. We can talk about Germany too if you want.”

“In Austria just I don’t think the FPÖ is hard-right. They have a hard-right edge…” she grimaced “but whenever one of them gets to the forefront they quickly lose public favor.”

“We have one right now!”

“Kickl? I have him as a right populist.”

“Compared to who? Strache?”

“No, the guy in-between the two. What was his name?”

“Hofer? He was on the soft right!”

“Compared to Kickl?”

“He’s dangerous. He’s a small man with something to prove.”

I hesitated. “Say, have you heard of Adorno?”

“Of course! In a better world he would be part of the standard curriculum.”

“Huh! How did you hear about him?”

“My mother made me read him.”

“That’s… unusual.”

“Yeah. She really wanted me to have a good education. She also forced me to attend classical performances and stuff. I hated it, but I guess it had some effect.”

Another interesting bit of conversation occured after we got out and passed an engraving of a Trakl poem:

“You know something funny? Trakl hated Salzburg. Yet, at every corner in Salzburg you can find a Trakl poem!” she said.

“Yeah, they always do this.” I replied.

“Didn’t, like, everyone of these guys hate Salzburg?” he said.

“You know, both the Viennese and the Salzburgers hate on on their cities, but with the Viennese I always get the feeling they are feeling cool when they do it, while the Salzburgers just feel miserable.”

“Well, Thomas Bernhard also felt cool doing it.”

“Yeah, alright, but he also went to Vienna.”

“Yeah, and then he emigrated, so he almost doesn’t count anymore.”

And with that we returned and threw ourselves on the bed.

“Alright, you can put in anything you like.” she said, handing me the phone she had connected to the speakers.

“Alright, but you in turn have to put in something else if you don’t like it.” I said, putting in Babbitt’s Philomel, which I legitimately enjoy but also use as a test, observing how people react to it.

“Oh no, is that that…” he yelled almost immediately, being too wise to my tricks.

“Yeah.”

“Turn it off!”

“Huh. It’s… what is that?” she asked.

“That’s just not music to me!” He is actually fairly tolerant of people doing this as their special little thing, but I could never get him to get any pleasure from it.

“Alright, alright, alright!” I put in Umphrey’s McGee’s The Triple Wide (I really love Umphrey’s).

“Say, should we order something?” she asked.

“I don’t really want anything but I’ll order some.” I replied.

“I could eat some too! Also, we could order some beer!” he said.

“Exactly!” She took the phone and looked up a delivery service. “Hey, where’s their beer?” she struggled for a few minutes. “Wait, how does this work?”

She handed me the phone. “Can you find the beer?” I went to Drinks in the menu. “Here it is.” I gave her the phone back.

“Oh. Thanks! Wait, why don’t we have any music?”

“You disconnected the phone when you started ordering food.”

“Oh, right. Here you go.” she gave me the phone again. “But something relaxing. You guys listen to all that electronic music!”

“You pick something?”

“Can’t think of anything.”

“Well, what about this?” I asked, putting from Miles Davis’s cool jazz period.

“Yeah, that works.” she started to order. “Wait, they only have one beer or twenty.”

“Oh.”

“Typical Austria. Either drink one or drink yourself stupid.”

“Well…” he said.

“You can have mine if you want.” I offered.

“Yeah, but what about afterwards?” she asked.

“Well, then order twenty.”

“But having that much beer around isn’t good either.”

“Yeah.” he agreed.

“So…”

As we walked through their building complex, a neighbor approached us.

“Hey! Recognize me from the park?” the neighbor asked.

“Oh, yeah!” he said. “What’s up?”

“Not much. Just chilling in the air. What are you up to?”

“We’re buying beer. Wanna come with us?”

“Nah, thanks. You know, when I’m in the park I’m all… well, you know. But I have to get up at ten. What about you?”

“I’m out of a job right now.” he said.

“Are you looking around?” the neighbor asked.

“Yeah.”

“Where at?”

“All kinds of places. The fortress…”

“Oh really? You know, I was working at the fortress once.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I know all kinds of things about that place. Like how you can take out stuff without getting caught…”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah, there’s a door towards the steep side of the mountain…”

“Good to know!”

“Yeah. Crazy thought you’re now auditioning for the same job. But hey, you should come around sometime. Not when I have to get up the next day. But otherwise you’re welcome. Especially with her!” the neighbor gestured towards her.

“Sure, let’s do that!”

And with that we made our way through a (different) park. She was riding her (work)bike as we passed some migrant youths. They were yelling something at us about how dangerous sex was. “Especially with her!” he replied and they laughed and emmitted some sounds vaguely reminiscent of human mating.

Along the way we noticed that it was too late to buy from the train station. So we had to go to the gas station, which was more expensive but closer, so we arrived quickly. The interior was hauntingly modern: clean and clinically bright, like a space store for alcohol and processed food. There was a dash of nineties in its unapologetic manifestation of capitalism, and a dash of millennialism in its industrial coolness as well. They bought beer and some food. I was on the verge of paying with them, but she held me back:

“Hold on, what did you buy?”

“Nothing, I…”

“That’s right, so you don’t have to pay.”

The cashier was clearly amused by the spectacle before him. “I bet you’ve seen much worse than us!” he said, as if to reassure himself more than the cashier. “That’s true!” replied the cashier.

They took the food and beer and we sat down before the station while she made a bag out of her hoodie to store the beer in. She struggled with the knot.

“Can you help me?” she asked, and I tried, struggling as much as her.

“Why are knots so complicated?”. I laughed. Knot theory is a pretty mysterious part of mathematics, after all.

“That knot sucks! Why are they so much harder on psychedelics?”

“Usually you do them from memory, but psychedelics inhibit that to an extent, so they force you to re-think the concept.”

“I guess. Do you want a beer?”

“No thanks. I still have…” I didn’t bring it with me. “I still have one at home.”

“So, are you, like, not drinking at all?”

“Oh no, I do, but in moderation.”

“Screw that, I’m giving you permission to fill yourself up!” he said.

“I get a feeling that that’s not really the goal with you.” she noted.

That was true. I rarely drink a lot, but I really don’t like mixing alcohol with psychedelics. Psychedelics have a sharpness to them that I appreciate and don’t want toned down, as alcohol would do. I do like mixing them with weed because it gives you a bit of relaxation and this nice, “golden” glow throughout your body, and makes sitcoms really funny. But that was sadly not an option since they had smoked up my weed long before I arrived.

“You want some?” he asked, offering me a bite from his sandwhich. I instinctively grimaced (something I wouldn’t do while sober): “Meat!”. After that, they almost seemed embarrassed about the sandwich, but someone ate it anyway. I took it as a point of pride he forgot I was a vegan, but it stirred the kind of thoughts I wanted to avoid the most: about the historically unprecedented amount of pain in our slaughter and mistreatment of animals. As we made our way home I asked her if she heard of Heidegger. She hadn’t.

“You know, he said the principle of agriculture is the same as that behind Auschwitz.”

“How so?” he asked.

“Yeah.” she replied. with some pause.

“Oh, you mean with…” he said.

“Yeah.”

“Say, don’t you get exhausted from thinking?” she asked.

“No.” I replied. I should have told her how psychedelics make it hard for me to stop thinking. They make me think with great intensity, and make me feel the weight of matters to a far higher degree. At that moment, it felt like the whole conversation we had was to tell her was in that the problems we were facing were a contradiction in the development of our freedom and that the victory of the allied forces in WWII masked the universalization of the administration of society. But I started to notice how my ability to explain myself coherently was declining. So at some point I let it go. I should have done so sooner.

As we made our way back through the park, the same migrant teenagers from before yelled at her again. She yelled back about their manners, and they taunted her with calling immigration control.

“Abschieben! Abschieben!” they yelled.

“What kind of argument is that?” she replied.

“It isn’t one.” I noted with a sad undertone, prompting a quick laugh from him. Just a little later she would say she had already forgotten about these youths, but it had me thinking: when security deteriorates, it is her who feels it the most acutely, while I remain mostly protected. She is how I like women best: freely sharing her gifts even with poor souls like me. But this kind of freedom requires a level of societal trust that was quickly eroding. Jokes and hollering are one thing, but hadn’t she talked about how she had to hide away before? I am legitimately unsure whether I understood her correctly though.

Meanwhile, her attention had turned somewhere else entirely: “… so there are forms of inequality baked into the language itself!” she said to him.

“Yeah, but… well, if we’re talking about gendering¹, that’s a surefire way to telegraph that you are a university-educated person.” I could see she wanted to protest, as she was educated at a college, which in Austria is a lot more job-oriented. “Whether it’s true or not.”

“There’s also, like, nowadays there are people who are just competing about who’s getting fucked in the ass the hardest. Like, everyone wants to be part of some oppressed group!” he said.

“Oh, I get that! Don’t get me wrong, anything that divides the class is completely anathema to me!” she said, as we arrived back home. But he wasn’t feeling too well:

“Say, have you ever gotten, like, the feeling of asphyxiating?” he asked me.

“Ah, no. You should probably smoke less.”

“No shit. A propos, where are my cigarettes?” she asked.

“Oh right!” he started looking as well.

“Not again! Can’t you just chill?” I was getting annoyed.

“But I need the cigarettes to chill!” she replied.

“Well, the idea is to disentangle the chilling and the cigarettes!”

“And why would we want that?” he asked.

“Yeah, we’re slaves to our desires!”

“No, we can master them!”

“Why?”

“For pleasure.”

“Well, yeah, but that’s different.” she replied.

“Also for your health.”

“I wouldn’t be taking illegal drugs if I were all that concerned about that.” I was tempted to mention that that was part of the reason I preferred to buy legally before substance analogue laws put a lid on the research chemical trade.

“Didn’t I bring you snooze?” she asked him.

“Oh yeah! I think I put it…” he picked up the snooze. “Well, I’m set!”

She continued to search her bags. “Wait, there is still… the highest… oh yeah, here it is!”. She pulled out tobacco, papes and filter.

“Say, we left that speed for later, right?” he asked.

“He left it for later.” she said, meaning me.

“Well, can I have it?” he looked at me.

“Alright.” I said, rolling my eyes a bit. Not that I would have wanted to add more stimulation into the mix anyway.

“Suit yourself. I’m gonna take a bath!”. She had been talking about wanting to try out her red bubble bath all day.

I meanwhile had started to set it up so we could watch Dark City to distract their attention from cigarettes and get them to finally chill. I had wanted to show him Dark City for a while, and we had started watching it last time when we began making out. But I struggled setting it up. My laptop is the single object I interact the most with in my life and I have perfected it into a machine of unparalleled efficiency — for writing. But any task not in my daily routine, such as adding a second screen, takes some degree of manual intervention that I was currently almost incapable of providing.

He grew bored. I was torn apart, tending to him or to my laptop. When I switched the channel, some crappy game review show came up and he said to me:

“Alright, Alex, we’re gonna watch this!”

Had I agreed to that, the evening might have been a lot more eventful than the one I got stuck with. Him and me, watching a game review, all kinds of things can happen while we’re bored and high! Then, with him fallen, she was bound to join! Why, why did I not do that? The proposition was so simple: swallow your pride, watch whatever stupid thing is on TV, who cares, pay attention to your friend instead! He only wanted this small sign of humility! Would I not do so much more for him? But I hold the time I spend on psychedelics as particularly precious, and thought of wasting my precious trip time watching this mind-numbing slop was just too appalling. I grimaced and asked:

“But it’s so boring! Can’t we just watch Dark City?”

And I continued to work on getting it on screen.

Soon after, he disappeared into his kitchen. “I don’t want to be disturbed for the next three minutes!” he yelled. I suspected what he was going to do. He had shot up in front of me before and I never minded, but it marked the end of a chance I had to connect with him. I should have been there for him and shown him that I cherish him. Have I ever done that? Of course he felt just as insecure and awkward as me! In fact, between us I am the more experienced one, so why was I asking him to take the first step at all? I had just cheated myself out of a chance to make him feel heard and special, just as he is. But in the moment, I was too caught up to even realize that. So I left it to her, and only checked up when she came out mumbling:

“Oh my god, what did you do?”. She didn’t like it when he shot up.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Nothing, nothing, but he… he’s not well right now, not well at all.”

“Can I do something about it?”

“No, but he needs me right now. The best you can do is understand that.”

And with that she disappeared and joined him in their bath, and I was shut out. Soon after I could hear the sounds of their lovemaking, her sighs and moans, accepting but filled with envy. The two are perfect for each other because they need each other in a way I don’t. They are damaged in precisely the right ways that they can help each other, and I am not damaged in the same ways. So I would never wish to disturb what they have. Yet, it had not been a foregone conclusion the evening would end like this. I had taken myself off the chessboard before it even started, I was happy to let the drugs do the bonding for me, and even then I remained anxious to present myself in almost the least sexual way possible. Even the songs I had chosen were all cool and detached, intellectual puzzles without emotion. Why did I do that? Why was it so hard for me to admit I am a human being with desires too, that I want intimacy and love and even sex? What is wrong with me?

When I returned to Salzburg, the decisive reason had been my obligation to my cat. But I was also fleeing: I was aimless, I had alienated most of my friends, most of what I had tried had gone awry, I was getting fisted by strangers on eight different kinds of drugs and masturbating for days on end. And one day I saw a blind spot in my eye. Undoubtedly this was caused by my rampant abuse of poppers, not even for sex but just for watching sitcoms. I had believed David Nutt when he claimed they were harmless, but I soon found out their neurotoxicity and danger to vision was real. This was the first time I felt a serious side effect of my drug use, and it hit me hard: my vision is important to me. So I finally completed my Master’s degree and fled.

Since then I’ve gone through my crises of meaning, reduced my drug usage, started a Phd., created the best writing system in the world, learned and done and grown so much and largely left my old self behind. But I harbor a some hatred towards the person I was and I have kept my libido under a tight lid, like a shameful secret I only admitted to myself, and even then only occasionally. Truthfully, I wish it had burnt up in the rushes of dopamine I had gotten during chemsex, but sadly that is not the case. The only thing it is to me is a failure in the quest for the perfection of ideal a totally disembodied mind, the smartest brain in any jar ever. I’ve isolated myself from my friends and live almost completely in my head. But that is unsustainable.

But I also never planned to do it all my life. As I mentioned, the primary reason I went back was my obligation towards my cat, who I both should and want to spend as much time with as possible before she dies. I am ready to leave a lot of my old baggage behind when that happens. But I had been thinking she would die soon years ago, and she might do so tomorrow or years from now. Meanwhile, my psyche is suffering. Thoughts of self-hatred that I had hoped behind me long ago are returning.

At the same time there is so much work to be done I’m already behind my ambitions for my thesis, and time is running so fast. This is why I sometimes envy people with a 9 to 5: my work is never truly over. Yet, even it is beginning to be affected by my current malaise.

Then there is the question of my sexuality. I certainly wasn’t “born” gay or with a desire for crossdressing. My first crush had been a woman, all my relationships were, I prefer their aesthetics and perhaps even their company. Yet, simple penetration has long ago started to bore me. It feels vanilla and basic. Yet, while many, maybe even most of my sexual experiences with men had been negative or at least unsatisfying, sex with them can be amazing! Women so often are content with receiving attention and treat it as a privilege to be able to have sex with them. But with men, I can do that too, and receive all the attention I had wished someone had taken me up on. And the fact that it’s slightly dirty makes it even the hotter! But I never felt any serious emotional connection to any of the men I had sex with, even those I met for an extended amount of time. Truthfully, I had only ever used men as instruments of masturbation. And in the background is the problem of coming out to my parents. I had intentionally hidden any details of my sexuality to them to retain a limit on my hedonism, but this has also deepened a disconnect between my evolving tastes and their suspicions. But truly, I just hate talking to my parents about anything sexual. That is the part of coming out that I loathe the most.

So something has to give. Which is why I was so afraid of this day, while also looking forward to it. But my fear had gotten the better of me, and parts of my self have atrophied. Some of the charme that I had painstakingly apprehended is gone, and I have grown unresponsive to other people.

Thoughts I did not contemplate as I felt both pain and pleasure in listening to them. Instead, I looked at his pet spider and the insects he kept for feeding her — poor things. Eventually, I creeped towards the bath room door, and only in part because I really needed pee. There I stood, like a child in front of the dormatory of its parents, which was fitting the striking similarity to Tyler Durden he displayed when he emerged. They were ready to watch something, and finally I could show them Dark City — but not before I set up my laptop again because somehow the perfectly prepared movie had vanished from his TV screen while they were occupied.

“You should really consider getting into BDSM.” she remarked while I was cursing at my laptop. I was tempted to reply that I am in a sado-masochistic relationship with my cat — she certainly likes scratching me!

As the movie began she asked: “And it isn’t too scary for me?”

“I don’t think so. It’s not that scary.”

At after the movie she thanked me for showing her.

“…and because it was so campy I didn’t feel scared at all!”

It was a small consolation, but there was no denying that I had wanted something more. But it was getting early and they were getting tired. After watching Dark City we set out to watch a movie she proposed but couldn’t find it for streaming, so he suggested watching Oldboy. While we were getting it to stream she got out her special box of pills for special occasions like panic attacks and they took some.

“You want some too?” she asked.

“You have something interesting for me?”

“What’s interesting to you?”

“I wouldn’t say no to a light opioid…”

“Here you go.” She handed me a pill. “I felt them pretty strongly when I started taking them.”

“Thanks!”

I would actually feel them for for the entire day and the beginning of the next, but in the best way an opioid can work — without making me nauseous. Meanwhile, he was watching Youtube on his phone.

“Is that SsethTzeentach?” I asked.

“Yeah. Thanks for showing me, by the way. Exactly my kind of humor!”

I asked her: “Say, do you know Always Sunny?”

“Yeah!”

“Have you seen them all?”

“No, only a few. He showed it to me.”

That was only fitting, since we had often watched Sunny together. I opened a Sunny episode in the background just in case we wouldn’t get Oldboy to stream, but she fould it on Amazon and bought it for him as a gift.

“Won’t that exceed your download volume?” I asked her. He doesn’t have internet at home and we were using her phone as a hotspot.

“I always exceed it, but not by that much.”

While watching Oldboy we snuggled a little, then at some point she curled herself to him and fell asleep. Still later, he curled himself to her and fell asleep as well. There they were, curled into each other like dying children when I left them. I wanted to return to Lorien, I am always anxious to spend as much time with her as possible. So I walked away, sincerely happy for them, but slightly alienated.

Getting back out of my shell will be painful. Even if just by showing them this text.

Footnotes:

¹

In the German context, this is generally understood as the practise of changing the ending of generically masculine words to be gender-neutral.