Coping with my disability

I believe in honesty. I like receiving it. If it ain’t so nice, I try to find a lesson in it. And when I don’t, I cry a little, but I’m always fine. And I appreciate knowing.  I like telling the truth too. At least I try to do it. Then if it fails, I try again a different way.

It would be fair to say that I’ve been feeling rather heavy and unwanted pressure lately. Pressure from work, pressure from my mother who wants me to be perfect, but it ain’t happening. Then she guilt-trips me with her sadness and somehow I end up the bad guy. Top that with the fact I decided to skip the placebo birth control pill week and jump right into another pack, and sure, I might agree I may have been going through a short phase of insanity for the past few days.

Given the circumstances, I decided to take my own advice and self-medicate. Problem is – as with anything – the more you do it, the more you need to get to where you wanna be with it. You follow?

Come home from work, change out of work clothes, roll a spliff, and smoke it while walking the dog: my routine for the past 4 or so days. We walk around Allston/Brighton with the Russian grandmothers strolling arm-in-arm down the wide, Spring-blooming-lined sidewalk. And the hipsters, and the homeless, and the school kids sneaking off to Ringer Park where they get high and fool around; where the homeless will soon set up camp, mattress and all, come summertime. With the middle-aged Asian men who crouch down on the building steps and chain smoke. I’m high, rather smiley, wearing a hoodie, and have the habit of looking at everyone and… keep looking. I smile at them, squinty-eyed and genuine, and never take for granted the happiness they shine back at me. Sometimes they’re a little older, pudgier, and Mexican, in which case, they might smile AND raise eyebrows, uttering a deep, masculine “Hhhelloo!” Mmmm… si, papi.

All is peaceful and friendly, breezy and sweet during our long walk, until we arrive at CVS.

Last Friday I was feeling particularly drawn to a pint of creme brulee Haagen Dazs, or a  Mango Tango Odwalla, or maybe crayons, markers, colored pencils and drawing paper so I can draw and color late at night. You just never know. CVS presents limitless possibilities. As such, if I were to – as I did – combine a long walk with Tori, being high, and going to CVS all cracked out to look at crayons, I might be in there for 10-15 minutes instead of 2-3. I believe it is perfectly fine for a dog to be tied up at a safe place outside of an establishment while its owner shops. So I exercise this reasoning, tie her outside, and walk in. She’s barking. I’m telling myself to hurry up. And she’s barking. But the birthday cards I just decided to get and the crayons are all the way in the back, where I can’t hear her. So I browse and browse, until I hear the store manager on the mic:

IF THERE’S SOMEONE HERE WITH A DOG, CAN YOU PLEASE COME GET YOUR DOG?

A guy is standing outside, taking the last drag off his cigarette and tells me, “just bring her in. If they ask, tell them she’s a service dog.”

I generally bring her into to the liquor and convenience stores in the neighborhood, but never CVS, with its very legible SERVICE DOGS ONLY ALLOWED sign. And I generally, when I can, like to play by the rules. This, however, seemed rather unreasonable; you only let my dog in if I’m disabled, and you won’t let her sit outside barking either.

Drastic measures must be saved for drastic moments. On Monday night i found myself back at CVS. High as I was, eyes squinty and red, I came up with my truth:

I’m disabled. This is my service dog. I smoke too much weed and I lose track of time, and I overspend on crayons and ice cream, so she’s here for my health and safety.  Protection as well. Try and kick me out, see what she does to you.

I walked in, head held high, doggie at my heel. Quiet, subservient, alert; service dog in her pink harness leading disabled, cracked out young woman, as she tours the pharmacy, snacks, and magazine aisles. We are harmless. We bring joy and smiles. The manager says nothing. We stroll on back home.

Except today. I skipped the weed, went boxing, and decided to try a little more writing. This feels good too. Maybe I’ll give it another go tomorrow.

Casual sex

Her dress was of lycra, short, with open back; a floral second skin. Her hair was soft and wavy, silky dark strands reflecting the summer moonlight.

He was tall, massively strong, skin dark as the night, gorgeous smile and black eyes. He never approached her, yet she could feel his eyes on her body all night.

Eventually their arms touched, and after catching her friend talking to his, she found it difficult not to look at him and smile. They went home together. He grabbed her by the thighs and sat her on the bathroom countertop, his hands moving to discover her round, ample ass. His large fingers slid the skintight dress off her body in one swoop, revealing her completely nude, sensual.

She smells him still, this morning, his scent strong on the lapel of her jacket as she strolls to the park with the dog. The memory brings her to smile wide, and after that smile comes the thought of… him. And no matter how hot and spontaneous the previous night may have been, it was not one with him.

Because with him, she would’ve spent the entire night either on or off underwear, from 11pm to 5am, feeding him ice cream, helping make snacks, packing his bowl, talking about everything and nothing, wrestling in bed, listening to reggae, making out.  With him, she would muffle her own screams as he bit her, hard, and she would squirm in pleasure each time. He would slap her across the face too, while she laughed, arching her back and riding him even harder. Always a good girl, always obedient, always smiling.

And he’s not here right now. And he was not there last night. It’s only casual sex with no emotion, and no playfulness.