7. Gage
7
GAGE
W hen my skin gets itchy, I know I’m about to get agitated. When I’m agitated, I’m impulsive. When I’m impulsive, my good decision-making capabilities get cut in half, and when I’m straddling that line between ‘good for me’ and ‘bad for me,’ I naturally gravitate towards whatever is most destructive. Because destruction brings big feelings, and big feelings create dopamine, and at the end of the day, dopamine chasing is what got me started with substance abuse in the first place.
I do drugs to feel. But then the feeling gets to be too much, too negative, and I turn to drugs to numb. And in the process of feeling and numbing, I’m constantly searching for that middle ground that is impossible to find because my equilibrium is so fucked up that I don’t even recognize it anymore.
Sobriety fucking sucks because I feel all the things I numbed over the past twelve years and feel none of the feelings I chased with a pill. It’s the opposite of what I searched for, and somehow, I have to learn to make it my new status quo.
“So, to simplify, you used sex as a dopamine hit, a rush of adrenaline, and then overindulged?” my new therapist asks.
“I guess.” I shrug, sinking down on the bucket chair in her office. “I have no off switch. I use, fuck, steal, consume, whatever, until I either pass out or die. That’s the only way I stop something once I’ve started.”
“Because it feels good?” she asks.
“Because I feel . Period. Even if it feels bad.” I glance at her, but she’s not writing anything down. “Even when it stops feeling like anything, I keep going. It’s just a motion, an action that my body is familiar with doing, so it does it. I don’t know.”
She nods, smiling. “And while you were in the rehabilitation facility, you worked with a sex addiction counsellor?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“So, you went through your abstinence period, found your triggers, recognized your compulsive thoughts, and were taught ways to manage and control them?”
“Uh, yeah. Six months of nothing, not even masturbation, and another six of nothing with masturbation. And it wasn’t even that hard because… I dunno, I’m just not horny anymore.”
“Good for you for committing, Gage.”
“Thanks. I learned the whole three-second rule, disordered eating comparison thing.”
“Recovering from sex addiction is much like recovering from an eating-related disorder, yes. We find new ways to be healthy about our choices. What is it exactly that you’re worried about?” she asks, flipping through my file from rehab.
“Okay, so it’s like this. I was a sex addict, like, no doubt about it. But only while I was on something. Sober me barely even touched my dick. I relate drugs and alcohol to porn, sex, masturbation, and once I start, I don’t stop. So I guess what I’m worried about… can sober me become a sex addict too?” I look up at her, hopeful but weary. “Or can I be a regular guy, have sex and be intimate without the worry of overindulging because the drugs that made me overindulge are no longer there?”
“Substances are inhibitors, but your compulsion comes from you. That’s not an insult. Just remember that. Keep it in the forefront of your mind. Remind yourself that you have the capacity to overindulge, and pair that with the natural inclination to hyperfixate because of your attention disorder.”
I groan, feeling hopeless.
“Gage.” She leans forward, smiling. “That’s not to say you can’t have a normal sex life. And there’s a very good chance that you won’t be compulsive towards sexual activity while sober. But as addicts, recovery is a process, and it just gives us that extra footing to stand on when we acknowledge our former behaviour and are aware of it as we move forward. That’s all. We have tricks and tips and heaps of tools to use. Be proud of where you are, remember where you’ve been, and take it all into the future with you. You’re capable of so much, and if you really want to, you’ll figure out what works for you. That’s where I come in. I hand you the tools and the advice, you put them into action, and when we meet again, we talk about what worked and what didn’t. That’s how this goes. How do you feel about that?”
“So, I don’t have to abstain forever? I’m not cold-turkey cut off?”
“No. You’ve already been cold-turkey cut off for a year, right?” She smiles. “You’ll know when you’re ready, and we’ll work on making you very skilled at recognizing your triggers. Do you have someone you’re thinking about socializing sexually with? Because, while we don’t typically recommend hook-up apps and one-night stands, we can offer tools for that as well.”
I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “Not planning on random hook-ups. Trying to steer clear of that whole scene. And no, not really anyone in particular. Yet. No. Not at all. There’s this guy…”
Natalie laughs. “Isn’t there always?”
I grin. I like her.
“Okay, let’s figure out a starting point then.” She claps her hands together. “Bag of tools. Let’s dig through it.”
People in recovery usually have a hobby. It keeps our minds engaged with something other than our former vices, provides a sense of accomplishment, and excites us enough to enjoy it while we’re doing it or looking forward to doing it. Nathan has his mechanic shop, but he told me that once it became a job, it no longer felt like his hobby. Hence the fixer-upper mansion.
So, graphics and digital files are going to be my job again, which means I need something else.
I don’t have the patience or interest to cook or bake. Running is boring as fuck. Sports have never been my thing. Other than partying or finding my next fix, I’ve never really had a hobby that sticks. My neuro-spicy mind makes me fixate hard and drop it fast.
“I’m just saying, hun,” Mom speaks over her shoulder, hands turning red and wrinkly in the kitchen sink. “Making badass weapons is a pretty good hobby.”
I grin and dry the dish she passes me. “Yeah, but I can’t just do it whenever. I’ll join your damn Monday night weaponry class, mostly so I can see why you and all your lady friends are so interested in the teacher, but I need something else. Something more accessible.”
“He’s tall, dark, and forges hot metals with his bare hands, honey. What more is there?” Mom says, handing me another dish before I’m done drying the last one. His bare hands? Really? I roll my eyes at her. “How about that guitar you used to play?”
“I’ll just get frustrated that Nick is better.”
Nick grins behind me, but I catch it in the window reflection. “Digital drawing? You’re good at art shit,” he suggests.
Yeah, but… again, it’s too close to my job.
“Mowing lawns,” Cole suggests.
“Yeah, you see, there’s this part of my brain that can’t ever see work as a hobby. It’s an art, really. Benefits me super well in life.” I toss the wet towel at him and grab a dry one. “And stop trying to pawn your lawn cutting job off on me.”
“Come play volleyball with me on Tuesdays and Wednesdays,” Owen says, walking in from putting new window wiper blades on Mom’s van. “Yeah, yeah. You hate exercise and organized sports are akin to a dictatorship.”
I wink at him. Horribly.
“Look who I found.” Owen motions to Alexei behind him. “He was on his way over.”
Alexei follows him inside, looking awkward and comfortable in it. “Fixing up old mansions is a great hobby. So I hear.”
My heart gives a little thwack in my chest. It’s not really an increase in speed or a flutter or anything, just an off beat that could mean I’m about to go into cardiac arrhythmia, or it could also just mean that Alexei is here and making my heart thwack.
“Yeah?” I ask him. “If you love it so much, why aren’t you there now, painting old handles like I know you’re supposed to be? You forget I’m tight with your dad.”
Alexei’s wearing baby blue with all his black today, and maybe that’s why my heart is thwacking. He looks at the twins, nods at Owen for bringing him in, and then smiles at my mom. “I’m inviting you, if that wasn’t obvious,” he says to me. “Are you the type to miss the obvious?”
Yeah, while my heart is thwackin’, I am. “I don’t miss shit, Alexei. I just like making you point out the obvious. You get this patient but frustrated look on your face like you want to be accepting of my slow mind, but you’re also unsure if you want to be friends with someone who misses the obvious.” I dry the last dish and then yelp. “Ow! Mom!”
My ass stings from where she snapped a towel at me. “Stop taunting your friends. Alexei, how are you, hun? You want a cookie?”
“I just ate,” Alexei says, and I wonder if that’s true or if he’s afraid of sugar like he is of fried food. “But thank you.”
“Guess I’m going to paint old hinges and handles,” I tell my fam. “Wanna come?”
“Volleyball,” Owen lies. It’s not Tuesday or Wednesday.
“Have lawns to cut,” Cole says. It’s almost dark.
“Better practice my guitar.” Nick grins.
I look at Mom. “Don’t look at me. I can barely feel my fingertips after last Monday’s forge.” She holds them up. They’re wrinkly as shit from the dishwater. “But you have fun playing hobbies with your friends. Take some cookies.” She sets a twenty-pound box in my arms and practically shoves me out the door. Then I stand on the sidewalk holding the heavy box for seven more minutes while she chats Alexei’s ear off about custard tarts and some sort of bread.
“Your mom is very enthusiastic about custard,” he says, joining me.
“And cookies. And forging class. And Marian’s hog. She goes all in.” I shift the box in my arms. “Mostly because she’s just a happy person and loves loving things.”
“A good trait to have. Unfortunately, I don’t have that one. Yet.” He looks at me, taking his time, not at all rushing to sneak in a glance. No, this is a study, and he’s being thorough.
“Well? Are you done staring?” I ask as we start walking.
“You look dubious.”
I snort, already feeling better than I have since my therapy appointment. “What’s so dubious about me? Is it the giant box of cookies I’m carrying even though I know you won’t eat them because you have a weird thing about how much sugar you put into your body?”
“Sugar has no nutritional benefit in such a stripped form. I get my sugars from fruits and vegetables. But my dad will eat them. It’s the look in your eyes. You look dubious because you’re… annoyed or something.”
My feet scuff along the sidewalk while his skip over cracks, avoiding stepping on any of them. “I need to find a routine, and since I haven’t found a hobby yet, it’s hard to form a routine. I’m… adjusting. Not dubious.”
“Dubious,” he accuses. “Restoring a home was never my idea of a good time, but… I don’t know. It’s nice.”
“Nice?” I bark out a laugh. “Never heard someone describe home renos as nice.”
We’re walking slowly. Stalling. Being leisurely for a reason that’s probably obvious but neither of us feel the need to announce. Nathan is in their house, and as soon as we enter, we won’t be alone. I like being alone with Alexei and I still barely know him.
“Why didn’t you have a boyfriend in high school?” I butt in before he can comment on my last comment. It’s a comment battle, and I want to venture into his dating life because, apparently, I like breaking all my own rules. I said I wouldn’t push myself on him, but here I am, pushing myself on him. Subtly. “If you like meeting people the old-fashioned way, high school is a pretty standard first love story.”
Alexei slows his pace even more. We’re three houses away from his, but I hope it takes us an hour. “Well, when I started high school at fourteen and then up until I was seventeen, I was that kid with a junkie dad. Not very appealing. Then when my dad went to rehab and started to turn his life around, I was that kid with a junkie dad who was trying to get sober. The only people I’ve ever been… intimate with don’t know my dad, my history, or my past. And I don’t date because I’m picky. I don’t feel the need to tell my life story to just anyone, but if I’m going to be serious about someone, I’ll want to tell them eventually. Like I said, I’m neurotic, so I have some explaining to do whenever I meet people. How they react to my initial personality is what really sets my standard for how picky I’ll be.”
“How’d I do?” I ask, shifting the box again. “What was your initial assessment of me?”
“It’s different with you because you knew my dad before me.”
“Don’t act like you didn’t assess me anyway.”
He smirks. “I did.”
“Go on.”
“Well, I was pretty committed to hating you through breakfast, but even that was hard. You just… most people look at me like I’m weird and then don’t know how to act around me. But you looked at me like I was weird but acted like it didn’t throw you off. Which was disappointing because I was really setting myself up to be let down by you.”
“Don’t stop expecting that. I’ll let you down eventually.” I glance at him. “Not on purpose, but it’ll happen. And I’m weird, too. It’s funner being weird.”
“You are weird, but you’re not a let-down so far.” He pulls his hood up over his head. “What’d your therapist say about sex?”
There’s that thwack again. “Which part specifically?”
“Can you have it?”
“Alexei,” I groan.
“I’m curious. I’ve never met someone with that kind of addiction. One that isn’t quit altogether. I’m not asking because I want to have sex with you. I’m just an inquisitive person.”
I stop and look at him.
“And okay, I kind of want to have sex with you.”
“Jesus, Alexei! No. Bad idea. We’re friends, remember? Platonic, neurotic, new friends who happen to be gay and bi and don’t at all want to sleep with each other because it’s a horrible idea, and your dad is my sponsor, and we’re behaving and being good and doing the right thing so I don’t ruin you and my progress all in one shot because I love it when you wear blue with your black and?—”
“You do?”
I gulp air. “Which part?”
“Like it when I wear blue with my black?”
Black sweatpants and a black hoodie, but the front zipper of the hoodie is open to show a light blue t-shirt and the flatness of his hard chest. It makes his hair stand out and his pale blue eyes glow. Yeah, I like the fucking blue. “I believe I said I love it, not like it. And yeah, I do. Very much.”
“I wear mascara sometimes,” he blurts. “Very rarely.”
I grin.
“My eyelashes are naturally light, and I like the way they look darker. If they aren’t dark, I notice them in the mirror and can’t stop looking at them because they aren’t quite right. Sometimes it bothers me so much that I wear the mascara to put my mind at ease, really. That’s the only reason.”
“Is it?” I grin even wider.
“Yes.” Eyes on me. “No.” Eyes on the ground. “Maybe. What’d your therapist say?”
I start walking slowly again. “I have to feel ready. We’re working on tools and tricks and recognition. For now, I’m practicing masturbating. Or even recognizing the urge to masturbate but being able to refrain from it.”
“Oh, that’s cool. Like a mental awareness thing. Recognize the arousal, understand where it’s coming from, and realize it’s not dire.”
“You a therapist now, too?”
“Inquisitive,” he repeats. “I ask a lot of questions.”
“I know.”
“I’ll even ask the questions that have hard and very personal answers. If you don’t develop some boundaries with me, I’ll probably know more about you than your therapist.”
The idea doesn’t scare me. I don’t know why. No one really knows me anymore, myself included. I’m in that ‘getting to know myself’ phase, and maybe it’ll be nice to have someone else getting to know me, too.
“Okay, let’s make a deal. For every intrusive question you ask me, I get to ask you one.”
He squints, but it doesn’t look like he’s thinking too hard. “Alright. But you can also refuse to answer whatever you want. It will irk me, but I understand. I need to be told no sometimes.”
My arms are burning because carrying a box of twenty-pound cookies up the street is apparently outside of my athletic abilities. “Maybe sometimes I’ll just tell you things without you having to ask. You told me you were gay unprompted.”
“I was fishing.”
“I know.”
He pulls his hood up higher. “Right. Painting fixtures and handles. We better do that if you don’t want me to ask more sex questions.” He hurries his steps through the front gate and up the sidewalk. “But I kind of want a status report about your restraint from masturbation.”
I’m restraining the urge right now. “Of course you do.”