Chapter 4 #2
After a few days off my medication, my sex drive comes back with a vengeance, and I finally find something interesting to do with my time.
I do not listen to Dr. Mills at all, because she’s a fucking idiot.
I barely used dating apps when I was in college, and I find the profiles daunting to set up, so while I figure them out and start talking to women online, I also start driving down the coast, spending every night at different bars, relearning how to speak to and flirt with women.
I lie about what I do, since “just released from prison” isn’t usually a turn-on.
I lie about pretty much everything, and no one seems to notice.
The first few encounters are awkward. I’m too forward, too honest, or too obviously bored by what they say.
I’m attractive enough that the women are often forgiving, but it takes me a few tries to remember how to be charming.
It’s harder than I remember it being, mostly because I’m genuinely not interested in any of the women I talk to.
Nothing’s wrong with them, they’re just not right.
I ask questions, I listen, I engage, and I make lists in my head of everything that I find interesting or attractive about them. Then, whether or not I like them, I focus on getting them into bed.
The first time I get a woman in bed, it’s been so long that it’s overwhelming, and I come embarrassingly quickly. I spend half an hour going down on her in apology, fuck her properly, then leave.
Between online dating and going to bars, I start fucking as many women as I can, as often as I can. I pay attention to what they respond to, what they like, and I try to see if I like them more after I fuck them.
I don’t, usually.
One woman holds my attention long enough to see her a second time, but not a third.
She’s not right, either.
The first time I see Alexandria in town, she’s out jogging the riverwalk on a Sunday in a hoodie and a pair of baggy sweats. The first time I think of her during sex, I dismiss it as me having seen her that day in town and finding her prettier than the woman I’m fucking.
The second time I see her, she’s sketching in Shively Park. The second time I think about her during sex, I think it’s because the woman I’m fucking has similar hair.
The third time I see her is at the cafe near her office right before her workday starts. Without realizing it, I’ve started to think about her a lot, and even started trying to figure out where I can see her.
Once I understand what I’m doing, I force myself to stop and spend time on the stupid dating apps until I set up a date with someone.
The third time I think about her during sex, I force myself to be present with the woman I’m fucking, and it almost works.
I don’t tell Dr. Mills any of this at our next session.
I’m not interested in her opinion about the fact that my sex drive has started running my life in the two weeks since I’ve seen her.
I have no interest in her opinion about anything, especially anything that has to do with women, or a specific woman I’m not thinking about.
I talk about my daily routine and the self-help book I’m forcing myself to read, and I tell her which of her resources I’ve skimmed.
I’m sure we both know I’m bullshitting her, but I lie anyway because it’s a parole requirement for me to sit in this room with her for the next year and get her to approve of me.
I don’t need her help with anything. I spent years working on my issues in prison, and I’m fine now.
After therapy, I head back to Astoria and stay in the house all weekend, trying to figure out what to do about how I’m feeling. It’s been a decade since I’ve felt interested in someone, and this is so different from last time.
I decide to avoid Alexandria for a bit and ignore my desire to get to know her.
I’m running out of projects around the house, but I keep looking for things to do to occupy my time.
I work out. I meditate. I replace all the lightbulbs in the house.
I masturbate. I cook. I clean the house.
I listen to an audiobook. I tighten all the screws in the house. I watch TV.
I do anything not to think or feel, and it almost works.
I need to go grocery shopping by Monday.
After years and years of prison food, it’s nice to have control over what I do or don’t eat, and I enjoy being picky about it.
I loved cooking before I went to prison, and it’s the only thing that really makes me feel calm lately, so I take a lot of time planning meals, picking ingredients, and focusing on the process of cooking.
I’m looking at wine when a short, plump woman on her phone bumps into me as she reaches for some chardonnay. I glance over at her quickly as I step back, and she looks up from her phone for a second and gives me a guilty smile.
“Sorry, excuse me!” She pushes the phone between her ear and shoulder and grabs two bottles of wine.
“Hi, Alex. Are you still at the office?” I glance back at her as she turns away.
Doesn’t she work with Catherine? My mind empties out at the possibility.
“Can you check if I turned off the heater under my desk? Shit. You’re a lifesaver, thank you!
” The woman hangs up as she walks away, and I stare at the wine in my hand.
I could be totally wrong. That woman might not work with Catherine.
Lots of people work in offices, and Alex is a common name for both men and women.
She probably wasn’t talking to Alexandria.
It’s probably someone else. Even if it was her, I’ve decided to avoid her, and that’s what I’m going to do.
I’m done shopping, though, so I check out quickly and head home.
Only once I’m driving do I realize I’m on a road that will take me past the law office.
I see Alexandria – does she go by Alex? – several blocks ahead, walking quickly up the hill into the residential area of town.
I drive slowly, watching her. Does she live alone? With her parents? Roommates? Boyfriend? Girlfriend? Those last two thoughts irritate me, which is ridiculous.
I pass her and park my car at the top of the hill that runs through town, slouching down to watch her through the mirror as she crests the hill behind me. She has on large, over-ear headphones and seems to not be paying attention to her surroundings as she walks.
What does she like to listen to?
She walks past my car without noticing me and keeps walking downhill towards the south side of town. I let her get several blocks ahead before starting the car again and following her at a good distance.
Eventually, she turns down a street of run-down houses, and I watch her enter a decrepit-looking old house with peeling paint and an overgrown yard. She lives here? I’m almost positive this house was a hovel when I was a kid, and it’s even worse now.
A minute later, the lights on the top floor go on. She lives in the attic, so I assume she lives alone. Is she single? She’s certainly not married, because she doesn’t wear a ring. Is she on any of the dating apps I’m on?
I realize what I’m doing and drop my head on the steering wheel in frustration. I followed her, which is the opposite of avoiding her. Goddammit.
I turn the car around and head home, bringing the groceries into the kitchen and starting to make dinner, berating myself. I did so much fucking work on my impulse control issues in prison, but apparently not enough. I start pulling out groceries and try to lose myself in cooking.
This is just me readjusting to being in the world again. It’s temporary. I’m fine, I just need to get back in control.
I grab my phone and check my email while the curry simmers. I’ve been checking my email a lot, but I’m not sure why until the email I didn’t realize I’ve been waiting for pops up.
AShearer@, August 28, 2023, 4:45 PM:
Good afternoon, Mr. Anderson,
Please see attached the final billing statement from Dorothy Anderson’s estate and probate matter.
Please let me know if you have any questions.
Best,
Alexandria Shearer
Cairn & Reed LLP
I turn off my phone instantly. It means nothing that she emailed me right before I followed her, and I’m not thinking about her anyway.
I finish dinner, eating slowly and thinking, trying to taste each individual spice in the curry.
I take my time cleaning the dishes and head upstairs to my office.
I’m just going to look her up, which is a thing people do.
That technically doesn’t count as giving in to an impulse.
Alexandria Shearer has no online footprint, no photos of herself anywhere, and no social media - not even an old AIM, MySpace, or Facebook from when she was younger.
She doesn’t have a phone number registered, and her personal and work email addresses are new.
That’s interesting, but it doesn’t matter, because I’m avoiding her.
I’m going to go down the coast or into Portland tonight and see if I can pick someone up to fuck this out of my system. It’s not technically a healthy way to deal with my feelings, but I need to focus on anything other than how I’m starting to feel when I think about Alexandria.
I’m in control of myself, my feelings, and my impulses.
I’m fine.