I was sitting up, browsing porn at three AM. Knees and hips filled with that kind of stabbing, wrenching pain that forbids any sort of comfort.
My eyes took in the menu of supposed delights offered by the porn site. Many of the video titles contain the word 'slut'. Almost as many, the words 'whore' and 'bitch'. The images featured women with faces covered with semen; women bent over, their heads yanked back by their hair; women doubled over, spreading their oozing, gaping holes. I clicked the browser window closed in disgust.
With a groan, I stood up from my desk chair, grabbed my cane, and hobbled across the room of my study. Four feet from my desk to the door. Felt more like four miles.
About halfway across the room, I realized I'd left my phone on top of the desk. I briefly considered just letting it stay there, but I need that infernal piece of metal and plastic. It's my lifeline; full of schedules and contacts. Besides, what if I end up like those idiotic television commercials where the enfeebled old woman is lying on the floor, piteously wailing, "Help, I've fallen, et cetera, et cetera!"
Snorting with derision, I hobbled back to the desk and snatched up the phone and shoved it in the pocket of my terrycloth robe, then continued out of the study. A left at the hall, past the living room into the kitchen.
I was irritated; by the pain in my legs, by the porn that offered no comfort, by the by the cold, damp air, and by my own frailty. Where's the man from just a decade ago, the one who shouted and laughed with such verve and vigor; happily throwing a careless arm across the shoulders of some blushing beauty while friends looked on in bemusement and, perhaps, a little disappointment?
"Dead and buried," I muttered as I clawed open the refrigerator.
Slap some bread on the counter, slap some meat on the bread, some cheese on the meat. Huzzah! The pity sammich. I plucked the midnight snack off the counter, shoved it in my face, grabbed a can of soda from the fridge, and proceeded to the living room with a cane in one hand, a can in the other, and the sandwich dangling from my mouth.
I collapsed into my easy chair and munched grumpily.
Why the dramatics, asked my brain.
Fuck off, I replied.
No, really. Why? No one's here to appreciate your little tantrum. So why put on the act?
"Shut the fuck up," I shouted to no one.
It sometimes amuses me that I've got a voice in my head that I can converse with. Usually, it's witty and charming, the source on much of my good humor. Lately the wit has turned acerbic; the charm, obnoxious.
Come on, man, said my brain, snap out of it. Go to bed, you just need to rest. You know you always feel better after you sleep.
"Not tired," I yawned.
I shoved the last bite of sandwich into my mouth and washed it down with soda.
Do something, my brain said, the voice angry. Stop wallowing around in your one person pity party and fucking do something. Aren't you the one who hates people who laze around and whine but never take the initiative to change? Well look at you now, hypocrite. Get off your ass and--
I pulled the phone out of my pocket. Almost before I know what I was doing, my finger hovered over Joe's contact info. I glanced at the time. Four-fifteen AM.
Joe'd been working on me for three weeks now. Sure, he was a nice guy, always polite, respectful, friendly even. But it was a professional level of friendliness. Sure, the guy had jerked me off once, but that was clinical, there was no passion in it, no joy. It was just a professional doing a solid for his client.
I jammed the phone back in my pocket, lurched up from the easy chair, and trundled to the bedroom. As much as I hated to admit it, my brain was right.. I needed sleep.
************************************************************************************************************
I woke at half-past noon. Autumn sunlight spilled through my bedroom window, bright, chilly, and joyless.
Just like me! my brain quipped.
I briefly wondered if I'd be committed if I gave myself a black eye.
I clambered out of bed, showered, dressed, and tried to make myself presentable for company. It was physical therapy day. Joe'd be by at three.
Gears were starting to turn in my head. There were ways of gauging interest. With women it was almost second nature; sidle close, a brush of the hand, a raised eyebrow. Interested parties would squeeze in, smile, and return the skinship; uninterested parties just stepped away. It was the easy, unobtrusive dance of flirtation.
Men on the other hand... I tried to imagine myself sidling up to Joe and fluttering my eyelashes flirtatiously. I brayed, nearly falling on the floor in a fit of laughter.
At a quarter to three the stage was set. Lights were dimmed in the living room and bedroom, sea breeze scented candles were lit, and I had layed out some decent fare; grandma's roast beef ($7.99 a pound); small, roast potatoes in herbed butter ($4.99 a pound); blanched, fresh, sugar snap peas ($4.99 a pound), a loaf of crusty Italian bread ($1.00 a loaf), and a bottle of Merlot ($9.99). I couldn't recall the last time I had cooked for myself, much less anyone else. Grocery store takeout would have to suffice.
At three o-clock I head the familiar rumble of Joe's car engine; a late model Mazda SUV; royal blue, blocky, handsome in a way. Kind of like the man himself.
I opened the front door, saw Joe exiting his vehicle. Dressed the same as always, navy blue tracksuit, black truckers cap, running shoes. The oversized gym bag with the assorted tools of his trade.
Joe's smile was warm as he walked to the door. "Jack, hows it going?"
"It goes," I replied with the usual snort of ill humor.
