Mr. Feelgood

The pain isn’t all intense, mostly it’s like a heavy body ache, like what you might feel if you had a really bad case of the flu that never ends. Even on my best days with all the dope they pump into me I can still feel it crawling through my muscles and ligaments. I used to think it was impossible to feel pain while you slept, but I know better now, and while it may sound absurd to you, I think the pain is the only thing that’s keeping me sane.

Most days my memories fly through the back of my mind like the enormous debris trails of comets, I only get bits and pieces, but occasionally one of the larger chunks comes through the bruising blindness of my diseases.

And to think it all started when I was just twelve.

#

It was a summer day, a day when you could almost taste the pollen in the air. It was nearly time to go back to school. I was at my Aunt’s house. For some reason I went there that summer more often than I had in years past. It was a time of minor mischief. I won’t tell you her name. It isn’t important. But I will tell you she was a cousin by marriage. She was fourteen.

My Aunt and Uncle had gone to the grocery store. They always did their shopping at one particular store, across town, where they thought they could save more money on the groceries than they spent on gas to get to there.

When I heard my name called, I was downstairs digging around in my Aunt’s foot-smelling closet, the curious boy hard at work. There was a rumor about a Playboy. She was upstairs, so I went to the door where I could yell back up at her, to tell her how busy I was, but she called down as soon as I came in sight. She wanted to play house. You might imagine my excitement. Spotting my reaction, she frowned. I expected her to extort my participation with threats of what she would tell her parents when they returned: he wouldn’t play with me, he pulled my hair, he was looking around in your room. Instead, she smiled and assured me that this game of house would be different. Somehow this caught my interest, perhaps it was the way she said it, and I said I would come right up after relieving myself.

When I climbed to the top of the stairs I found her bedroom door shut. There’s a distinct smell to a woman’s room that comes right through the door. It’s a quite pleasing scent. Heavy, yet light. Earthy, yet cosmic. I had never noticed it before. I whispered to her through the door, and she asked me to come inside. I opened the door and found her nude, back to me. Instantly, I closed the door. My mind whirled in alarm and began to formulate excuses to keep me out of trouble. I heard her giggle. It was a small sound that somehow calmed my fears. She insisted I enter her pink bedchamber, and after much coaxing, I complied.

The lights were off, but it was the middle of the day and I could see her clearly. She turned and smiled at something she saw in my face. It was the first time I had ever seen a nude woman. I must have gazed at her like a conquistador gazing on the riches of Peru. Even now, I find nothing on earth as pleasing or mesmerizing as the female form. I realized I was staring, but I couldn’t help myself. New sensations I didn’t quite understand were surging through my inexperienced body.

She undressed me, and her touch was like breath on my flesh. My mind was in a total state of swelling confusion. Gooseflesh enveloped me. She moved us onto the bed and pulled the covers over up over us, then she brought my clammy hands to her. She was gentle. It ended quickly. I’m not sure if she even enjoyed it, but I was in total rapture.

She asked me to play house a few more times that summer. I was always the eager playmate. But soon school began, and it was over.

It would be five agonizing years later before I would have the chance to really indulge in those kinds of primitive feelings again. Don’t misunderstand me. I felt other kinds of pleasure during that time, but nothing that proved half so satisfying. The time didn’t go to waste though. I learned all I could about my experience. I studied. You see, although I’m not an unattractive man, I’m no Lord Byron. I recognized that becoming very good would give me the best opportunity to receive that tortuous delight on a regular basis. If they enjoy it, love it, and it makes them feel impossibly good, they’ll want it all the more. Right? They’ll seek me out for it. So, I spent my nights in the quite confines of the library, reading and researching, a man waiting for the next opportunity.

#

Seventeen is a wondrous time, a time when we take our lives for granted. She was a happy eyed blonde. I was a budding Rasputin.

Our first time was behind the school we had met in, in the front seat of a beat up Pontiac Grand Prix. We had been friends in the same pack for a number of years, but five years of frustration had driven me to frenzy, and so I took advantage of our friendship. That spring night I released my pent up energy. I moved deliberately, took control, brought my knowledge to bear. We started as the sun was fading, and when it was over the moon was high in the sky.

I believe that I took her to another plain of existence that night. That may sound silly or arrogant to you, but you would have had to have been there to understand. From that day forward her life became dominated by her desire to reach that place again, and I was more than happy to assist her with each attempt, but I had made a mistake.

During all my research and study, I had never bothered to learn, thus understand, the true nature of relationships. The word relationship meant nothing to me. Communication meant nothing to me. Emotions meant nothing to me. It didn’t occur to me that she had more needs to feed than her physical ones. And, so, quite abruptly, the girl became frustrated with me and left.

#

Fortunately, she bragged of my bedroom prowess and soon there was a long line of school girls, both high school and college, willing to put the rumor to the test. Don’t misunderstand. I was never a philander. It was fairly rare for me to take home a stranger. I longed for longer relationships, where the odds for sex on a regular basis were much higher. During that period of my life, I was with no more than twenty women. Eight turned into lengthy relationships, one I even managed to sustain for six months.

At some point during that period I noticed a mild burning sensation in my groin. I wasn’t really concerned about it. I had read heavily on the subject of fornication and knew that frequent coitus could cause bladder infections, one symptom of which is a mild burning sensation while urinating. I had had sex no less than six hundred times in four years, so it only seemed logical that I would get at least one infection. Why worry?

#

I landed a prestigious position at a fortune 500 company and purchased myself a penthouse apartment that was walking distance from downtown and less than a mile from a university known for open-mindedness and creativity. Don’t ask me how it happened. I couldn’t explain it to you even though I stood at the very nucleus. I only know that within a year I was living with two women, one older and one younger than me, both of which were physically active with me without showing any real interest in each other. They seemed to be battling, trying to outlast each other, but that might have been just my perception. It was an unusual relationship to say the least, taking turns with them, one sleeping in my bedroom with me and the other sleeping across the hall. Each night there was high drama. I can't imagine how Ezra Pound dealt with having both a wife and a mistress for all those years. For me, the arrangement only lasted for a couple months. Then it fell apart. The whole episode still baffles me.

#

It was sex that I loved. The moving rhythmically, the damp warmth, the feeling of having an entire body throb in your arms, that's what I wanted. I couldn’t get enough of it. It destroyed me.

My body deteriorated gradually at first. I got sick more often. I was tired all the time. My features became gaunt and my skin paled. When I was finally forced to go see a physician I needed assistance to walk across the room. They took blood and when the results came back I was taken to the hospital. I’ve been here ever since.

I’m not sure who gave me what. It doesn’t matter anymore. The doctors have listed out the things I have, but I don’t care about all their fancy little names and abbreviations. I don’t care that they don’t touch me unless they have to or that when they do they always wear their latex gloves.

At twenty-seven I’m dying, and I know that.

I’ve been told I deserve this. I should have protected myself. I’ve been told that I’m evil, that I should have protected my partners. But I really don’t care what those people think of me. They don’t understand. I needed it. And I still feel the desire. Do I regret it? Would I do it differently if I could? You know. You understand.

What do I think about when I’m all alone at night fighting my way into pain filled sleep? Regret? Me? I think about where you are now, and I wonder if I gave you one of the sweet gifts that was given to me.