Rehab writing: Spill Your Guts Cause That Booze Can’t Fill Your Guts 1.1
I dated a rapper once. We met in upscale Minneapolis hotels. I paid for them with my son’s trust fund.
All in all it amounted to 10,000 lost dollars meant for his college education. I wrote an apology note to his grandmother but never admitted that it went to gluttonous sex, booze, and destruction. His dad just asked me where the rest of the money went: 10,000 a year. I said I didn’t know a thing about it. I only abused this one Christmas present check. This is the truth. I know he didn’t believe me.
Back to the rapper:
We spent hours in bed. The thread count stronger than my moral compass. He poured hot wax on my body and took the sexiest pocket knife I have ever seen-it was so fast to flick and said full throttle in gold lettering. He cut me tracing the curveture of my breasts. It left no lasting scar, the blade so thin and sharp. Earlier that morning we had woken up to pristine white sheets stained in menstrual blood. I called the concierage for a tampon that cost me $3.50. My embarassment resulted in him saying “I used to be a butcher, I’m not scared of a little blood.” For quite a while I thought this was the most romantic thing anyone could ever say to me.
I tell this story because it was the beginning of my slow burn. A descent into finding unique ways I could fuck myself over with the help of a penis or two. He was the fourth man I had sex with. By the time I reached 9 I had two children, two domestic disturbance calls, and one false engagement.
I think I’m at 16 lovers. Some things you work very hard to forget. I count the ones that weren’t consensual. Even dumb whores have standards.