dick.
“Please,” I plead.
He chuckles and slaps the Formica table. “Lord.” Then he whips Tyrone’s chair around. “You got five minutes.”
Later that night, I look over at Tyrone lying in a fetal position—all six feet three inches of him curled into a ball—in the bed next to me. He is nineteen and wears a hospital gown and his basketball sneakers. He is a child.
I can’t sleep and it occurs to me to jerk off again. I wonder if he would notice. I know he wouldn’t say anything. But that is not the point. I don’t want to be rude. There are rules of etiquette, even here.
SIXTH
I have never been into being tied down. Until now. Lately I am so anxious to be restrained that this morning I actually grab an ankle strap out of the orderly’s hand and start buckling myself to the table. “Aren’t we the eager little beaver this morning,” says Florence, perennially cheerful. But it’s not so much that I can’t wait to be zapped. If anything, it’s the feeling that being bound and gagged is the only thing that will stop the sensation—that I am the third rail; that I am filled with a kind of buzzing, humming energy that keeps my knees bouncing and toes twiddling. I am chewing the insides of my cheeks and yanking out strands of hair. And so, while God knows I’d much prefer my first voluntary experience playing the M in S&M to be shared with a highly experienced, leather-clad dominatrix—the kind who makes house calls and comes equipped with her own bag of tricks—I have resigned myself to the fact that my first priority is ridding myself of the feeling that my flesh is about to come flying off my bones. So hospital-issue restraints, a paralytic and generic knockout drops will have to do. When I am finally, completely strapped down, the relief is immediate. The restraints provide a kind of counter-pressure I have not been able to give myself. In being secured I finally feel secure. I haven’t told anyone about this, though I admit it’s been hard to hide. I just tell them I’m nervous. If I told them how I really feel they’d think I was out of my mind .
Tarzana, 1965 . When I got to my parents’ house Pop was in front of the TV—where he’d been since my mother had died. He didn’t look up when I walked through the living room, and I didn’t say anything. Without her in it, the house itself felt like a coffin. I wanted to do what had to be done and get out. I felt what was becoming a familiar fermenting anxiety begin to roil around the worries I was normally able to handle with ease.
I was acutely aware of the beating of my heart in my chest. I felt as if some giant hand had wrapped itself around my throat and squeezed until I was choking. Eventually I did what I’d been doing since my mother had suddenly stopped existing at the age of fifty-three, having expired in the stacks of the Tarzana Library without even making it to the hospital. I wrenched myself free, swallowed the fear, and did my best impression of an acceptable version of me.
I found Hannah sitting in the back of my mother’s closet. The floor was littered with empty black plastic garbage bags, labels, and markers. She looked up at me with puffy, red-rimmed eyes and smiled.
“What took you so long?”
“Sorry,” I said. “Traffic.”
Hannah looked up into the clothes hanging over her and tears began to fall. She threw her arms around my legs and buried her head in my knees.
I stroked the back of her head. “I know. Well, I’m here now so let’s get this over with,” I said, smiling. “They’re just clothes, right?” She looked up and nodded halfheartedly. My heart was racing. I felt dizzy and nauseated. I smiled again.
There wasn’t that much—dresses, pants, the same simple skirts and blouses my mother had worn to work year after year. It was mostly crap from Sears. The Salvation Army would get almost everything.
I went to the shelves where Mom kept her sweaters neatly folded and began looking,
“Please,” I plead.
He chuckles and slaps the Formica table. “Lord.” Then he whips Tyrone’s chair around. “You got five minutes.”
Later that night, I look over at Tyrone lying in a fetal position—all six feet three inches of him curled into a ball—in the bed next to me. He is nineteen and wears a hospital gown and his basketball sneakers. He is a child.
I can’t sleep and it occurs to me to jerk off again. I wonder if he would notice. I know he wouldn’t say anything. But that is not the point. I don’t want to be rude. There are rules of etiquette, even here.
SIXTH
I have never been into being tied down. Until now. Lately I am so anxious to be restrained that this morning I actually grab an ankle strap out of the orderly’s hand and start buckling myself to the table. “Aren’t we the eager little beaver this morning,” says Florence, perennially cheerful. But it’s not so much that I can’t wait to be zapped. If anything, it’s the feeling that being bound and gagged is the only thing that will stop the sensation—that I am the third rail; that I am filled with a kind of buzzing, humming energy that keeps my knees bouncing and toes twiddling. I am chewing the insides of my cheeks and yanking out strands of hair. And so, while God knows I’d much prefer my first voluntary experience playing the M in S&M to be shared with a highly experienced, leather-clad dominatrix—the kind who makes house calls and comes equipped with her own bag of tricks—I have resigned myself to the fact that my first priority is ridding myself of the feeling that my flesh is about to come flying off my bones. So hospital-issue restraints, a paralytic and generic knockout drops will have to do. When I am finally, completely strapped down, the relief is immediate. The restraints provide a kind of counter-pressure I have not been able to give myself. In being secured I finally feel secure. I haven’t told anyone about this, though I admit it’s been hard to hide. I just tell them I’m nervous. If I told them how I really feel they’d think I was out of my mind .
Tarzana, 1965 . When I got to my parents’ house Pop was in front of the TV—where he’d been since my mother had died. He didn’t look up when I walked through the living room, and I didn’t say anything. Without her in it, the house itself felt like a coffin. I wanted to do what had to be done and get out. I felt what was becoming a familiar fermenting anxiety begin to roil around the worries I was normally able to handle with ease.
I was acutely aware of the beating of my heart in my chest. I felt as if some giant hand had wrapped itself around my throat and squeezed until I was choking. Eventually I did what I’d been doing since my mother had suddenly stopped existing at the age of fifty-three, having expired in the stacks of the Tarzana Library without even making it to the hospital. I wrenched myself free, swallowed the fear, and did my best impression of an acceptable version of me.
I found Hannah sitting in the back of my mother’s closet. The floor was littered with empty black plastic garbage bags, labels, and markers. She looked up at me with puffy, red-rimmed eyes and smiled.
“What took you so long?”
“Sorry,” I said. “Traffic.”
Hannah looked up into the clothes hanging over her and tears began to fall. She threw her arms around my legs and buried her head in my knees.
I stroked the back of her head. “I know. Well, I’m here now so let’s get this over with,” I said, smiling. “They’re just clothes, right?” She looked up and nodded halfheartedly. My heart was racing. I felt dizzy and nauseated. I smiled again.
There wasn’t that much—dresses, pants, the same simple skirts and blouses my mother had worn to work year after year. It was mostly crap from Sears. The Salvation Army would get almost everything.
I went to the shelves where Mom kept her sweaters neatly folded and began looking,
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