Diary of a s*x Addict

December 9-3

There’s a terrifying disconnect at my job, which I brush quickly away and call boredom. Because anything more real would be so uncomfortable that I’d need a c**k in every hole. I work at a domestic violence shelter. This terrible disconnect I feel is three-fold, similar I realize to my triple-threat nightly s*x hunt. No deeper meaning with this, just coincidence—though a fortune teller once told me that three is my lucky number.

On one level, the female clients who come to see their counselors are smiling—Patty and Gert or Emma who is very young and on the antipsychotic drug Zyprexa. I hear them laugh and talk about shopping. One woman, Suzy, sings loudly and off key. She is blind and taps her cane with the rhythm. Her abuser threw acid in her face and eyes.

This leads me to level two, which is the fact that while they sing and chit chat, I enter their caseworker’s notes, compiled from raggedy notebooks, into a computer. I type things like abuser blinded Suzy, abuser raped then locked Raven in a closet for two days. This transcribing job, this list of horrors disconnecting me from the laughter of the women, is the shelter’s feeble attempt to get modern. It’s also why I have a job. In the two years I’ve been here, however, they have used me for a host of things beyond typing. My expertise covers everything from party planning to cleaning the refrigerator. For job security, I’ve also started typing the progress notes more slowly.

Level three of the boredom-disconnect, is, well, it’s me. To deal with this boredom or horror, or whatever it is, at least once a day I walk through the room where one of the female empowerment groups is meeting. I lock myself in the little bathroom, disrobe and take pictures of myself erect in different muscle poses that I then post on Grindr to lure an afternoon hookup. I don’t think about anything when I take these pictures, and I don’t really listen to the women’s soft voices coming through the door talking about self-esteem and self-love.

I just take my pictures then flush the toilet and go back to my desk.

Today, with four new sexy pictures loaded from my iPhone to Grindr, I already have two hook-up choices. One is a mere five blocks away, which could be accomplished in the time allotted for a long coffee break. I only use a full lunch hour if it’s something really special, like a college kid who wants to dress up in football gear and get f****d while his lover watches. That level of heat.

The women’s self-esteem group is letting out. I hover over my computer and type to look busy, grumpy, and unavailable, indicating that I have one of my (fake) migraines. A migraine history can account for all sorts of sick days. Nobody can really prove you don’t have a migraine and most people are baffled and freaked out by the concept, as if they could catch it or something. My Granny had migraines when she ate chocolate so I feel it’s quasi-real. I’m co-opting her awful pain that nobody ever noticed and she never complained about.

This line of thinking, this random fakeness, is how I justify a lot of my behavior. As Blind Suzy taps by with her cane, I’m typing one of her old case notes into the new modern system. I’m embarrassed, entering intimate details as she blindly rattles by singing a Tina Turner song.

The suicide episode was a fantasy. Note to Dr. Caldell. Client’s meds need attention. While she has not suffered abuse for six years, since the blinding and the nail gun wounds, client’s fantasizes that she is being followed by her abuser. Note to…’

I can only type these raw little life turds in short spurts. The group of ladies has dispersed and the case managers have retreated to their offices to spritz water on dying plants and make endless phone calls. I’m alone at my desk.

I text my reclusive friend Michael the painter who has vowed to lose ten pounds before leaving the house this month.

what up

I wait. The iPhone screen dulls and there is that slagging slump into emptiness. Michael is my only non-s****l friend. We met one wet Sunday afternoon last summer, both of us aimlessly perusing the LGBT “Group Meeting” board for something to do. We bonded over our disdain for titles like “Gay Senior Scuba Diving” and “Bi Bridge Club” and later over f****d-up personal issues we both chose to keep purposely vague.

He texts.

fat fat fat. watching oprah. I am a whale. lady orca. harpoon me now.

When he gets on his ‘I hate my fat self’ binges there’s nothing to do. I secretly enjoy occasional food gorging as a way to numb out, but I learned not to mention this to him. Once I told Michael my real lover was pizza maker Papa John. He was deeply offended. I’m not in the mood today to cheer him up so I text back.

ur fine. boss just came in.

I get on Grindr and find someone pretty quickly. He calls himself ‘F’. He has a big c**k in a tiny profile picture. He says he’s a hairdresser in a salon nearby.

cum over he texts, i work near you

My fantasy wilts as I envision a middle-aged man with chunky blonde streaks who loves the Golden Girls and wants to be f****d with the handle of a blow dryer.

In the pause, F sends a new text: I’m nine inches.

I put my ‘gone on coffee break’ sign up, turn off my computer and head out.

Michael texts me:

am I a sad sack

I reply.

never. can’t talk. work got busy.

Sometimes it’s best to tell people what they wish to hear.