“You know if it wasn’t for Ed, then you and I…” he started to explain.
“Please… just… don’t. Don’t talk like this was ever more than it was,” I interrupted. “It makes no difference now.”
I left Matthew sitting on the end of his bed with his head in his hands and walked out.
Now, I’m on the bus, heading toward yet another budget motel chain to spend more of my very limited funds on a room for the night, while I curse myself for fucking up the first normal relationship I’ve ever had.
Ed was a good guy. He wanted to take care of me, and he didn’t ask for much in return. To repay him, I just fucked his best mate. I am a horrible, horrible person.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Relationships obviously aren’t for me. I failed the one with Jeff, and then failed miserably with Ed.
Every time I think about it, I feel so awful about what happened with Ed. In the weeks that have passed since leaving, I’ve thought about it constantly. The look on his face, the hurt in his voice. I just…I can’t do that to anyone again.
As an alternative - I’ve become a major whore.
No - that’s actually being disrespectful to whores. Really, I’m worse. I give it away for free.
I go out to clubs and go home with guys, then refuse to make plans to see them again. I hop from club to club, bed to bed, and I don’t care who it is, as long as I have somewhere to go.
Inhaling deeply, I snort a line of coke off the top of a toilet roll dispenser in the bathroom of a nightclub in Darling Harbour. When I exit the stall, I walk towards the mirror to fix my appearance. As I look at myself, the effects of the drug start to take hold. But not before I notice that the girl who used to struggle to pass for twenty-two is starting to look like perhaps she’s even older.
Her name keeps changing. I've taken to stealing handbags to get by. I’m good at it too. The initial remorse I felt is a distant memory now, as I do whatever I have to do to survive.
Tonight, my name is Peyton. I like that name. It makes me feel like I’m a character of some sort. Although, I have to admit I’m having trouble keeping track of who I am on any given day. That moment with Matt, when I was finally me, was so fleeting. I haven’t been me for a long time. Somewhere inside, I guess I’m still there, but I’m having trouble finding myself.
I push my way out of the bathroom, and stumble a little as my heel catches the floor. I’m flying now as I head towards the guy, who is my supplier and hopeful bedfellow for the night.
“Whoa there!” he laughs, as he reaches out to catch me from my misstep. We cling to each other, laughing, as we go to the dance floor and begin to move to the beat. I slide my arms over his shoulders and swing my body against his, engaging in the usual, pulsing foreplay that comes with hooking up at clubs.
It’s all the same. Every day is the same. Only the drugs are slightly different.
Depending on how I feel each night is how I choose my men. I pick them based on what they’re using, because I want to use as well. It makes this life I’m now leading more bearable.
Ecstasy users dance all night in fluid movements and want nothing more than to feel you pressed up against them, to touch and share their experience. As long as I’m right there, high with them, then sex is great that way. It doesn’t even matter what they’re doing to me. It all feels fantastic.
Speeders dance in jerky movements and drink heavily while speaking a mile a minute. I try to avoid them at all costs because they fuck all night long and have trouble coming. The next morning leaves me with an overused feeling between my legs, and I end up springing for a hotel room to recover.