HELLO, MY NAME IS CHRISTINA AND I AM AN ADDICT

As the daughter of an impressively un-rehab-itable addict (who chooses sublimation instead of real work between relapses) and as well as having been raised to be the addict’s caretaker, I can assure, I’m relatively aware of signs of an addict. I can also assure you, I’m starting to exhibit them myself. I am addicted to men. I’m addicted to the way they make me feel and I’m addicted to the way they make me laugh.

I absolutely could stop if I wanted to. There is no doubt in my mind that if my desire for men dried up today that I would never think twice about men. I’ve had more than my fair share of swan dives into empty pools and the unbridled humiliation inflicted upon me by my hormones is more than enough to sustain any healthy person in their quest for celibacy for the rest of their life. The problem with an addict is that, despite the abject humiliation, the suffering they inflict upon their loved ones and the general collateral damage ratcheted up in the quest for their substance of choice, the desire will absolutely never dry up. I am clear that while my desire for men might ebb if I have a particularly humiliating or heartbreaking experience, it will, ultimately, follow me to the grave. Like a real addict, this is something that I could give up if I wanted but I will never want to give up.

There’s just something about men. The young ones, the old ones, the in between ones. With each new man who expresses whole-hearted interest in me, I’m willing to sign off on all the rest and devote myself fully to the drug at hand. There’s something about each man who has the ability to bring me fully into the moment that captivates me. I’m fascinated by the Zen simplicity of men when contrasted with my own Baroque confusion. I amazed at the things they can cut through and the ways that the world opens to reveal itself as better than I ever thought it. I’m fascinated by men’s ability to amplify or obliterate various voices in my head as if the broken radio that is the inside of my brain actually works perfectly well, it just needed a little tuning. And, I am stopped dead by their ability to manage all these things without me noticing or even expecting it.

I am consistently blindsided by the affections of men. It never ceases to amaze me when I am chosen out of a room full of perfectly lovely women to be pursued, much to my own ignorance.

Last Saturday, at the West Egg barbeque, the attentions of my interest garnered us some legendary status first at a dinner my Brazilian Angel held on Tuesday and then at the formal West Egg gathering on Friday. At both events, one of the major topics of conversation was how my interest, a bank executive who is normally so precise, coordinated and unflappable, could not get a simple game of numbers down. “Clearly it was Christina.” I have been labeled as having Svengali-like powers over men. This new label, as a single woman in a society full of married couples will that only come back to bite me in the ass, has only served to build my great pleasure in proving how evident it is that my drug likes me back. Like a proper addict, it does not really concern me that such labels begin the ticking clock of my eventual and inevitable pariah state. However, like a prudent addict, I resist the urge to flaunt my addiction in the public eye and instead demure with, “Yeah, right. Sure,” when such statements are made; though I choose not the road to recovery, I am aware that I have a problem.

My brief, new interest has given me one more reason to feel beautiful. I have no designs on home-wreckage or even a realized affair but the idea that someone as attractive as he might find me attractive makes me feel beautiful. I sorely lack romance in my life right now and to be wooed with handmade crafts and doting from a man who could easily afford (in any country) the best professionals to care for a mistress-type figure is the best of all worlds. There is something about the notion of a man who makes the active choice to care for you personally despite the fact that he has the means to have others care for you so much more efficiently. It is quite possibly the world’s strongest turn on... or at least it is until I meet my next drug. He could afford the most exotic and rare flowers shipped in from any country in the world. Instead he chooses to roll paper napkins into little roses. In his world, someone is always around to top off water glasses before one asks but when I have had a bit too much to drink, he takes it upon himself to make sure my water glass is always full and tells me where to find the best hangover medication in China should the water not be enough. In a world that is so often filled with trinkets and their price tags, he chooses to converse about experience, knowledge and curiosity.

Continuing in my addiction, I attended the formal West Egg party on Friday (3/16). I was very excited at the potential to see my new interest again. However, it turns out something came up and he was unable to attend. Instead, I met one of the lovelier young men on the planet. He’s quite intelligent and filled with passion. He’s passionate about his work and he’s passionate about China. Unfortunately, he’s 21 years old and beautiful to distraction. When I first met he and his handsome friend, I was so blown away by his physical beauty that I remember turning to look at him, extending my hand to shake and raising my eye line to meet his. I also remember the release of my hand and turning to look at his friend. However, my memory of actually looking him in the eyes is obliterated. There is a brilliant white space in my mind during the period in which we must have said hello is completely erased. Infuriated by his ability to simply be beautiful and stop my mind, I was determined to beat this beauty of his and get to know him a bit better.

Quickly, I headed over to him and stood next to him as we talked about the stunning view of the city the restaurant possesses. In standing next to him, I was relieved of the obligation to look him in the face under the pretext of sharing the view and I could actually listen to him. We talked about his active choice to come to China, Xi’An in particular, and his fascination with the history of China. We shared stories and I offered some helpful hints about the practicalities of functioning within China. We then parted ways in time for dinner; I, contented with having gotten to know the boy beneath the beauty a bit. A few moments later, he wandered by my table with his friend.

They were speaking English, and in retrospect I only now realize that was for my benefit as they are a both Dutch-speaking Dutchmen. Not just that, but I remember his commenting about the self-consciousness he has over his “poor” English. I reminded him that if we had to talk in Dutch, the conversation simply wouldn’t happen, so I was grateful for his excellent English.
“Where should we sit? I don’t know where we should sit.” The great beauty asked as his friend as they walked by looking like first-day-at-the-new-school students carrying their lunch trays (or buffet chinaware, as it were).

Not even thinking twice about it, I offered the block of empty seats to my right. “Have a seat here.” On my left was a series of my friends but as I had spent far too long getting to know the beauty, I was relegated to a seat on the outskirts of my friends’ table.

The great beauty sat down next to me and we talked a fair bit more about life in China. I decided to give him my card as I was genuinely beginning to like this boy.

And then he started to make me laugh. God, there is something so sexy about driven, multilingual boys willing to be silly for my benefit. Granted at this point, I knew he was 21 so he had been relegated to the “younger brother” pantheon but there is something undeniably sexy about him despite his other worldly, crystalline beauty and his youth. Perhaps he might find his way out of the “younger brother pantheon.”

Then there’s Z. Z clearly wants me back. He’s been waiting in the wings and watching me since the declaration that he misses me. I’ve made the active choice to do nothing about it. At the moment I have no interest in attempting any sort of romantic relationship ever again with him but I can’t say that he won’t pull a rabbit out of his hat. He’s done it before. I don’t doubt he could do it again. He is this strong, virile man who is not afraid to be vulnerable around me and, his complete desertion during my illness notwithstanding, he too really knew how to take care of me with great specificity.

I am such an addict, it has even extended itself to my masseur. I’ve been going to a blind masseur to fix my distorted spine (from too many years of intense academic education and consequent distortion over the latest paper, book or research source). His hands are stronger than steel and the abuse he inflicts upon my warped spine is true torture. Frankly, if it didn’t help so much, I would never seek out massage again. While he is fully abusing me, I forget that he is capable of managing anything other than aggressive, staggering pain. However, a wisp of my hair occasionally falls down upon an area that he’s working on and the gentle touch he uses to put it back so sharply contrasts with the brute force he uses on the rest of my body that I am reminded how well calibrated at touch he is. Which invariably ends up leading to all sorts of inappropriate thoughts… when the blinding pain lets up.

When I am with each new drug, they obliterate all the others and I am willing to swan dive into nothingness for them in the moment. However, the one that sticks with me when I am alone is Bill. I miss Bill. I want Bill to come back.

Bill is the comfort I seek. His steady hand and gentle nature make me feel enhanced without being off kilter. There is all the wonder and beauty of infatuation without any of the enslavement such a spell so often promotes. I feel no desperation or need to hide around him. I feel neither time pressure nor ravenous hunger with him. And yet, I have the clarity that the spell promotes. The world is brighter and colors more beautiful when he’s around. I feel sublime under his gaze and want nothing more than to know what might make him happy. I guess we’ve all got to have “The One That Got Away,” right?