You can’t possibly imagine how shook up I was after this entire ordeal. I don’t think I’ve ever felt as sick as I did that next day. Not knowing makes me nauseous, and not knowing what was to become of me or Isadora or our relationship drove me positively batty.
I had some vague notion of the possible sentence for statutory rape: years in prison, eternal public stigma, registering as a sex offender, forced chemical castration, etc. But I had no way of knowing which would happen to me.
And so I decided that all of them would happen to me, because that’s how my mind works. I just love imagining each and every disastrous, tragic way each and every situation, no matter how trivial, can play out. Then I usually pick the worst one and convince myself that that’s all she wrote, dig?
I had to go to the courthouse today. It wasn’t the one I usually go to (as I’ve graduated to the big leagues), but the local traffic court that I haven’t been to in about ten years. The last time I was there, it was on account of that first minor in possession infraction.
So ten years ago when I went in there, I thought everything was a farce. It wasn’t even a kangaroo court, because I would have taken a kangaroo more seriously than that judge, Dionysus. I wore my bondage belt and a sleeveless T-shirt even. I remember that I brought my pocket Moleskine (Editor’s note: those things are worthless) and drew real sloppy pen drawings of myself killing cops or something.
It was all a joke, Dionysus. All of it. In fact, I’m almost certain that I let out a giggle when I received my punishment.
I’ve been thinking a lot about cops lately. More specifically, I’ve been thinking about all the times you and I had run ins with them. My letter yesterday talked about one such incident, but there are so many over the years. Some are funny, and others are anything but.
I didn’t used to take those guys seriously at all. For years, it never really registered that they carry guns and handcuffs and nightsticks and pretty much had the authority (and often the inclination) to fuck up my day big time because of what I was doing. I saw them more as those bumbling, half-witted constables in old silent films. I, of course, was the hilariously haphazard yet consitently outsmarting star that would always get the better of them.
They were comic relief, Dionysus: Nothing more and nothing less. They weren’t ever a real threat until they were, if you know what I mean. But I’m trying to keep this endeavor as chronological and linear as I can, so I won’t delve into any of the horrific stuff quite yet.
You may have noticed that you did not receive a letter from me yesterday. This is because I didn’t write one. Unfortunately I was ill, and even had to leave work early.
It’s a curious thing: when you and I were galavanting about, I was in the habit of using any excuse I could find to play hookey from work or school and spend my time with you instead. The times that I used the excuse of being sick are far too numerous for me to recall. And even when I was legitimately sick, chances were that it was a direct result of whatever fun you and I had had the previous night.
But things have changed quite a bit haven’t they, Dionysus? I was actually and legitimately sick yesterday, and it had absolutely nothing to do with you. Moreover, I was rather disappointed I had to take the day off, and even tried to stay focused on my workload as long as I possibly could before I had to resign for the rest of the afternoon.
Today I’d like to get into a topic that I know you find exceedingly fascinating: teenage girls.
My experience with girls at seventeen was limited to my short-lived debacle with Medea. However, I thought about girls and meeting girls and doing things with girls (both romantic and sordid in nature) as much as any teenaged heterosexual male, I suppose. Probably more, actually: Once I met you, Dionysus, I thought about them constantly.
I was still a virgin at this point, and was likely still too cowardly to do the coital quadrille even if I had a willing partner. But that doesn’t mean that I didn’t try, just to see how I measured up.
It’s me again: the luckiest unlucky black cat there ever was. I believe at this point in our correspondence that it may prove beneficial to explain exactly how I, a boy of seventeen, was able to pull off seeing you so often.
Now, seventeen year-old boys can’t legally purchase alcohol (at least not in this country). Therefore, there were some logistical problems at first in procuring such things, but these didn’t last long.
I had heard whispered rumors about a liquor store that would sell anything to anybody, regardless of race, ethnicity, gender identification, sexual orientation, political affiliation and, most importantly, age. Supposedly this particular establishment would take a thirteen year old’s milk money in exchange for wine coolers and not even bat an eye or think of asking for ID. And they’d always give correct change, too.
You know how I said I saw you in Corky’s crying face? Well that’s not the only place I saw you in those days. On the contrary, I started to see you all over the place.
I saw your grinning mug in the mirror whenever I was on a good one. I saw your loving eyes in between every pair of legs I ever cajoled my way into (more on that in due time). And I heard your sweet, treacherous voice soliloquizing in my mind, egging me on to wonderful, woeful actions. I didn’t take a lick of advice from anybody back then, but when it came to you, I did every god damn thing you told me to.
It might have seemed, to the impartial observer, that I had begun a drastic and dire transformation once I met your acquaintance, and that you made me act completely contrary to my nature. But you and I know that’s nonsense. You brought out the real me, didn’t you? The terrible, terrible beauty inside that had been merely hibernating, slumbering for years and patiently awaiting your trembling, waking hand.
I hope you’ve found the time to keep up with all my letters thus far. I must admit that I would be a bit disappointed if you hadn’t, considering all the time and effort I’ve put into them. Of course, it wouldn’t surprise me in the least if you hadn’t.
These letters aren’t easy for me to write, Dionysus. Compositional exertions aside, most of these things I’d just rather forget. If I could, if it was at all possible, I would just leave them behind as rusty relics of a former life and be done with the entire ordeal.
But you and I both know that’s impossible.
This has been a long time in the making. I’m sure you saw it coming; I certainly did. However, I couldn’t possibly have imagined the circumstances being so trying. I always used to figure it would be until death do us part, which I also thought would have happened already (something about twenty-seven and some other such nonsense you sold me on). But I suppose that’s beside the point.
The purpose of these letters is to try make sense of it all, to attempt to put into coherent form that which is largely incoherent. Sometimes it feels as if we were together an eternity, while others it seems merely an instant, just one sodded drunken night out that turned into a decade and resulted in one hell of a fucking hangover.