Love and Dread in Chicago

I had a very smooth transition planned from the previous story to this one, the final chapter, and I will get to that soon—albeit with less smoothness. Before that, I'd like to admit that I'm terrified about claiming the repercussions of this mostly true account. I'm feeling like a freak who's capable of feeling only easy love rather than the difficult love that is so valuable and hard to achieve. I've got to confront some heartache and it sucks.

But there is a pact I have made with myself long ago, and it trumps all the fears. Even if I never build a happy foundation for myself, I'm compelled to explain why I couldn't to anyone who cares to read, to the best of my abilities.

If you made it to “Love and Dread in Chicago” without regretting much, I'm grateful. I wish I could fix the axle alignment of your car or install a better sink in your bathroom, free of charge, but this is all I'm capable of. Arts and entertainment. Not the necessities. The luxuries.

This is going to hurt somebody a little bit, but pain is a likely outcome in the arts and entertainment racket, and anyway, stories devoid of pain seem so cheap and boring.

Thanks for reading these words when it would have been easier to have watched Monday Night Football or Louie. Those are both amazing programs. Just between you and me, I'd rather watch a Packers game or a show made by a great stand-up than read one of my stories. If a mere 20% of Americans still voluntarily read books—ACTUAL BOOKS that a court of law is not forcing them to read—I am thrilled to belong to that minority.

OK. So, there's gratitude, but that gratitude, too, is in danger of becoming a bore. The Walking Dead might be on in ten minutes! Or maybe you're just horny and you'd rather have sex with your bedmate as opposed to reading 3,000 more words. Shit, I understand. But please, come back. I just want somebody to know that I tried. Because one way or the other, I have to finish this book, and like sex, it makes more sense if there's another person involved.

###

Maggie was topless and swishing her butt cheeks from side to side as she strode in front of me. She held my hand. We were headed for the bedroom. Left and right piece of ass swayed and commanded attention like a gold pocket watch being dangled by a hypnotist. Earlier, she had told me she bought the sleek black panties that clung to her butt when she visited Rome during a college semester abroad. She had saved the lingerie for a special occasion, she said, and eventually, that special occasion benefited me. I revived her interest in that beautiful and expensive lingerie she got from Rome. How the hell did I do that? We'd only met three weeks ago. I really liked Maggie. She blew my mind inasmuch as she was as attracted to me as I was to her. She was also kind and polite. She was educated. She was a fan of both the Chicago Cubs of Illinois and the Green Bay Packers of Wisconsin. She even liked pizza as much as I do. (Arguably.) Plus, the demerits that might have been pinned on her by other guys—those stupid, conformist assholes—such as her milky, sun-despising skin and her thick, blocky glasses, turned out to be not only acceptable but very, very sexy to me. God had sent a pale a beauty with poor vision and a sweet personality my way, and rather than bitch about tanning beds and LASIK surgery, I felt entirely inclined to say a prayer of thanks in the midst of some tender but aggressive thrusting into Maggie. I was really looking forward to doing that.

So, holy goddamn shit. I should be able to publish some of that Fifty Shades of Gray-level smut, only I could be funnier than whoever wrote that book, so I should be cashing the fuck in, right? Nope. Here is what happened once Maggie and I made it to the bedroom.

###

That problem of mine lingered. How did I phrase it earlier? The groundhog couldn't see his shadow? Jesus. What a stupid figure of speech.

It was erectile dysfunction brought on by medication brought on by mental illness, to put it in Dr. Drew verbiage. I guess that's kinder than people pointing at my crotch and jeering, “No boners!” So, we'll stick with erectile dysfunction brought on by (and the rest).

There's a pill to treat that problem, too. There's a lot of boredom and pain out there to medicate. We have pills for everything.

But in the stylish condo my cousin owned in an upscale neighborhood on Chicago's north side, as I pursued Maggie's tush, I was bereft of pills that promoted erectile function.

Though they were much less fun, vials of Zoloft or Lexapro were in my possession. I was succumbing to rituals and routines again. There was an antique rotary phone resting on a glass table beside the entrance to my cousin's place, and I had been dialing the numbers “1-2-3-4” for minutes at a time before entering or leaving the place. I was clearing my throat and tapping surfaces four times and snapping my fingers for no reason, thinking I was fated to do such things and never understand why.

“Kiss me,” Maggie said.

More Stories, and Additional Stories is the name of that eBook.