GreviousAngel

Sex and alcohol is a volatile mix. There is nothing more delightful than a glass of champagne as prelude to a kiss. It is late Spring, the weather is warm, and I am in a little black dress. Franz, my latest crush, has just poured our second glass. We waltz in his flat, he leads, and though I am not a great dancer, I follow, one moment our bodies pressed together, the next twirling apart.

Shortly we are in his soaking pool, what passes for a hot tub on the continent, in the altogether, and the evening is charged with romance, anticipation, lust. I am disappointed that there is nothing but a bottle of champagne on the menu, but I am also so charged with desire I get past it. The level in the bottle is dropping fast, but the glow from the champagne is overshadowed by electricity between us.

It occurs to me that if I could fall in love every day I would never want to drink again. It's the only drug more powerful than liquor.

Drunk women are vulnerable in a way that men are not. I am in a cabin in the mountains, and I have summoned the courage to sneak away from Duke, whom I have been living while working at a ski resort. He is handsome, funny, and always the life of the party. He is also abusive, manipulative, and predatory. I was flattered when we wound up together, and at first it seemed perfect, he put up with me, hell, he liked to drink as much as I did and we shared many a hangover.

I have no one to blame but myself for drinking myself into a state where I was unable to actively participate in our love life. I am there, but only physically. A gentleman in this situation pulls the covers over you, puts a glass of water on the nightstand, and leaves you to your sleep. Duke was no gentleman.

I creep into the cabin, terrified he will wake up. This plan is not well thought out; I should have brought someone with me. I debate whether or not to risk going into the bedroom. I managed to pack my most important things the day before, but I will have to abandon most of my clothes and my books. I stuff the few framed pictures I have into my backpack. For some reason, I grab several bottles of spices from the kitchen as I go by.

There is noise from the bedroom and I flee, racing down to the lodge where my friend Cricket is waiting to drive me to the train in her wheezing VW. She has been a steady note of reason in the madness of my life, and she listened first with incredulity, then anger, as I recounted what living with Duke was like.

I never saw Duke or Cricket again. Franz left me in Brussels, after an epic bender, with a beautiful note and enough francs to last several weeks.

-GA

bananagrrrl

I suggest you get into some counseling with a licensed professional. I do not mean this as flame.

GreviousAngel

Thanks - that is eminently sensible advice, and I wish had had enough sense to do that then. This took place a good 30 years ago, and I am older, and occasionally wiser today. I have been journaling about the past, mostly as an effort to figure why I am where I am now.

Sometimes I post these journal entries as vignettes, like the above. Instead off picking up a glass, I pick up a pen.

The right therapist is a godsend.

-GA

Latte

I like it. Now that I understand what you were posting, what an excellent way to get your feelings out.

Thank you for sharing.