It is 3:10 am. This chill night air really makes my skin crawl. It’s so quiet here that it gives me the creeps. I ought to be in bed, I guess, catching a few Zs. But the twitches and tics just keep me awake and these meds I’m strung out on won’t let me sleep.
I haven’t slept in three days. But hey! I’m not complaining. At least I’m out of rehab and I can get back to my writing; my cryptic transsexual writing. My creepy secret wet dreams—my perplexity, my perversity--The Secret Sex Diaries of Benjamin J Schreiber.
Yeah, that’s me. Benjamin J Schreiber. Or at least I think that’s me. (But does Dr C think that’s me? That’s what I want to know.) See, Dr C? I’m writing again just like you told me to. Writing therapy, shite! Does this feel like therapy—does it look like therapy? Does it read like therapy? Tell it to the doc! Not me. I’m not buying it.
But the doc buys it. Dr C that is. She’s the latest psycho brain-picker in a long, long line of shrinks my dear old dad and stepmom have hired to try to make me cop to the crazy rap. Yeah, dear old dad and mom—they slap me into rehab and expect me to come out as some kind of wholesome, normal, healthy human being—or something. Huh! Just think. Me! Benjamin J Schreiber? Like I ever was some kind of wholesome, healthy, normal human being—or something. Imagine that if you can. (I know I can’t. And if I can’t, it’ll never happen.)
It’s like I tried to tell the doc. “Doc,” I said, “it’s like I have these sleazy snuff flicks, these schizophrenic sex-and-drug skits, these skuzzy blue movies playing in my mind all of the time. Sleeping or waking, on the street or at home, whatever, wherever, it doesn’t matter. I have these schizophrenic sex fantasies and psychotic porn movies playing in my mind—and Georgie Gust. He’s in them. And Claudia Nesbitt, she’s in them. And sometimes I’m in them. Sometimes that Dr C, she’s in them too. And sometimes, creepy people I don’t even know are in my dreams and somehow I just can’t make them stop. (You know what I mean, doc?)
Yeah, right. That Doc C—she knows, doesn’t she? She sees those schizophrenic porn flicks and psycho blue movies playing in my mind, or somebody’s mind anyway, somebody just like me. But she isn’t talking. She just keeps asking me these sneaky questions trying to poke around in my mind and pick my brains. Trying to get inside my brain and see what makes me twitch and tic like I do—like she’s trying to cure me. I don’t even know if I want to be cured. (You’ve got to want to be cured, Ben, Dr C tells me. Otherwise, it just won’t work.)
But I’m not buying that, either. Believe me. I know these psychos—I know these shrinks. They’re crazier than me, and that’s saying something. They’re a bunch of loonies and freaks, creeps and perverts. And I’m not letting any shrink poke around in my secret sex fantasies and stick her fingers into my sleazy pornographic dreams and try to take them away from me—or maybe get me stuck back in rehab again. For life. So I keep that Dr C at a safe distance. You know what I mean? I keep her at arm’s length, and I don’t tell her anything that isn’t good for her, don’t say anything that she doesn’t need to know. Which is nothing at all, if you ask me.
But at least that Dr C got me over my writing block. I’ve got to give her that. She cured me of my writer’s block. If you can call it cured. So now I can write, write, and write. I can write my brains out (or my crap out, whatever). I can finally write whatever shite I want straight from the schizophrenic subconscious, from the psycho-porno underworld. Just me and my psycho sidekick and schizophrenic alter ego, Georgie Gust (that’s me)—and, of course, Georgie’s lifelong porno-chic obsession and freaky cheeky perplexity, Claudia Nesbitt. Claudia Nesbitt; my kinky sex goddess; my creepy, peeping nemesis; the number one love-and-hate object of my whole twisted love and sex life. (Keep writing, Ben, Dr C says. Just keep writing.)
At least this way, if Dr C catches me writing this crap and busts me to my ex-wife for alimony or something, I can always say, “Hey, that isn’t really me! It’s just Georgie and Claudia, see?” Georgie Gust and Claudia Nesbitt, who keep stalking me and haunting me and making me write this crap. Who keep acting out these schizophrenic blue movie skits and creepy porno-flick wet dreams that keep running through my mind. Because, see, I was supposed to be cured. I was supposed to be clean. I was supposed to be off this sex, drugs, and porn obsession I picked up somewhere along the way. And I swore (honest to God!) that I wouldn’t go back again. (Of course I’d say anything, just so they’d let me out of rehab.)
Well, now, here I am. Sure as shite! Benjamin J Schreiber! I’m back for another schizophrenic blue movie and sleazy sex-and-drugs flick. Along with Georgie Gust—my creepy schizo-sidekick, and kinky sex partner in Perplexity and perversity—and Claudia Nesbitt, our freaky sex goddess and sado-bondage mistress. Yeah, and all these other freaks and loonies too—all these other creeps and pervs, those other schizophrenic bitches and ho-ho-ho’s. They’re real. Or aren’t they? Don’t ask me. (And don’t search me, either.)
All I know is that I keep on having these schizo-fantasies, these psycho-porno interludes or whatever. So I write them down in my secret sex diaries and let Dr C try to figure out what they’re all about: what’s real and what not—what’s me and what’s Georgie. And what is this thing we have (Georgie and me) with that Claudia Nesbitt?
What a freaky threesome we’d be now, wouldn’t we, Dr C? What a kinky hook-up for the creeps and pervs’ wet dreams, you see—just Georgie Gust, Claudia Nesbitt, and me.
Benjamin J Schreiber and a cast of millions out there in the invisible studio audience—we’re all ready for another freaky blue movie skit and schizo-psycho episode in: The Secret Sex Diaries of Benjamin J Schreiber.
I am confined but only by the walls I build myself.
© Jonathan Harnisch 2014