Addiction

Chapter 7
I Feel Fantastic

Today: Later this morning. Before Work.

7. I feel fantastic

And I’ve never felt as good as how I do right now

Except for maybe when I think of how I felt that day

When I felt the way that I do right now

-Jonathan Coulton; “I Feel Fantastic”.

Damien sped down the road on the way to work, all the windows in his car rolled down and the heat turned up to max. A good airing out to get energized and be productive at work was exactly what he needed. He realized that now. How had he not realized that before?

The Re-Lease had kicked in about half-way through the impromptu morning shower he had taken in lieu of toilet paper, and now he was firing on all cylinders. Everything was looking up. Today was going to be a great day, regardless of the condition of his apartment, or his mattress, or his clothes. How could it not end well?

Damien had started an impromptu masturbation session in his shower. Unfortunately, as had been the trouble lately, he hadn’t been able to finish until he grabbed a washcloth, draped it over his manhood, and rubbed himself through the terrycloth. Something about cumming into wet clothes just felt… right.

He had been about to go take his single white rag and take it to the washing machine, when he realized that his entire bathroom had been covered in dirty clothes, and that his closet was bare. This was not good to say the least. Damien had to be at work in less than twenty minutes, and all of his clothes smelled like a combination of piss, sweat, and mildew. He had literally not done a load of laundry in weeks, and it was only now occurring to him that he was out of clothes.

He didn’t even have any clothes that could pass on a casual Friday. Wait, was it Friday? Damien didn’t know, and there was no time to find out. Time was of the essence! He had to act quickly if he wanted to be able to go work and be presentable. That’s when the brilliant idea had occurred to Damien that a little airing out could go a long way.

Having completely forsaken the soiled washcloth- he’d have to remember to wash it later; and if not it could just become his new masturbation cloth…something about the contents of his penis emptying into something white just seemed “appropriate”- Damien scrambled around and found his cleanest dirty shirt, and a pair of black pants that weren’t too stained.

He grabbed the bottle of Febreze that he kept beside his bed to fight the smell of stale urine and sprayed it on himself till he was almost dripping with the stuff. After a brief stop to the kitchen- completely forgetting to put the half-gallon or so of milk he had left out earlier back in the refrigerator- Damien grabbed his keys and a six pack of apple juice boxes.

Now, Damien grinned wide between sips as mother nature did the work of cleaning his clothes for him. As wind cascaded through his car, his Febreze soaked shirt and pants were being air dried and smelling as if they had just been pulled fresh out of the laundry. Furthermore, Damien reasoned, the constant pressing of the wind currents, and the hot air coursing through his automobile’s A.C were acting as a type of iron, so he should be at least reasonably unwrinkled when he arrived to work a mere five minutes late.

It was as if Damien was creating his own miracles. No, wait, this wasn’t a miracle, he thought. It was just science. Why hadn’t he ever thought of this before? He should have tried going to work on this wonder drug months ago. It’s not as if the stuff impaired his judgement or anything. His tastes, perhaps, but never his judgement. He was going to be sooooo productive at work today.

This actually, was the best option, objectively speaking. For the last few months or so, work had even been more mind-numbing than usual. It had literally been eight hours out of his life every day that he basically had been killing so that he could go home, pop the little red miracle pill, and then have another great night at home. But, if he took the stuff while at work, he could be super productive at work and have a good time to boot.

Maybe he’d be so productive, that his boss would let him leave early, so he could go home and pop another pill. One could hope. This Re-Lease was just so…releasing.

Damien pulled up to a red light. Darn traffic. He could harness the power of nature and machine to kinda-sorta clean his shirt, but he couldn’t beat a traffic light. Damien drummed the steering wheel a rhythmically.

“Come on,” Damien whined. “Come oooooonnnnn. Grrrrrrrreen light!” Nothing happened. “Grrrrrreen light!” Still nothing. “Red light! Green Light! ONETWOTHREE!” he shouted. Still nothing happened. This light was taking forever. Damien hung his head and laid it against the car horn.

HOOOOOOOONK!

Damien jumped up. Had he done that? Of course he had! Then he got an idea. He began honking the horn in sets of three.

“Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle all the way!” He sang, though shouting was probably a more apt descriptor. He giggled at how clever he was. He began to absentmindedly chew on his fingers, his tongue licking off the salt on his skin. The tingling and sensitivity that his whole body normally experienced while high on Re-Lease was becoming more concentrated on the mouth. Even his teeth were itching.

Damien lightly chewed on his own fingers, being careful not to bite too hard, regardless of the itching. He could get smells of unclean clothes out, but not blood stains. He was only vaguely aware of the drool that was running down his chin and dripping onto his cleanest dirty shirt. Not that he was concerned. Saliva dried clear, too.

Damien craved something more substantive than his own digits and grabbed another box of apple juice, poking the straw from a used container through the hole so that he wouldn’t have to unwrap the fresh straw from the plastic. Man, he was good!

He slurped down the last of the apple juice and tossed it into the pile that took up his passenger side seat. Even when he had come down from his highs, Damien’s cravings for things like apple juice and milk hadn’t let up. Cleaning the inside of his car had taken about as much priority as cleaning the inside of his home, and now there was a pile of juice and yoo-hoo boxes that started at the floorboards of the passenger seat, and had built itself up to the seat itself.

The light turned green, and Damien floored it. The wind rattled around in the car, and a few empty boxes were scooped up into the air and tossed out of the window onto the side of the road. Oh well; someone would clean that up. Someone always cleaned it up. Damien made a note to himself: Drink apple juice while problem solving more often. The ideas just seemed to flow more freely.

The familiar “dum dum da-deeee dah-dum” of “Personal Jesus” tickled its way into Damien’s ear through the howling wind.

“Well, shoot,” Damien cursed as he dug out his cell phone. The caller ID said “Delilah”, as if the ringtone hadn’t already given it away. He sucked in his breath, bit his lip, and hit “ignore”. He wasn’t supposed to talk to Delilah anymore.

He knew that, but she still had his number, and Damien didn’t want to delete hers. He never had fully memorized the number, and he was afraid that if he took it out of his phone, he might not recognize it and accidentally pick it up the next time she called.

He took his phone and haphazardly tossed it on the pile of juice boxes next to him. With any luck, maybe fate or a stiff breeze would take matters out of his hands. The ringing picked up again as Delilah refused to give up and called back. Delilah was not giving up today, it seemed. Damien stuck his tongue out at the ringing phone.

Damien patted down the front of his shirt. It was dry, as expected. The wind and the AC had done the trick. Breathing a sigh of relief, Damien rolled up his windows and turned off the air conditioning. He wasn’t still entirely comfortable though.

Apparently, his pants hadn’t fully dried yet, and even though the air vents had been pointed mostly at his chest, his pants felt incredibly warm. Very wet and warm actually, which was odd because those two sensations didn’t typically go together.

Damien glanced down at his pants and let out an “Eeeep!” when he saw the spreading dampness around his crotch. Even now, the wet spot was growing and he could feel the urine beginning to pool in his pants, sliding back toward his taint, finally trickling down his legs. It was downright unpleasant.

Now he was wetting himself while awake too? While lesser men might have crumbled at this and called in sick, this fact was just another obstacle to Damien; nothing more, nothing less. Also, Damien had already used up all of his sick days.

“Not a problem,” Damien reassured himself. He took a sharp right turn in the left lane, the sounds of car horns blaring and breaks screeching rattled the inside of his car.

“Sorry!” he called back to more than a few angry and scared drivers. “Wardrobe malfunction!”

And yet, there was hope, Damien rationally concluded, still peeing in his pants as he entered the nearby shopping plaza on the way to work. Hope had a name, and that name was Wal-Mart.