I am the Drug

Do you ever wonder what your role is in others’ lives? Does it matter? Sure. If nothing other than surviving this silliness as long as possible, what could be more important than enhancing someone’s life?

I feel used, and I welcome it.

If she texts me late tonight, I’ll respond. I’ve done it before.

“Are you up?”

“Uh huh.”

“Want company?”


I’m fine stacking pillows of security next to me most nights. Still, she offers something less cold. Imagine I do as well. What role am I playing? He pissed her off, and I’m her revenge? Do my emotionless deeds fill some void?

What’s the harm? If she takes that short ride here, taps on my door, and tosses her vagina my way, is it some way moral for me to refuse? Nothing inside me offers any guilt. It’s because I’ll be kind, tell her what she needs to hear, play my role (without many side effects), then allow her to fade away, without tossing guilt her way in return.

Best to embrace it.

Maybe, it’s just an itch she can’t reach. I can.

What would happen if she stays the night, then wakes to tell me she wants more? Unsure. Unexpected. I’m unprepared for that. Guess I’ll say what she needs to hear. I’m the drug. I have a duty.

It’s not sad. Stop frowning. Love is undefined—undefinable. Sometimes pleasure is the goal. Sometimes the drug has a simple role: Make me happy, give me something to recall and smile about, even if it is salted with a pinch of guilt.


She’d laugh if I suggested the boyfriend role. It would be like expecting a legendary high from an Advil. That’s not my role. Take me, feel pleasure, know it will be fleeting, shrug it off, and walk away smiling. No need to wonder what this has done to me. I know my role. My heart gets no part in this. The wall is high.

I’ll provide relief from pain he most likely doesn’t realize he caused. One slip, and into another’s arms she falls—briefly, so it doesn’t matter. I don’t matter. I don’t care. I get something from it. It could be practice. It could be some genetic urge to save another soul.

You’re welcome to go and take me again when you need me.

Could that be the joy for me? Could it be in the knowledge that I’m well aware that I’m being used, and I can step in and out of the role somewhat fulfilled, yet emotionally unscathed?


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About the author

Author of humorous essays about relationships and lifestyles.