(Image by Miguel Porlan)
I wake up convinced that I will be able to overcome the urge. Just like yesterday, just like the day before: as I take my shower and pour the first of many coffees, I believe in the strength of my spirit. A part of me knows the truth. I will succumb. No matter how much I lock it away in the recesses of my mind, the viperous idea waits, lurking: you will fail. It has witnessed my previous indiscipline. It has seen me break my most indestructible promises. It has heard my inner sobs, felt my despair in front of the claws that manipulate me like a rag doll.
A small, taciturn and discreet anguish appears shortly before lunch. Confidence has begun to crack. However, it is an expected jolt. I cannot waver, I repeat to myself, I must hold on to my convictions.
But now doubt has been sown; I recoil in horror knowing it will only grow. A part of me begins to look for justifications. It will be the last time. I don't want to stop doing it either, what I long for is control. Reducing my actions to a weekend exoticism, like the guilty pleasure of the businessman liberated by his intermittent expensive vices.
By mid-afternoon, I have already convinced myself of the inevitable. I compensate with the idea that tomorrow I will succeed in denying my obsession.
I must plan carefully so that no one discovers my secret. I open the map of my neighborhood on the computer and study the places I have already been to. I will be forced to walk a bit, I can't believe I have exhausted my surroundings!
I pluck up my courage and prepare to leave, crestfallen, trapped in the memory of my embarrassments as I hurry my pace.
I arrive at the place and weigh my chances ridiculously, as if I really had a choice, as if I were not drawn to what hides behind that door by the flame burning in my gut.
The boy receives me with all the formalities of the case, listens to my demands and studies me seriously. I sit down in front of him and prepare myself, trying to control the urge.
He inserts it all the way in, I feel the bitter-sweet taste in the deepest part of my throat. I suffer like I'm going to choke; tears start to flow from my eyes. He twists it deep inside before pulling it back.
“We're only missing the other orifice," he explains, as I catch my breath and nod with a mixture of nausea and lasciviousness.
When he finishes, the ecstasy leaves me panting and sweating before him.
“Now we have to wait fifteen minutes," he says as he takes the test swab behind the counter.
I have barely recovered when he walks toward me in his blue robe:
“The good news is that the test is negative, sir," he clarifies. “However, I had a hard time getting mucus from your nostrils. Are you sure you have no symptoms?”
I touch the tip of my nose before putting on the face mask and shake my head. He urges me to take care of myself, repeats something about distancing rules.
When I get home, I open the map on the computer again and put a flag on the pharmacy. It will be the last time. I must stop. As much pleasure as the alkaline scraping of the swab in my nostril brings me, I need to reconstruct the tissues before I continue feeding my PCR testing for COVID-19 addiction.
Dedicated to Chuck Palahniuk. Thanks for the inspiration and helping me break my own mental writting barriers ;-)