My name's Raleigh Epps, and I am a sex addict.
Mary, a badass Mambo, hand to God a Voodoo queen, couldn't tell the future, and I think that's what made me fall in love with her. I didn't know it on a conscious level at the time, but whatever was in the weed I'd smoked, essence of ancestor spirit or roach killer or whatever, I think it was giving me access to future memories; making time into some sort of whirlpool loop instead of a straight line.
She told my fortune, but I didn't listen to her words, only the sound of her voice. It mixed with the incense smoke, becoming almost tangible. Her fake creole accent, like slow-burning silk, smooth and somehow alarming, conveyed promises of happiness and vague admonitions to stay away from- something- I don't remember.
What I do remember is, it was all bullshit. Very clearly, I remember thinking, this is a play. She's acting. So, eyes watering from smoke, jeans straining from the pressure just beneath them, mind reeling from bad drugs, I decided to speak, cut her off mid-sentence. "Bullshit," I said. Then asked, "Can I kiss you?"
She looked at the bead curtain. She looked at me. Looking back, I can only imagine what she saw: a skinny white kid, average height, blonde hair turned to gold ringlets in the hot, humid air that threatens to choke the whole state for a good portion of the year. I looked young back then. I mean, I was young back then, but that's not what I mean. I looked green in the way only people of privilege can; soft. I didn't even work out back then. Begging for a kiss, with my bloodshot eyes and braces-straight teeth and mouth hanging open a little like an idiot, I must have looked like a baby begging for a suck at its mother's tit; pathetic but in the kind of way you can't say no to.
And she did it.
She rose out of her chair with animal grace; the kind of motion only cats can pull of, lazy and deliberate. She came down out of the incense smoke and my own head-fog like Jack's giant coming out of the clouds. Her plump, soft lips hit mine and I felt pinpricks all over my body, like breaking out in a sweat when you're running.
She pinched a gold curl between her fingers, slowly pulling outward, straightening it. "You have girl's hair," she informed me, all traces of creole accent gone.
"I do," I agreed, because it sounded like she was stating a fact, rather than giving commentary. "I need to know your name," stating a fact of my own now.
She pointed at a hand-carved wood plaque reading: Madame St. Claire, but I shook my head. I kept up my despondent child look then, finally, "Mary."
"I love you," I said, not the first time I'd said it to a girl, especially not while alcohol and smoke had a hand in the dialogue. It might have been the first time I'd meant it though and, even if it wasn't, it was the first time a reflection on the experience would prove the statement accurate.
She didn't respond, but I saw a flicker of smile she quickly tried to hide.
I remember, we walked out of the little Voodoo shop, she made her own hours there, and went to a little pirate-themed bar featuring a man paying killer blues on an acoustic guitar. We talked all night and ended up crashing at her place, too drunk to have sex but not so much that we forgot the night before.
She took three days off work and showed me what it meant to be with a woman. With her, I made love for the first time; tender, slow, full of emotion. We fucked, fast and hard with screams on both our parts that sounded almost like crying. We had sex. We explored depths of intimacy that I hadn't known existed. She showed me all the benefits that come from opening up and letting someone into your soul.
She ruined me.
Every time I've had sex, from that day to right now, I've been looking for that feeling. I'm not talking about physical sensation. I'm talking about the feeling inside that only happens when part of your glowing, perfect soul touches someone else's. I could get flowery and esoteric, calling it some sort of celestial dance. Or I could get vulgar and call it a really good fuck. Semantics aside though, as far as I'm concerned, it's the only feeling that matters in the whole repertoire of human experience.
I didn't have a job. I gambled; sometimes in back alleys, sometimes on paddle boats, sometimes in little Indian casinos. This was pretty easy to pull off in the days before facial recognition software and eye-in-the-sky security cameras. Win big, but not grossly so, then go home for a few weeks and hit the next spot. It could be half a year before you win twice in the same building and even then, you don't win at the same game. Moral of the story, I was home a lot, and she wasn't.
I found out about her propensity for magic within the first few days of us being together. There weren't any secrets between us, not just then, and I was open-minded. Granted, I drank more alcohol than water in those days and smoked joints like Marlboros; being open-minded came dangerously easy. So, when she was home, I watched. I learned. Her rituals, to me, seemed incredibly simple. Draw this circle in this way, light this candle and speak this name, then BAM! you've got an ancient spirit of greed in your living room.
I read a lot and, like I said, I'm a whiz kid when it comes to magic. It's just intuitive for me. Some people "get" science, others "get" math. I "get" magic. I grock it, in the words of batshit crazy Robert Heinlein.
We lived together for years. They went by like minutes and nothing seemed to change. I gambled. She ran a tourist magic shop and read fake fortunes. We both smoked pot. Sometimes we were a little more adventurous: peyote, tea made from mushrooms, mescaline, but only rarely and never anything designer. And that was life.
It was Katrina that screwed everything up. Well, no, it was me that screwed everything up, but Katrina precipitated it.
Mary has a big heart. She has a capacity to care more than anyone else I've ever met. Katrina was hell for a lot of people. I know. I was there when it hit. I wasn't in any of the of the war-zone places you see on TV, but something that big? Nobody in the state got away unscathed. I might talk about that some time, but not now. This isn't a sob story, it's a story about how I'm a bastard.
Without Mary and her friends, things would have been a lot worse. Yeah, they worked magic to ease some of the worst of it, but more than that, they just helped. They made food, they helped with temporary housing. Without volunteers, shit, Louisiana would have collapsed completely.
I helped sometimes too, but mostly I didn't. Why not? I'm kind of a self absorbed asshole. Also, it just didn't wound me like it did her. She, Mary, grew up in Now Orleans. On top of that, she had a deep and abiding connection with nature; most magic people do. So, to see her home ripped apart by something she felt like she understood and trusted, well, that was big.
She lost interest in sex. She lost interest in a lot, actually. Anything that wasn't somehow related to fixing the disaster just wasn't on her radar. Don't get me wrong. She still loved me, she told me every night as we laid together in bed. She told me if I weren't there she didn't know what she would do. Then, more nights than not, she would go to bed crying on my arm.
I felt her slipping away from me, into a dark place. I felt our connection, the connection I'd felt with her and her alone, corroding away, the connection I'd first forged when she and I made love. Yeah, I equate sex with love. I'm a guy. Why are you surprised?
I was reading about sex magic at the time, just by chance. I was feeling horny, sure, but I was also feeling intensely alone as the sun started going down in New Orleans and my girl still hadn't come home. She was doing good works, I knew and she'd continue doing them until she'd reached the point of physical exhaustion. So, because of my penis and because of my slowly aching heart, I summoned a spirit.
No, I'm not talking about a ghost. I summoned the embodiment of a concept, specifically, a spirit of lust.
It was the first time I'd ever done magic myself. As I said, I had an intuitive grasp of the subject, but that's the difference between reading the chapter in Chemistry class and actually having a lab day. I remember the ritual clearly, it wasn't that complex, but the thing that stands out most in my mind is that my palms kept sweating. I was nervous and excited. I had to keep wiping them on my jeans so they didn't smear the chalk I used to draw the summoning circle.
I remember the surge of electric energy and the smell of body heat and sex. I remember a rush of hot, bedroom wind that carried with it the sounds of female orgasm.
She looked exactly like you'd want her to look. Whatever type of girl brings out that want, that desire to just take and have and use, to disrespect and trespass. For me, she was white and gothy, with an upturned nose and tattoos and lots of piercings, the kind that advertise: I hate myself.
I took her hard. I don't even know where my clothes went. We fucked for I don't know how long maybe only minutes, but it was enough to hammer the frustration out of me and make me feel sore afterward. I know I had time to shower and make instant macaroni and cheese before Mary got home. And it was a testament to how exhausted she was that she didn't sense my guilt or the latent charge of magic.
I felt guilty like you can't know unless you've cheated on a faithful lover and gotten away with it.It's this empty, hollow feeling that acts as an echo chamber every time something reminds you how shitty of a person you are. I'd try to be a good boyfriend for a few days. I'd say the right things, I'd help out with the shelters and the mission. I'd even help with the magic when her and her friends decided the supernatural could aid some relief effort or another.
She taught me, pleased with how well I'd do.
And then I'd fuck another demon-slut. Or sometimes a ghost-slut. Once in a while I would even fuck a fairy- like whimsical little Irish bits of folklore. I wouldn't go down to the gay bar or anything. Not that I'm homophobic. Demon chicks have all kinds of parts you wouldn't expect. I just wouldn't touch anyone who was, you know, real. In my mind, if it was something supernatural, it wasn't cheating.
Addicts are all about the justification.
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