Your head is throbbing. You just woke up from experiencing lunatic visions of a crazed dream sequence. Pain pulsates around the front of your brain. You feel something bubbling in your stomach.
No. You don’t want to get up. You don’t want to see the light stream in from the windows in the bathroom. You don’t want to kneel over the toilet. You don’t want to dry heave, pushing air bubbles up from your stomach, as you violently release the contents of last night’s dinner. You didn’t eat much, so you don’t have much to expel. You’re spitting yellow liquid—water, Gatorade, and beer—through your mouth and nose.
Fuck you, you puking slave.
Why do you do this to yourself? You knew it would happen. Your friend was back from—where?—Ukraine, the U.S., Mexico, Khazakhstan, and a bunch of other places he’d been traveling. You first met him in Korea years ago, and you’d had nights like that. You hadn’t seen him in four years. You always drink hard when you are with him.
You are an obsessive, an addict. An addict for kinky shit. (See your novellas.) An addict for getting whipped. An addict for licking Queen Nazz’s pussy. An addict for alcohol.
You slave to alcohol, you submit to the depravity of six beers, including a couple filled with soju, a whisky cocktail, and a couple of shots of tequila.
Not really. You don’t get drunk with Nazz. She doesn’t want to see you hurting. You can control yourself when you are with her. You just get fucking drunk with certain friends in certain situations. You are not an addict for alcohol, but an addict for a certain feeling alcohol can bring.
An addict for the feeling of the night, the never-ending night, the good vibes, the feeling of the buzz in your head, the outdoor table covered with beer cans and barbecue skewers—pork belly, beef, salmon, mushrooms wrapped in bacon, green peppers stuffed with minced pork—and just talking shit with your old friend, catching up, telling him about your newfound passion for erotica writing, and hearing his crazy stories of Eastern European orgies and daring attempts to deliver medicine to Ukraine.
But you must suffer for it. The beer must punish you. Give you a headache. Make you make a mess on the floor of the bathroom.
Why do you keep drinking this much?
You have no choice. Sit down on the barstool. I’m going to tie you to the chair. Force feed you liquor. You weak and worthless worm. You submit to Mistress Bia.
No, you did this to yourself. You have a choice. You consented to this punishment. Do you want to see yourself suffer like this? Do you hate yourself?
No, you don’t have to do it next time. It’s time to change and submit to a more worthy mistress.