Addiction to a Natural Drug - Chapter 1

Before I knew it, the rental car we had gotten solely for the drive to the airport (our real car was taken the day before) was returned to Avis, the suitcases carrying the clothes the moving company didn’t take were in our hands, and our feet were firmly planted in the standstill security line.

Off in the distance, a short girl with a generous rack ran across the floor, her handbag bouncing off of her ribs. Perhaps somebody was about to miss their flight? Man, her boyfriend shouldn’t have taken so long; maybe then she would be at her gate on time.

Nervously, I checked my watch. We’d been in line for about ten minutes with almost no progress. My meticulous parents decided that arriving two hours early was absolutely necessary, so I wasn’t worried about missing our flight. What got me were the ominous security guards. With their guns bulging underneath their clothes, they made me frightened just to be in the vicinity of them. How could anyone be stupid enough to commit an illegal act inside of an airport? They would go down in a blaze of bullets.

The line finally started moving. It appeared that a group of six or seven Muslims were all being privately screened by the TSA, causing a line delay. Don’t you love unjust prejudicing? Not every Middle Eastern is a motherfucking jihadist who wants to destroy America. Unfortunately, Joe Nobody with yellow stains underneath the armpits of his TSA uniform didn’t seem to get that memo.

After another ten or fifteen minutes, I was finally standing in front of the metal detector, shoeless and bagless. Some fat black lady with a mustache motioned for me to step forward, which I did. No beeps, of course. I’m not a criminal, just a sex fiend. I snatched my shoes off of the conveyor belt through the X-ray machine, but my backpack didn’t follow them. The employee working the monitor motioned for two other people to come over. Since three “trained professionals” couldn’t determine what was in my backpack, they simply opened it up themselves. I noticed that the official bag-investigator was wearing latex gloves. Nice touch.

With almost everybody within a twenty-foot radius watching, my backpack was carefully unzipped. What might have looked like a bomb from the outside ended up being my favorite porno mags, which I acquired from a variety of dubious sources. The look on the man’s face as he pulled that collection out was absolutely priceless. He put everything back, rezipped my bag, and handed it to me without making eye contact.

Only now did it strike me as both ironic and appropriate that he was wearing latex gloves for that.

A good scolding by my parents was enough to frighten me into never masturbating again. At least that’s what they would have you thinking. I bet my dad was just pissed that three of the magazines were originally his.

Time seemed to fly by, and before I knew it, we were touching down at JFK Airport on the one stop this flight offered. Almost immediately, we were escorted over to the proper terminal and gate for our New York City to Ft. Lauderdale flight. Lucky that flight from Albany was on time; we got there just as they were made the final boarding call.

Panting from our effort to make our flight, my dad slipped into the window seat with my mom grabbing the middle. I am positive that we had discussed this before, but I cannot sit in the aisle of a plane. I hate having to keep my limbs tucked in so nobody brushes against me or trips over me.

Sitting in the aisle offers one advantage, though; I had never realized this until this fateful flight. One can leave his or her seat to pay a visit to the bathroom without having to climb a jungle gym of legs. My parents were dead asleep, too, so being able to grab my handy bottle of Cetaphil, a towel, and a magazine was almost too convenient. Of course I had worn a hoodie on the flight (hey, it gets cold in airplanes, even during the summer), so I was able to bring all of this without a raised eyebrow from a flight attendant. Even subconsciously, I am a pervert.

About five minutes into my little adventure, some poor citizen knocked on the door. Hey, asshole, it’s not my fault you blew through a twelve-pack of piss-poor Bud Light in two hours. Leave me alone; I’m setting my personal altitude record for jacking off.
The knocks continued to get louder. I just turned up the music in my head and moved my hand faster. I should probably do something like splooge all over the seat just to serve this cocksucker right. Speaking of cocksuckers, the unbelievably hot girl six inches in front of me was doing a great job being one. At least I would assume she is based off of this static, two-dimensional image. Fuck, where’s Meghan when you need her? She gave amazing head.

I must have been groaning in ecstasy or something, because a voice from just outside the door asked, “Are you okay, sir?” I said back, “Yeah, I just have some constipation and gas.” Was that a retch I heard? Serves him right.

I wasn’t interrupted after that bout of dialogue, so I finished a few minutes later, leaving my paint job all over the door to the lavatory. It kind of resembled my initials. CIA. Chester Issac Atilman. My mom claims it was a complete coincidence that my initials turned out to be CIA. Ironically, I don’t think I would be accepted into the agency if the government got wind of some of the shit I’ve done. I heard they ask on a lie detector test if you’ve ever committed sexual acts with a farm animal. I’d probably have to say yes to that one since I slept with Meghan.

I flushed the toilet – twice, for effect – and wiped my hands and penis off with the towel. Quickly, I stuffed everything back inside my hoodie, opened the door, and walked away as fast as possible. If nobody saw my face, they wouldn’t be able to prove that it was me who left my children all over the door.

I suppose I spent more time in there than I should have, because both my parents were awake when I sat back down in my seat, and they asked me where I had been. I simply told them that I was stretching my legs out, which seemed to satisfy them.

Finally, the pilot came over the intercom and announced that we were about to land and that all seats should be in the upright and locked position. I disregarded that warning. If we crash, oh well, everyone would die regardless of where their seats were positioned. Noticing my disdain for federal aviation regulations, my mother slapped me in the arm and pushed the button on the armrest that brought my seat up. I looked at her questioningly, and she shouted, “The airline has given us instructions, and we WILL obey them!” Calm down there, Mrs. Skid Row.

As we touched down on the ground, I noticed a complete lack of elevation and greenery. Staring out my window produced only the sight of uninspired buildings and barren beaches. This was nothing like the rolling mountains of upper-state New York or the skyscrapers and hustle-bustle of the city. Florida was simply boring.

Once we walked out of the plane, I turned on my cell phone. Hm, six missed texts. I deleted half of them (Meghan left me a long note saying goodbye). There was one from Scott about how I was going to hate Boca Raton. Thanks, you’re such a great friend. You’re supposed to be encouraging, or at least sympathetic, during times of trouble. Andrew said that his parents found his condom stash and that I bought most of them for him. Oh well, I don’t fucking live there anymore, so it’s not my problem. The last text was Jenna’s. Apparently she had a few of my shorts, and I forgot to take them back before I left. Oh well, it’s something she can remember me by.

Someone nearly ran into me and yelled, “Watch where you’re going, punk!” Why don’t you go fuck yourself? Can’t you see I’m focused on my cell phone? Fucking Florida types. They’re all rich and conceited and require everything in life to be handed to them on a silver platter.

If this was an omen of things to come, I wanted nothing but out of Florida.