18
MY NAME IS ______, AND I AM AN ADDICT
JONATHAN GOH
It’s nice to be desired. I can always sense them wanting more, small tendrils of need curling
outwards. From the innocuous “hey, what’re you up to?” to the more brazen “yo, wanna head out
for drinks tonight?”, each more enticing than the last. It’s a heady feeling, one that you can’t easily
shake off. The rush that you get is cleaner and purer than any amphetamine. Meth makes every
touch laced with pleasure. It makes you strong and willing to do anytihng. The stuff I’m on is
better than that. It’s better than the clink of gold on a dragon’s scales, better than the warmth of
fresh blood down a vamp’s throat. I’ve wanted it more than anything I’ve ever wanted before.
I have been sober for a week.
I was at a party when a boy came up to me. I was surprised, I hadn’t been trying. I said no,
laughing, trying to walk away. He insisted, dragging me by the hand to the dance floor. Hips
grinding, bodies touching. A twirl here and there, synched to the beat of the music. It’s obvious
when boys want things. It’s not their fault, their bodies just show it too easily. But even when you
can’t see it, you can feel it. Me, I can taste it.
The scent was overwhelming. It called to me, and I struggled to keep control. I pushed him
away as I spun across the floor, dancing around rather than into him. The beat pulsed, and I swear
I could see the wafting trails of desire shudder in rhythm. Too much alcohol. I needed some
ballast. A quick bite would do. Just a taste.
I stepped closer. My hands climbed his body, clutched his back and pulled him in. His
friends watched. I could taste him before I tasted his tongue. It smelled wonderful, as the first
taste always does. The stream of want flowed easily and quickly, simmering with heat as we broke
apart, then came back together. It was easy to give in. I hadn’t had a meal in forever, a proper
one. Especially not an appetiser like this.
So I ate. I consumed. I devoured. I gently pushed him to a wall and took my time. Urgency
wasn’t needed here. And the boy, he had no idea what he was giving up. Just desire, lust,
drunkenness fuelling the worst decision he could possibly make.
I didn’t kill him. Don’t get me wrong. He didn’t die from exhaustion or a heart attack in the
throes of passion. After all, it is the twenty-first century. I just lost track of time.