And that was when I realized that screwing someone who looked like Evie would free me from the pain more than coke ever would, not that it’d stop me from snorting it in tandem with sex. They just kind of went hand in hand.
But from that moment on, I’d search out that nothingness like a sniffer dog tracking drugs.
I never slept with the same girl twice. No, because in my fucked-up brain, it felt like a betrayal against the only woman I’d ever loved—you know, the one who had left me in this fucking mess.
So, screwing these women once was fine. Twice would be a betrayal that I apparently couldn’t do.
I know. It’s fucked up.
But this was my life for the next five years.
When the pain was unbearable, which was pretty regularly, I would take some coke and go out to a bar alone. I’d stay out until I found someone who looked enough like Evie to get me through the night. I’d chat her up with sweet words and empty promises—not that it was ever hard for me to get laid. Then, I’d take her back to her place or a hotel, a pub restroom, or an alleyway—I wasn’t fussy, so long as I could fuck myself into oblivion—and I’d feel that comforting numbness that would get me through a few more days.
It was an addiction I couldn’t seem to break, not until my father died. Trust me, it wasn’t the grief that made me want to sort out my life. No, it was the glaring fact that I didn’t want to die in some shitty hotel room with coke up my nose and a faceless lay next to me in bed—like he had.
Although my lay would have been female, unlike his.
My father was men all the way, much to my mother’s dismay. That was only because she was worried about his preference for men getting out and ruining her public image.
So, when my father died, after five years of living with my coke and sex addiction, I put myself into rehab. I found out from my counselor that I didn’t actually have a sex addiction. I was addicted to having sex with women who looked like my ex-wife.
Tragic, right? Yeah, well, tragic is my middle fucking name.
Two years after rehab, I did fall off the wagon once when I thought I saw Evie.
I was in San Francisco. My studio was shooting a movie there, and they were having problems on the set. Basically, the director was threatening to walk out on the movie because the lead actress was being a mega bitch. That mega-bitch actress was my mother. So, I had to go there to handle her because no one else could.
When I was driving through the city, heading to the set, I swore to God, I saw Evie walking down the street.
By the time I pulled over and went to look for her, I saw no sign of her.
I was sure it was her.
Looking back, it was probably just another look-alike. I was always good at finding them.
Even still, I was so convinced that it was Evie that I got back in touch with my PI and had him look into it.
Yet again, he came to me a few days later with nothing.
That night, I got drunk off my ass and fucked an extra from the set who had long blonde hair and a tight ass. She looked like Evie from behind. And, yes, I kept her faced away from me the whole time I was screwing her.
Pathetic, I know.
That was when I figured it was time to get myself another therapist.
And I got a damn good one, and he helped me stay Evie-look-alike free.
Until last night.
What triggered last night’s occurrence, I have no clue.
A few days ago would have been my and Evie’s wedding anniversary, if we had made it that far. But these last three years, I’d gotten through those missed anniversaries without slipping.
So, aside from that, nothing else happened to set me off—except for a lot of alcohol, which wasn’t a rare occurrence when I went out drinking with Max. We usually got drunk and then got laid.
I’m not celibate. I did abstain for a time as part of my therapy. But that was a while ago.
Now, my goal is to just avoid having sex with Evie look-alikes.
I have tried to date in the past, but I could never get it to work. Trust is a big issue for me. Basically, I don’t trust anyone with a vagina. I think that, essentially, all women are untrustworthy cold bitches.
My therapist is still working on that one.
Apparently, that comes from mommy issues as well as my ex-wife issues.
As you can see, I’m not a good candidate for a relationship.
But I am a guy, one who works hard and likes to fuck harder. So, I still have one-night stands but just in a healthier manner. I have sex with brunettes or those with black, pink, blue, purple, or red hair. Any color goes, except for blonde. Taller chicks are better, as Evie was tiny. I avoid any temptation I can. Skin color doesn’t matter. I don’t discriminate. I screw anyone I find attractive, but for my own sanity’s sake, I avoid small blondes who remotely resemble my ex-wife.
Or should I say, I did until last night when my drunken self thought it would be a good time to fall off the wagon.
My therapist will be so proud. Guess I’m going to have to call him.
I scrub my hands over my face, letting out a long tired breath.
I’m really not looking forward to facing the look-alike, and I need to get to work. I have back-to-back meetings all day.
Grabbing my cell, I check the time. Seven thirty. Among the emails and messages filling my screen, I see a couple of texts from Max from late last night.
Just for the record, I tried to talk you out of taking the Evie look-alike home. I all but threw my brunette at you. THAT is how good of a friend I am. And it had nothing to do with the fact that the blonde told us she was a gymnast, and I wanted to screw her.