10.

I flew into Honolulu on a Wednesday evening. Like every other time I've returned to Hawaii, I felt a wave of emotion looking out at the island below. The sun had just set and the lights of Waikiki could be seen in the twilight. A backdrop of green mountains suggested the unspoiled paradise Oahu had once been. The nearer ridges and valleys were now covered with houses. Closer to the shore were hundreds of high-rises. Waikiki stuck out because of its dense concentration of high-rise hotels and condominiums, but twenty to thirty story buildings were sprinkled throughout the city. A smaller concentration of tall office buildings was visible in the downtown area before we banked around for our final approach.

As soon as the cabin doors were opened to the jet-way, the warm moist air engulfed us. The smell of tropical flowers wafted in and I was glad to be home.

My second night home I decided to go to a meeting. First, I'd called Jessica, but she said she was busy.

In my head, I knew that to stay sober I needed to get involved in fellowship and service in the recovery community. I would have to stick out my hand and introduce myself, volunteer to help out by cleaning up after the meeting, and continue to go to meetings so people can get to know me. This kind of involvement seemed to be working for Matt and his wife in Minneapolis. It had worked for me years ago when I’d first gotten sober. I tried to suppress the nagging feeling that it wouldn’t work for me as long as I “cheated” by using DXM.

I chose a social sort of meeting to go to on that Thursday night. It was one I'd been to many times before, where lots of fairly well-off alcoholics, who could afford to live in the expensive parts of east Honolulu, mingled and shared the message with van-loads of treatment center residents who would sit in a group in the back, some attentive to the speaker and others displaying various degrees of boredom.

The meeting was on the grounds of a church and parochial school. It was sort of out doors; there was a roof, but no walls. A podium with a mic stood in front of rows of folding chairs and picnic tables lined the perimeter. Once I'd grabbed a cup of coffee and some cookies I scanned the rows of chairs for a place to sit. I looked for a place with a good view of attractive women.

I liked this meeting because there were usually quite a few pretty girls there, but this time I was disappointed. I saw quite a few old-timers, some I recognized, none I wanted to get to know. I wanted fellowship, but I didn’t want to have to shake hands and talk with boring old farts. I was lonely for the company of the opposite sex and I couldn’t see how I could find it in this sort of place.

There was one beautiful local girl with tattoos across her back, over her shoulder, to her chest, and forming a sleeve that went halfway down her right arm. I found myself with a seat that offered an excellent profile view of the girl. I spent much of the meeting staring at her breasts and convincing myself alternatively, that she was out of my league, and that she was probably crazy and would be bad news and lead me to relapse. After the meeting I began to approach her, but she turned toward the older women who’d been the main speaker at the podium.

I decided to help stack chairs. This was my means of escaping the awkwardness of small talk as the meeting broke up. Small talk, apparently an innate skill for most people, only aroused my anxiety. I decided really didn’t have anything in mind that I could say to the girl with the tattoos or anyone else for that matter. I stacked a few chairs and headed for my car where I downed the remainder of a bottle of cough syrup I’d opened earlier.

It was still early and I didn't want to go home. I wanted social interaction. I've never had a group of friends, a group I can choose from and just call and say, "Hey, do you wanna hang out?" So I decided to go to Club Rock Za.

I ordered a diet coke and sat back in a booth while I took in the scene. I spotted the same Korean dancer who I’d shared tequila shots with just a few months before. Fit, tan and flexible, I caught her eye as she finished up a dance for another guy.

The song ended and the guy she was dancing for left his seat at the stage. I took his place and, as I watched her writhe around on the furry little mat she used to keep her naked skin off the stage, she would pull at her garter every so often as a signal for me to slide a dollar between the garter and her firm thigh.

After giving her about twenty bucks, a dollar at a time, I asked her to join me for a drink. She said she’d like that, but had a couple more songs in the set. I went back to my booth while she danced for a couple of rowdy Marines.

She told me her name was Sasha and asked for a shot of tequila. I ordered myself another diet coke and we sat close together, her hand rubbing my thigh under the table. My soda and her twenty dollar Jose Cuervo arrived and we toasted, her shot glass clinking my tumbler. Then Sasha tipped her drink back, only emptying half. She leaned into me as to kiss me; when my lips touched hers she opened her mouth and emptied the half shot of Jose' Cuervo into mine.

9.

I spent two months in Minnesota with Matt and DK. At the time, my mom was living with them too, helping to take care of their new baby, Frankie.

Shea came to visit and it felt good to spend some sober time with her. She was distant, reserved at first, but she warmed back up to me as she began to feel confident that I was my old self.

Matt had built a cabin on a lake up near the Mississippi headwaters. Shea and I spent a week there with my mom. Autumn had come early and it was particularly chilly. Shea and I would bundle up and drive around on Matt's little four wheel ATV. At night, we roasted marshmallows and made s'mores.

It wasn’t long before I had to send Shea back to her mom. I was grateful that I’d had this second chance to make some happy memories with Shea. I felt like I’d made up for some of the hurt I’d caused her, but I knew it was only a start. I promised myself I’d get sober for her.

Back in Minneapolis, I played with little Frankie went for walks with Matt's two energetic Huskys. I would take a skateboard with me to the bike trail around Lake Harriet. I'd get on and yell "mush". Quinn and Jolie would pull me around the lake at breakneck speed.

I thought about looking for a job. My parents were both urging me to stay in Minnesota, and I figured I ought to keep an open mind. Matt offered to pay me to help him paint his house, so I spent a few weeks stripping paint from the house in preparation for a new paint job. I went to some “twelve-step” meetings and I did some volunteer work registering people top vote in the upcoming presidential election.

Even though most of my family was there, and even though it’s where I grew up, I began to realize that Minnesota would never feel like home to me again...plus it’s was really fucking cold and it was only October.

Shortly after Shea left, I began using DXM again, but at a somewhat reduced rate. During the day I would only take small amounts, waiting for the evening when I would take a larger dose and enjoy the visual patterns that played before my minds eye after I went to the couch that was my bed in Matt's basement.

One night, after a particularly strong dose, the visuals went beyond just shapes and designs. I began to see iconic images, like cartoon characters and illustrations from 1960s' first grade readers. Some sort of happy folk music I’d never heard before accompanied the images. There was no message or narrative; the music had no words. The mental music videos were simply entertaining. The experience reminded me of my early experiences of dropping acid in high school.

In the daytime I felt sharp and clearheaded. I was no longer obsessed with drinking and I enjoyed a feeling of confidence that I wasn’t accustomed to. This self-assurance seemed to come directly from the steady, but somewhat lower, doses of DXM I now took each day. I hid my cough medicine use from my family. As harmless as it seemed to me, somehow I knew they wouldn't approve. I started feeling better about myself and my future and I started to think more about a plan for returning to Hawaii.

I talked occasionally with Jessica on the phone, but she was more distant than ever. That didn’t matter, I was surging with new confidence. I would get back to Oahu and work on starting my new career, what it would be I wasn’t sure, but I knew I would land on my feet. With my new “sobriety” I was assured of success. The “getting the girl” part would take care of itself. My obsession with alcohol was gone; my obsession with Jessica was gone; both replaced by this new obsession with starting a new entrepreneurial life...oh and with cough syrup.

While the door wasn't closed to me at the school system, I knew I could do better. I was feeling the freedom of having choices to make. Hawaii was my home and there wasn’t anything I wouldn’t be able to do once I got back there. I was ready to go home and get on with my life.

I didn't have much money, but I'd cashed in an annuity. If I were careful, I’d be able to get by for a month or so while I got back on my feet. My family, especially Dad, tried to convince me to stay for a while longer, but my mind was made up. The ticket DK had given me had an open ended return; I made my reservation for a flight in mid-October, almost exactly sixty days from my arrival in the Twin Cities.

It wasn’t long before Shea made it clear to me that she knew I’d been drinking and wanted desperately for me to stop. I came home one day to find that she had located a couple of bottles in my closet and poured them out. I was wounded, exposed. I couldn't deny my drinking, but I choose to scold her for invading my privacy.

The final straw came on an afternoon when I was supposedly at work. I had told Shea that I would be home early and we could go to the beach together. Somehow my good intentions meant nothing.

Though I no longer had a job, and the money Mark had paid me was really needed for food, rent, and other necessities, I decided to go to a strip club. I got to the club shortly after it opened at two. I’d already gotten rid of my morning hangover with the help of some cheap vodka. I figured I’d just pass an hour or so looking at titties and having a couple of beers.

A couple of beers turned into a couple of more, plus a couple of shots and a twenty dollar drink for one of the girls. My phone rang. It was Shea calling; I realized that it was after four. I couldn't answer it in the club with the music pounding. So I stepped outside and called her back. I told her that I was sorry; I got held up. But I was on my way home now. I stepped back into the bar to have one more drink and ask the stripper for her phone number.

I called Shea back when I left the bar shortly after five and told her that I got held up again, but was really on my way home now and would be there in a half an hour. Shea was clearly upset. I told her it was too late to go to the beach, but we could rent a couple of movies instead. This is pretty much the only thing we'd done together for the past few weeks. Shea said okay but, even through the haze, I could tell that she was worried. She was afraid for me and for herself. She was thousands of miles away from her mother or any responsible adult she could trust and her father was falling apart. She had seen me drunk before, but not like this, drinking all of the time.

It was after six when I finally drove into Maunawili. As I drove up to the house I realized that I didn't have enough alcohol to make it through the night. I decided run down to the liquor store before I went home for the night. But Shea was outside the house waiting for me as I began to drive past. She was in tears and ran towards the car. I yelled through the passenger window that I would be right back; I was just going to pick up a movie at Blockbuster. I could see her protest but I drove away anyway.

Almost an hour later I came back with a movie and popcorn. I fortified myself with a swig of Smirnoff, which I left in the car for the time being and went into the house. Shea was on the phone in tears. I didn't know who she was talking to, but she was clearly talking to someone about me and my condition. I began to yell at her. Who was she talking to? It was her mom. How could she do this to me? I was more than embarrassed; my profound guilt and shame was expressed with anger at an innocent soul who was only worried about me and her own safety. Isolated from any responsible adults she did what she needed to do to protect herself in a disturbing and unsafe situation. She was in tears and conflicted because she couldn't trust me, but didn't want to betray me. And I felt betrayed. I told her so; I told her that she was ruining my life; by exposing me I wouldn't get to see her again; her mother would make sure of that. I was going to kill myself. Me, me, me, me, me.

*

Shea’s mom got her a flight back a couple days later. With her gone and no job, there was nothing to keep me from drinking all day, every day, except that I was running out of money. I had no plan. I sat at home drunk each day, feeling sorry for myself, watching TV. Everything made me cry even reruns of MacGyver and Bonanza.

I watched the coverage of the Democratic National Convention on July 27, and I bawled like a drunken baby as a young state senator from Illinois gave the keynote address. In my stupor I cried for our country, I cried for the hope that Barrack Obama inspired by the speech that made him famous. Mostly though, I cried for myself, at the state of my life, my own selfishness, the fucked up way I'd acted with my daughter.

I was out of options. I talked for hours on the phone with friends and family members who wanted me to get help. There was no way I could even begin to look for a job unless I was sober, and I couldn't stop drinking by myself. I'd been to a couple of out patient treatment programs in the last few years, but I hadn't finished them and I always found a reason to drink. Now treatment didn't seem like an option. I figured that without medical coverage that comes with having a job, I wouldn't be able to get into a rehab program.

My father and other family members were urging me to come back "home" to Minnesota. I hadn't lived in there in years and when I'd visit, it hardly felt like home, but I didn't know what else to do. My sister in law, DK, offered to have me come and stay with her and Matt. She had enough frequent flier miles for the ticket and there was room at their house. I made it clear to everyone that this was not a permanent move; I would stay long enough to get my act together, then I would return to Hawaii.

On Sunday, we we went to an Independence Day celebration at Marine Corps Base Hawaii in Kaneohe. There were rides and live music and fireworks. I noticed there was a big tent where beer and wine was served. Shea and I rode rides on the carnival midway and ate concession stand pizza and hot dogs. I felt fine with a heavy dose of DXM running through my system.

As it began to get dark, we staked out a good place to watch both the band and the fireworks. With people partying all around us, I began to feel cheated. Why shouldn’t I get to enjoy a couple of drinks on the Fourth of July? Besides, the DXM was beginning to wear off and I’d left the cough syrup at home.

Eventually, my obsession got the best of me. I told Shea to wait while I went to the bathroom. I walked away in the direction of the porta-pottys, and checking that Shea wasn’t watching, I made my way to the concession stand. The limit was two drinks per customer, so, on the theory that wine packs more punch than beer, I ordered two plastic cups full of the cheap white wine. I went straight to the back of the next line where I downed the wine quickly and waited my turn to buy two more.

I was feeling good when I got back to Shea. The warm fuzziness saturating my body and soul protected me from the sting of any guilt I might have felt for letting my daughter down. I had a good time watching the band and the fireworks. Under different pretenses, I left Shea two more times to sneak drinks. I didn't get real drunk that night, but I’m sure Shea had an idea that something was going on.

Those several drinks on the Fourth set me back into an alcoholic spiral. I stopped using cough syrup, but began drinking steadily every day. I was committed to try drinking in a very controlled way; the DXM affected my tolerance to alcohol in a way that made it even more difficult than usual to predict what might happen, or at what point I might lose all control. I did, after all, have a child to care for. So I limited myself to wine during the day, and planned to only drink hard liquor after Shea was in bed at night. In my mind, this seemed like a very rational plan.

My first full week at Mark's office I came in sober, if a bit hung-over. After some initial instructions the first few mornings, Mark left me to work on my own. I worked hard the first week despite my drinking, but by lunch time my mind would be consumed with thoughts of alcohol. I had trouble concentrating on my work and time seemed to move unbearably slowly. At lunch I bought a couple of single bottles of wine to get me through the rest of the day; it helped me to almost feel normal again.

On my way home each night, I'd stop off and buy a bottle each of wine and vodka. I resumed my habit of rotating through different liquor stores, so no one would know how much I drank. I also resumed a futile habit of many alcoholics: chewing sugarless gum and sucking on Altoids to hide the alcohol on my breath, especially from Shea.

At home with Shea, I’d stopped being that dad I’d been. Instead of taking her to the beach or doing other things together, I would order dinner and we’d just watch TV. I'd run up to my bathroom often, where I’d sneak slugs of wine throughout the evening. Once Shea was in bed, I could go to my own room and hit the hard stuff.

This pattern continued and progressed through the month of July. After the first week I took to drinking throughout the day. I’d battle my hangovers with doses of wine I took at set intervals. I’d just left my secure state job and could not risk losing this one, yet, I was compelled to drink.

And so it was, that by the end of the second full week I had missed an important pre-hearing meeting that Mark had asked me to attend. I was coming in late daily because I couldn't pull myself together in the morning. I was often both too drunk and too hung-over to get anything done. This had been my pattern when I was with the school system, but then I had been tenured and had plenty of sick leave and vacation days.

Having had enough of my behavior, Mark paid me for the month and said that he couldn't afford to keep me on. He hoped that I would get some help for myself.

I decided to let Shea think I was still going to work. I would leave the house in my aloha shirt and khakis and head straight to the liquor store. I'd spend the day in the park or at the beach. Most days I’d drink till I passed out for an hour or two, but always I was trying to find just the right level. When I went home I didn't want to be too drunk, but I needed to feel well. I was too the point where I only had the two states, drunk or sick...sometimes both.

8.

In mid-June Shea arrived to spend her summer with me. I resolved not to drink while she was in my care; I continued with the cough syrup though. Most days, I took Shea to work with me and usually dropped her off at Kahala Mall. At thirteen, she enjoyed some independence and Kahala was a safe, familiar place near my work. She had a cell phone and I'd call her to arrange meet for lunch. Other days she would choose to stay home and play video games or watch TV.

My new job would start in July and I was wrapping things up at the school district, passing my cases along to my coworkers. It was summer and my workload was light. As much as I could, I’d cut out from work early. Shea and I spent a few happy afternoons at the beach.

I hadn’t seen Jessica since that last failed attempt at sex with her, but I’d been obsessing about her, about my impotency that night, and about winning her over. I decided to introduce Shea to Jessica and her daughters. I knew Shea would get along well with and Samantha and hoped that Jessica would warm up to me again. Jessica was polite. We all went out for dinner one night. My daughter got along well with hers. We had a pleasant evening, but Jessica was distant, quiet, restrained.

She hadn’t outright rejected me, but I decided to keep my distance again, thus allowing myself the illusion that I still had a shot with her. Besides, I had a new job to jump into, a new career that would help me to prove my worth to Jessica, and to everyone else. I also had my old standby obsession to fall back on, alcohol.

*

I began my job with Mark on July first, a Thursday. Those first two days before the Fourth of July weekend I spent organizing my new workspace and familiarizing myself with the cases that Mark was assigning to me. I came into work early and stayed late. I apologized to Shea, who stayed at home alone for those first couple of long days. She had no friends in Hawaii and I was bummed that she had to spend the whole day by herself in the house.

The Fourth of July weekend promised a chance for us to spend some quality time together. But the alcoholic obsession continued to dog me. I hid this, or tried to hide it, from Shea; she’d seen me drunk before and knew it was a problem. We’d talked about my drinking before and she’d experienced it. (The last Christmas she had visited, I was pulled over by the police with her in the car. The officers took pity on Shea, and rather than give me a sobriety test, which we all knew I’d fail, they put us in a cab and told me to come back for the car after I’d sobered up.)

We got an early start and spent much of Saturday at the beach. By around two in the afternoon we’d both had enough. Not too tired, not too sunburned, and plenty hungry, we headed to L & L Drive-Inn for a plate lunch. On the way home, we stopped at Blockbuster, for some Jackie Chan movies, and then Long’s Drug, where I found a great deal on the extra large bottles of their store brand “Tussin” cough syrup. I bought two.

At home I guzzled half a bottle of cough syrup while Shea showered the beach off her body. I took a shower myself, and when we were both ready, we settled in to watch the classic Jackie Chan movie, “Project A Part II”.

I’d been buzzing lightly all day on the DXM, but that last dose of cough syrup put me into hyperspace. By the time Jackie found himself fending off the entire Axe Gang, my mind was careening off into realms unknown. I remained aware of Shea quietly watching the movie next to me while I phased in and out of sync with a parallel universe. At a couple of points Shea made comments or asked questions about the plot line. I struggled with appropriate answers.

By the time the movie ended, I was planted firmly back in the familiar universe with my daughter, but I was still buzzing hard. By “buzzing”, I don’t simply mean “intoxicated”. The effects of DXM made me feel as though my very soul was vibrating at some frequency verging on resonance with the divine.

I was a bit unsteady on my feet as I got up to change the DVD. I loaded up City Hunter, another Hong Kong production starring our favorite comedy martial artist. I threw a bag of popcorn in the microwave and went upstairs to pee and take another swig of Tussin.

I brought sodas and popcorn back to the couch just as the movie was opening. Jackie Chan was talking to the camera as City Hunter, but the voice was someone else’s, an American accent. Shea seemed uneasy. I set the popcorn on the coffee table and asked her what was wrong. “Nothing,” she shrugged.

When I sat down she reached over and put her arms around me and gave me a kiss. Then she grabbed her popcorn and settled in to watch the movie. It crossed my mind that the kiss was a ploy to check for alcohol on my breath. I was pleased and disgusted with myself that I’d been able to fool her.

I finished the rest of the cough syrup in my car before going into Club Rock Za, the first of two, maybe three, strip clubs I hit that night; it's all very hazy and I don't think I'd remember it at all, but my memory was to be triggered months later.

Rock Za was crowded. I stood while the hostess went to get me a Corona. When she returned with the beer, I gave her two twenties and asked for a shot of tequila and the rest of my change in singles. The club has two large stages and a small one. A large breasted local girl was just climbing on to the small stage; not really my type. There were three girls on each of the other two stages. All but one of the dancers had guys sitting right in front of them, shoving dollars their way. The neglected blond was past her prime, too skinny and desperate looking.

A tiny Filipina made eye contact with me from the stage across the room. She smiled at me as she shoved her ass toward the guy she was dancing for. Then I noticed a guy getting up from his seat near me. The hard bodied Korean who’d been dancing for him slid her thong back into place and began gathering up dollar bills from around the cushion she’d been kneeling on during her “dance”. I moved into the seat just as my drink and my change came.

She smiled at me, then motioned to the hostess who’d just set down my drinks. While she traded a thick stack of singles for several twenties, I tried to see if I could find the scar from where her implants had been inserted. I could find none; still her breasts were too firm, too erect to be real. I’m not a huge fan of implants, but they seemed to complete this fantasy woman. Her completely smooth, hairless body, was evenly tanned and perfectly toned. Yet, in the minute or so it took her to make the exchange with the hostess, I noticed the beginning signs of aging. Hands of a thirty year old, maybe thirty-five; through the dim light and her makeup I could see lines around her eyes. Thirty-five maybe...it’s so hard to tell with Asian women. She was still in her prime, but I wondered if she had a plan for the future. I threw back my tequila and took a sip of beer.

Finally, with her smaller roll of larger bills firmly strapped into her garter, she turned her attention to me.

“I’m sorry, that was my last song of the set. Would you like to buy me a drink?” She was bending from her kneeling position on the stage. Her hair brushed against my face as she spoke into my ear. The combination of her perfumes, the ones she had applied and the natural scents of her body, combined with her slightly husky Korean voice and her proximity to me and caused my dick to be suddenly engorged with blood.

“I don’t buy twenty dollar juice for strippers.” I told her. Lot’s of the girls at strip clubs and hostess bars will have the men buy them drinks at inflated prices. The girl then takes a kick-back from the bar. This is a standard practice that I simply accepted. Some girls (understandably) wanted to stay sober as they plied guy after guy for expensive drinks, so they’d stick to tiny glasses of pineapple juice. I’d be damned if I’d pay twenty bucks for a glass of pineapple juice.

She put her top back on, straightened whatever other small strips of cloth she was wearing and held her hand out so I could steady her as she stepped off the stage in six inch clear platform stilettos. When she reached me at the bottom, she said, “I drink tequila.”

Jin Hee was her name and I bought her a couple of tequila’s as well as a couple more for myself. She was attentive at first, but soon seemed distracted. She told me she would be back; she had to say “hi” to one of her regular customers.

Jin Hee eventually found her way back to my table to work me for another drink. This is what she did; this is how she made her living. I knew this coming in; I wasn’t new to the scene. But, somehow it all seemed transparent to me at that moment. Jin Hee was clearly getting drunk as she took my money, but there was no way I was going home with her tonight. That fantasy would never happen. When she next rotated to her other “client”, I left the bar.

You’d think, after that brief moment of clarity, I’d have had enough of strip clubs for one night. Instead, I soon found myself a couple blocks away at the Crystal Palace where I met, for the first time, Darlene Wunderlich.

She had a light complexion with exotic features, ivory skin with dark hair and eyes that suggested an Asian background. I asked her, as I would sometimes do, to tell me about herself. Where was she from? What was her ethnicity? Was she a student? Did she have ambitions beyond gyrating for horny men?

Some girls will share some personal information, others keep things all business. Darlene turned out to be of the former type. At least on this night, she was very chatty. She seemed a bit tipsy already when I first stepped up to the stage in front of her. I learned that her family was from Idaho. Her father is German and her mother Japanese. The whole family had moved to Honolulu when she was in High School, but her parents had moved back to Boise a few years after Darlene finished her undergraduate degree.

“A college graduate! Working here? What did you study?”

It turned out that Darlene had a Masters in special education. She was a special education teacher at Kapahulu Elementary School and she worked with severely mentally and physically disabled children.

I learned all this between songs and I shared about my own experiences in the special education field. She would dance, grind, and writhe around during the songs as I stuffed dollars into her garter. Standard strip bar behavior. During the quite moments between songs we talked. When her set was over she came to my table and I bought her a twenty dollar drink. We talked about the challenges of working in the field, children with difficult behaviors, parents with difficult behaviors, limited resources and support from the school system. I told her of my plans to leave the DOE and begin working with Mark. She told me that she too was thinking about leaving.

The next morning I woke up bleary and hung over. I had blacked out the night before; I remembered starting out at Club Rock Za, but I didn't remember where I ended up. By my bed was a slip of paper that said: "Darlene Wunderlich" followed by a phone number.

At the time, I didn't remember my conversation with the gorgeous stripper/teacher. I thought, "Darlene Wunderlich, I don't even want to know a Darlene Wunderlich." I threw the paper away.

The next night, I met Jessica at her favorite pupu bar. We’d met there several times before to snack and chat. This time I ordered myself a beer and Jessica seemed to approve. We each had a couple of beers and went back to her place. With only a few beers in me, and a good DXM buzz going, I felt great...in control...powerful even. Unfortunately, when we got back to Jessica’s place, I found the combination of alcohol with DXM had destroyed my ability to get hard.

We'd continue to see each other for a while longer, but that was the last night I'd spend with Jessica.

*

My drinking increased as my DXM use decreased. I continued to drink cough syrup in the mornings; it seemed to ease my hangovers. It also reduced my tolerance to alcohol, so I would drink less most nights. I mostly drank at home, where it was safe, and watched porn.

My cough syrup habit was getting expensive and I started to really look at the labels for DXM content and compare brands by potency and price. I also looked for brands that didn’t taste so godawful as your regular Robitussin. I was getting practice managing my dosages so that I could function, yet always had a good feeling going on.

I was especially pleased with how well I was able to manage my drinking. My obsession to drink wasn’t quite so strong since I was able to manage my steady DXM buzz. I felt generally less inhibited and found myself able to flirt naturally with women in normal daily situations. When I did drink, I didn’t feel the need to drink so much.

Feeling cocky, I left work a bit early one Friday afternoon. I stopped at Longs Drug to buy some more cough syrup and I sucked down about half of the eight ounce bottle. Then I parked near the Waikiki Shell and changed into the shorts and t-shirt I kept in my car. I cruised Waikiki beach and Kalakaua Avenue, chatting up tourists and soaking in the sun.

Eventually, I met a pretty Japanese girl who spoke decent English. Yuki was taking a picture of the Duke Kahanamoku statue and I offered to take it for her so she could be in the shot. We stood there talking and smiling for a bit. Finally, inspired by the statue of the famous Olympic athlete and Waikiki beachboy, I suggested we go over to Dukes Canoe Club for a beer and a bite to eat.

From our table on the lanai, we could watch the thousands of tourists and locals on the beach and in the water. Beginning surfers flailed around the inside breaks, while those who knew what they were doing (and maybe a few that didn’t) were way outside enjoying the big waves of another summer swell. Canoes full of tourists caught waves dangerously close to the surfers and older Hawaiian men paddled around on their surfboards, standing up with paddles.

It seems that if you ask a single Japanese woman what she does for a living, she will almost always say: “Office worker”. If you ask her what she likes to do, she will say: “Shopping” Yuki was no exception. She and her friends had spent a week here in Hawaii and had spent very little time on the beach. Her paper white skin was undamaged by the sun.

It turned out that this was Yuki’s last day in Hawaii. She would be leaving early the next morning with her friends. But Yuki had visited several times before and intended to come back soon, maybe next winter. She told me that she would like to come here to go to school, but she couldn’t afford it.

“What would you study?”

“English” Her “l” contained only the slightest hint of an “r”.

“But your, English is so good. Why do you need to go to school?”

“Student visa... But school is very expensive and I have to work.”

She explained to me that many Japanese women liked to come to Hawaii, maybe meet an American man. On a student visa they can stay longer. If their family has money they can do this, but her family was not rich, so she can only afford to come for a week or two at a time.

It was a shame she had to go so soon after we just met. We’d shared a plate of seared ahi; she had a beer and I had two. The conversation wasn’t deep; it was that sort of just getting to know each other when we’re from totally different cultures sort of conversation. But there was a lot of stuff in the eyes, in the smiles. We sat close and touched innocently many times.

I wanted to spend more time with her that evening, but she said she couldn’t. She had plans to meet her friends. Maybe after? No, they needed to leave very early in the morning. We exchanged emails and parted outside her hotel.

The sun was low as I walked up Kalakaua, back towards my car. Now my senses seemed elevated. I stopped to take in the the extra-vibrant colors of the setting sun. The DXM seemed to have kicked up a notch, and so had something else. That feeling I had the other night with Jessica had returned, the feeling of power and control had returned...and so had my erection. I was looking at the sunset, thinking nothing sexual. As always there were girls in bikinis around, but I was only focused on the sky and my power. I’d been aroused earlier with Yuki, but not like this.

I stood behind a park bench to conceal my hard-on until the sun finished setting. As the sun finally vanished beneath the horizon, the blood began to leave my dick and flow normally once again. I’d had the sensation that while I watched the sunset, I was somehow fused with the universe. Fused with all creation, and infused with some sort of spiritual energy, energy that caused blood to rush into my penis. And now I felt more powerful than ever. I could have any woman on this beach. I could do anything. I could be anything, and I would. I knew at this point I was destined for greatness. So I decided to hit the strip-clubs to celebrate.