There were some pretty good pickings here. I shrugged and let my eyes scan the crowded room for potential victims. "I'm no expert in mental health, but I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that probably wasn't a helpful step on the road to healing. He had dark-cropped hair and was big without being fat. He was an imp, a type of hellish legal assistant who bought souls for our masters and did assorted middle-management tasks. Other things on the essential list: vodka, Nine Inch Nails, a steady supply of moral men, and an all-purpose bitchy attitude. In the last few months, I'd found nicotine was one of the essential things helping me cope. Because it was a private club, it didn't have to adhere to the city's public smoking ban, which was a perk for me. The place was dark and loud, with crisscrossing pipes on the walls and ceiling forming the bulk of the d¨Ĭor.
My friends and I were sitting at a booth in Cold July, an industrial club down in Seattle's Belltown district. "I don't want to deal with that kind of fallout. "Do not tell Jerome," I warned my friends, tapping my cigarette against the ashtray. Still, I knew my boss was going to be pissed, seeing as he was the one who'd ordered me to seek counseling in the first place.
" His pseudo morals gave me a strong succubus energy fix, and when you consider that what we did was probably the most productive thing that ever took place on his couch, it was almost like I did a good deed. And by "not hard," I mean "ridiculously easy. I've gotta say, for a decent guy who had never cheated on his wife, he wasn't that hard to take advantage of. " So, I finally snapped and decided to show the guy how I felt. There were only so many times I could hear "Why don't you explain that" and "Tell me how you feel. I knew it too, but I couldn't really help it. Sleeping with my therapist was a bad idea.
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