“You all got any whiskey here. I need to get more drunk if I’m going to do this.”“Give the man some whisky, love,” said Stan to me. “You d... know no one is making you do this,” said Stan to Earl. As I got up to get the whiskey from the cabinet I noticed Earl looking at my bare ass. “Ice, or not?” I asked. “No ice, and fill that glass up,” he said. Luckily it was a short glass, so I filled it three-quarters of the way. I handed it to him on the way to get back in bed with Stan, who has Craig. My heart rate was steadying out, and I took a deep breath. There was little doubt what was causing this. The psychiatrist knew. I knew. But knowing didn’t seem to make it any better. Nine months ago, I had left home on a business trip. The first leg of any travel entailed an hour-and-a-half drive to either Portland or Boston to catch a plane. On this particular day, my flight had been cancelled, and the next one on the schedule would have put me into Denver too late for my meeting. So, after. More

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