The Wages of Sin: II

A few nights later, while I was watching the last episode I had taped of “Revenge,” that glitzy promo for American excess, Bret messaged me again, this time on bear411: “Hope we can have some one-on-one time together.”

“Sure,” I texted back, “only just us. No phones and no entourage.”

This time it was just Bret and me, two furry men naked in bed, and while Bret had mainlined before I had come over, he agreed to share a few puffs of the magic potion so I’d join him in sensual heaven. We worshipped one another’s cocks, still surprisingly stiff given all the pharmaceuticals, and after an hour of kissing and stroking and sucking and rimming one another’s’ furry butts, we shot our loads.

Ah, but the most interesting part of the night was when he told me his life story.

Contrary to my cynical assumption that he was just another one of those empty headed high school drop-out meth heads who had never held down a real job, Bret, five years and two lifetimes ago, had been a critical care nurse up in Jacksonville, making eighty thou a year. That is until he got caught with enough Ecstasy to get every guy in the Ramrod on a Saturday night high for a week. It cost his parents a hundred and twenty five thousand dollars for a slick attorney to get what could have been a 35 year prison sentence reduced to 3. Plus he lost his license as an R.N. for five years and still had another year to go before he could reapply. That is, if they ever let him after he checked off the box asking if he had been convicted of a felony. I was a health care exec back in NYC and if anybody has free, almost unfettered access to the candy, it was doctors, nurses, and pharmacists. I mean, would you hire a nurse who was convicted on drug trafficking?


But Bret was optimistic about his chances, though his aspirations of re-entering str8 society did not prevent him from getting high and dealing. After all, making a living off meth was all he could do now to pay his $600 a month rent for the shithole he called home. As I left him that night, I imagined he’d never be able to extract himself from this lifestyle even if he truly wanted to.

He was marked like a piece of cattle or an Auschwitz inmate.

The wages of sin may not always be death, but they sure can be a living hell.

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