Mr. S

By Karen Collazo

Narcotics Anonymous has a set of rules for drug addicts who are starting the recovery process. One of these rules states that a new addict should not get romantically involved during their first year of recovery from drug addiction. On an intellectual level, I understand why this rule exists. But, I’m also a sex addict.

The first time I heard him speak was at Happy Hour, a Narcotics Anonymous meeting that takes place every day at 6pm in South Miami. That night, he shared with everyone that he was trying to stay positive after losing a part-time job as a security guard. He said he had seen worse days, like when he was in the grips of active addiction and for months had to live out of his truck. He was tall with a thin but muscular frame, had dark chocolate skin and big brown eyes. He spoke eloquently; his voice was low and deep. He was an old soul trapped in the body of a 25 year-old.

I saw him around a few more times, before we exchanged pleasantries. Stragglers had gathered outside the church, after the Last Chance meeting—another NA meeting that takes place late in the night, when he shot me a goofy smile from across the hallway.

“Porque tu no me hablas? No te gustan los negros?” he asked with a flirtatious smirk across his lips. (Why don’t you talk to me? You don’t like black guys?)

“A mi si me gustan los negros…” (I like black guys…) “We just haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Karen,” I said.

“I’m just joking with you. I’ve seen you around. How many days you got?”

“I picked up my 90-day chip just last week. How about you?”

“I’m going on almost two years.”

We snuck away to sit on a concrete bench that was nestled on the other side of the auditorium. It was tucked away in a small garden that had a single holy saint statue standing tall in the middle. I don’t recall which saint it was, but it watched over us as we talked about what brought us to NA, our DOC’s (drug of choice) and what we liked to do for fun when we weren’t high. The chemistry was palpable. On the surface, there were all kinds of words being exchanged, but on another level chemicals were being passed back-and-forth. They were computing the formula that would equal us, naked and inside each other. He asked for my number and hugged me goodbye—one of those long hugs where your bodies are studying the topography of the other’s. I felt butterflies in my stomach and the blood rush to my lady parts.

“We should vibe soon. You got good energy,” he said.

On our first date, we had coffee at the Starbucks just down the street from the church that held the NA meetings we frequented. He was charming, confident and very sexy. He asked a lot of questions and told me war stories about the acid trips that led him to rehab. There was something immensely powerful drawing us to one another. We both could sense that underneath the drug addiction, there was a stronger desire; an obsession with getting off on the most powerful drug there was: sex. He licked his lips, while observing mine as I spoke.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said.

“Where can we go?” I asked.

“Meet me at Tropical Park.”

“What could we possible do at Tropical Park, at 10pm at night?”

“You know…”

We walked back to our cars, which were parked in the dimly lit outdoor shopping mall. Before reaching the handle of my Honda Civic, I turned towards him and smiled—inviting him to kiss me. I wanted confirmation that we were on the same page. He grabbed my hips and pressed his body against mine, backed me onto the car and softly placed his lips on mine. His tongue was cold and sweet. He tasted like iced coffee. Before pulling away, he bit my lower lip.

That night, I let go of all my insecurities and worries and let him take me in his truck, parked under a single street lamp in an empty Tropical Park. He kissed like he was searching for something. His tongue moved slowly, making figure eights. But this wasn’t just sex. He worshipped every inch of me, making me feel significant. He drank me up slow and steady. At 35, this was my first time having sex without the assistance of drugs or alcohol.

We snuck around for a few months; having sex in abandoned parking lots and empty parks, without telling anyone—not even our sponsors. The secrecy made the sex that much more potent. We met up at NA meetings and sat across from each other, barely listening to the speaker, ravaging each other with our eyes—as the other addicts shared where they were at in their recovery. We knew very well what we’d be doing once the meeting ended and the fantasies danced in my head, proving too difficult to pay attention to the message being delivered, during that torturous hour.  

“Can’t wait to have you inside me,” I would text.

“I’m already hard just thinking about it,” he would reply.

After sex, we’d sit in his truck smoking cigarettes and talked about our hopes and dreams for the future. I told him that I wanted to be a writer one day, so important in the literary field that I would meet Oprah. He told me that he wanted to be a music producer and shared some of his produced tracks on Sound Cloud. Although he was ten years younger than me, he seemed to have a good head on his shoulders—a serious and mature personality. Most importantly, he was a kindred spirit. Soon, we stopped going to meetings and he started sleeping over at my place. And then, we relapsed together.