The burning white light charred into my retina and reminded me of the sun at Cape Cod in July. Johnny had once said that P-Town was highly overrated but that you really shouldn’t pass up the beach just because of a town that was gayer than Lady Gaga’s Monster Ball. Now I personally have no quarrel with Mother Monster, but let’s be real here. She rivals Margaret Cho on the fag-hag scale.
The air was stale and dry, much like the inside of my mouth, and for the first time in weeks I didn’t need Tina to quell my starvation. There were no sounds other than the constant irritation of a pen repeatedly clicking beneath a bony thumb, and the tragic buzzing of a fly trying to escape the confines of the plastic ceiling cover overhead. This was a rather disturbing parallel to my current condition. I struggled to move my wrists against the cold, steel cuffs that held me against the chair in a death grip.
The man in front of me was not at all what I’d call attractive, though certainly not much worse than most of the other men I’d been with in the past eight months since Johnny left. He had a sour look to his face that made him look a little like Alan Rickman, but had a round bald spot atop his egg-shaped dome that looked like the summit of a volcano. His lips were permanently fixed in a downward slant, as though he had been sucking on lemons all day, and at first I just assumed he was trying to look unfriendly in order to get me to talk. But after three excruciating hours of endless, tormenting monotony I figured that maybe his face was just stuck that way.