Excerpts. Choke by Chuck Palahniuk.

Nico bears down hard, bucking my dog against the front wall of her insides, using two wet fingers on herself.

  I say, "What if that cleaning woman walks in?"

  And Nico stirs me around insdie herself, saying, "Oh yeah. That would be so hot."

  Me, I can't help imagining what kind of a big shining butt print wer'e going to polish into the waxed tile. A row of sinks look down. Fluorescent lights flicker, and reflected in the chrome pipes under each sink you can see Nico's throat is one long straight tube, her head thrown back, eyes closed, her breath panting out at the ceiling. Her big flower-print breasts. Her tongue hangs off to one side. The juice coming off her is scalding hot.

  To keep from triggering I say, "What all did you tell your folks about us?"

  And Nico says, "They want to meet you."

  I think about the perfect thing to say next, but it doesn't really matter. You can say anything here. Enemas, Orgies, animals, admit to any obscenity, and nobody is ever surprised.

  In Room 234, everybody compares war stories. Everybody takes their turn. That's the first part of the meeting, the check-in part.

  After that they'll read the readings, the prayer things, they'll discuss the topic for the night. They'll each work on one of the twelve steps. The first step is to admit you're powerless. You have an addiction, and you can't stop. The first step is to tell your story, all the worst parts. Your lowest lows.

  The problem with sex is the same as with any addiction. You're always recovering. You're always backsliding. Acting out. Until you find something to fight for, you settle for something to fight against. All these people who say they want a life free from sexual compulsion, I mean forget it. I mean, what could ever be better than sex?

  For sure, eve the worst blow job is better than say, sniffing the best rose... watching the greatest sunset. Hearing children laugh.

  I think that I shall never see a poem as lovely as a hot-gushing, butt-cramping, gut-hosing orgasm.

  Painting a picture, composing an opera, that's just something you do until you find the next willing piece of ass.

  The minute something better than sex comes along, you call me. Have me paged.

  None of these people in 234 are Romeos are Casanovas or Don Juans. These aren't Hata Haris or Salomes. These are people you shake hands with every day. Not ugly, not beautiful. You stand next to these legends on the elevator. They serve you coffee. These mythological creatures tear your ticket stub. They cash your paycheck. They put the Communion wafer on your tongue.

  In the women's room, inside Nico, I cross my arms behind my head.

  For the next I don't know how long, I've got no problems in the world. No mother. No medical bills. No shitty museum job. No jerk-off best friend. Nothing.

  I feel nothing.

  To make it last, to keep from trigerring, I tell Nico's flowered backside how beautiful she is, how sweet she is and how much I need her. Her skin and hair. To make it last. Because this is the only time I can say it. Because the moment this is over, we'll hate each other. The moment we find ourselves cold and sweating on the bathroom floor, the moment after we both come, we won't want to even look at each other.

  The only person we'll hate more than each other is ourselves.

  These are the only few minutes I can be human.

  Just for these minutes, I don't feel lonely.

  And riding me up and down, Nico says, "So when do I get to meet your mom?"

  And, "Never,", I say. "That's impossible, I mean."

  And Nico, her whole body clenched and jacking me with her boiling wet insides, she says, "She in prison or a loony bin or something?"
  Yeah, for a lot of her life.

  Ask any guy about his mom during sex, and you can delay the big blast forever.

  And Nico says, "So is she dead now?"

  And I say, "Sort of."