The hunger never ceases; just one more turns into two, then ten, and before long I’m lying spent and delirious on the cold basement floor.
In between ecstasy tides crashing down my gullet, I am a registered nurse at St. George’s Memorial Hospital. On weekends, I spend hours at the field watching my nephew play soccer. Other days I’m curling up with a good book next to my tabby Ronald, or I’m out gardening. The truth is, I’m really just like everyone else – we all have dirty secrets. Mine just happens to involve a peculiar addiction and a dank basement.
Today, I’m babysitting my hyperactive nephew whose winter break has just begun. Sure, my sister is paying me a few bucks to watch the boy, but it’s not about the money. It’s nice having him distract Ronald while I spend a few hours alone downstairs.
The instant my tongue touches the damp concrete wall, my senses flare and my heart beats out of my chest. The tang of mothballs and old dust shoots hot coals down my throat, causing my muscles to tighten and retract from the beautiful pain. The concrete wall like icy beef tongue scrapes my lips raw, the kiss of candy coated barbed wire. After the wall warms from my lustful exhalations, I move to another part of the basement and the lapping continues.
Ronald says I have a problem and should seek professional help, but who is he to talk when his only sense of hygiene is licking his ass? Thankfully my nephew can’t understand the cat like I do, or there would really be a problem; there is no way in hell that I am sharing my wall with a nose-picking six-year-old.