I’m here. Again.

7:42. Again.

Day one hundred eighty-four.

Outside and I’m chilled to the bone. It’s early. The usual fog hasn’t lifted. I’m waiting for Muni, barely noticing the sting of my hot coffee as it melts away my fingertips. So much for the thermal sleeve. Maybe I should leave a complaint in the suggestion box. Eh, who cares...

So here I am. Standing at the corner of rigid self-denial and alluring intemperance...I mean Steiner and Sacramento.

This is where I begin my day.

Day one hundred and eighty four is no anomaly.

I see mostly the same faces every dawn at this stop, their owners all droning about, all thirsty for some sublime existence yet settling for the mundane. My apathy toward them remains unchanging. It’s amusing to me that I have no idea where any of these people disappear to for the next twenty-four hours, but I can bet my ass that I’ll see them tomorrow and most likely the day after. They’ll smell their usual odors of Zest and Irish Spring, Secret and a mélange of Chanel, Dior and Burberry perfumes...

Day after day, I ride across town inventing stock of these familiar, yet foreign people around me.

My eyes settle on a face I’ve often studied. A peculiar breed of a woman: well-groomed, smart and serious-looking in a navy pinstriped suit. A camel Prada tote hangs carelessly from her arm. A bit horsey and undeserving of a blue ribbon, she has her muzzle pointed down at a piece of the Chronicle. She’s a stuffed shirt, looks the part of a corporate attorney. Married to her career. Complacent with her absentee boyfriend, she knows she’s lucky to have one at all for she’s incredibly rigid and unimaginative in bed. Eh, I shrug bemused, maybe not. After all, everybody has his or her own dirty little secret, including me—a clandestine binger and purger, now voluntarily functioning in a numbing state of abstinence. See, for me, it’s all or nothing, as it is with most addicts.

They (whoever “they” are) say “once an addict, always an addict.” That it’s how you’re wired from birth—it’s a part of who you are. I suppose that’s true, though my compulsions started when I was thirteen, when I began sneaking away whenever I could for a little self-satisfaction (gasp! masturbation), something I discovered completely by accident one night as I lay in my bed wide-awake, way past my usual bedtime.

I couldn’t sleep because earlier that day I’d found a streak of blood in my panties and it rattled me to my core. My body was on the brink of change and there was nothing I could do about it. All I could think about was the impending doom we call THE PERIOD. And that means you’ll have to learn how to use a tampon, that thought uninvited but squatting in my mind. I’d never had anything inside me before and I was nervous at the prospect. I’d always avoided touching that part of my body because doing so made me feel like I was going to pee. Would inserting a tampon make me pee? I wondered. I was too embarrassed to ask my mother. So as I lay awake, I contemplated putting my finger inside myself just to see what would happen. Finally, I shoved my hand down my pajama pants and slowly rubbed back and forth between my legs trying to find my opening. I was scared that I might hurt myself or that something would be painful. But to my surprise, it felt comforting. Warmth spread through my body and I felt my cheeks flush. For the first time since seeing the burnt sienna splotch in my panties I felt relaxed. I moved my hand lower to where my skin parted and the opening was wet and slick. I felt energized and was fascinated by what was happening to my body as I continued to rub my fingers between the folds of my skin and my opening, smearing my body’s liquid across the area. I’d discovered that it felt best to rub one spot in particular, especially when it was slippery.

Yes, I had found my clitoris!

The faster I rubbed the more I felt as if I were floating up, up, up from the bed until the sensation was white-hot. A cry squeaked from deep in my throat. Suddenly I was spinning down, down, down back toward Earth and WHAM! back into my bed. My eyelids flipped open and I could feel my body panting heavily as I tried to catch my breath. I felt my forehead glistening with cool sweat as every muscle between my legs contracted with great strength. Oh my god, I’ve broken something, I was certain. Panicking, I cupped my vulva with my hand and froze until the spasms subsided. As I lay in bed staring up at the shadow-cast ceiling, a satisfied smile spread across my face. I was exhilarated. It had been my first high. And as I drifted to sleep in wonderment, already I knew I wanted more. Pretty soon my showers grew longer and my bedtime earlier. At school I’d fake stomachaches so I could use the private bathroom. When my teachers grew suspicious and I failed to produce a doctor’s note, I started skipping my classes, going home in the middle of the day to satisfy my urges. In fact, by the time I actually had intercourse, I’d probably seen more smut and had more orgasms than the average person does in a lifetime. Okay, maybe that’s not true, but it was certainly more than any virgin girl. And now here I am. Fifteen years later. IN CONTROL, one might say. Day one-hundred eighty-four sans touching or being touched.

I carefully shift my gaze from one uninteresting face to another. Something feels different today...Wait, who’s that? Someone new? Already I’m fascinated. He’s unshaven in crumpled clothing: a Stones t-shirt and too-cool-to-care torn jeans. Mid-twenties, I’d guess, bags under his eyes, his bloodshot whites looking tired. He’s sucking the life out of a Marlboro Light probably contemplating his late night spent jackhammering a cougar who claimed knowing someone in “the biz” to help launch his music career. He’s not from this neighborhood. No, he’s from the other side of town where he shares an apartment with three other guys. He doesn’t have a big day planned: he’s not used to being up this early so he needs to crash for a few hours before working the second shift at a record store on Haight. It’s a job he likes okay but he holds onto it out of mere necessity. After all, beer isn’t free. And neither is public transportation. I see his sticky fingers. His sugar momma will be waking up to an empty wallet.

Oh how I digress. My mind has a way of wandering into dark places, thinking the worst of everyone. Doesn’t matter if I’m wrong. I’m content never knowing who these people really are because when I look at them I only see animals.

Welcome to the twisted mind of Atalise and the esoteric world that’s mine