Not a member? Sign up now
True Stories: Why I Am Afraid Of Drunk People
"'The person he is when he's drunk is not the person I love,' she said..."
By Abigail Fox
Molly and I were running last minute Burning Man errands, and talking, inevitably, about Wolf. She told me something I had always suspected, but never confirmed: that alcoholism runs in his family, and he is basically an alcoholic.
"The person he is when he's drunk is not the person I love," she said. "He's mean."
Yeah. I remember.
She told me about having to get his mother not to buy alcohol before he came to visit her — his mother's an alcoholic too — and how, if there's booze in the house, he has to drink it. We both said how glad we were that he stopped drinking hard liquor; he has a beer now and then, smokes pot. We were supposed to be meeting Wolf and Richard for dinner at Richard's girlfriend's restaurant, and we had to pick up some equipment. We got there a half hour late.
By the time we got there, Wolf was drunk.
They were sitting at the bar, and as soon as he turned his face to me, I knew. So did Molly. I could see it in the tension in her shoulders, her tight smile. Me, I couldn't look at him, not in the eye. I don't think I looked him in the eye all night: keeping my head down, I could feel the discomfort in my stomach. He was at the first stage of his drunk, all friendly and sloppy and loving and silly, but like slapped dogs, both Molly and I watched his hand as it rose and fell, from the table to his lips, a little less tequila every time. I was happy that his slurry, impassioned I-love-yous were directed at her, and not me. I remember.
The first time I ever saw Wolf drunk was about two weeks into our relationship. I'd seen his temper flaring and short-circuiting as we traveled through Morocco, but I was still entranced with him, enough to follow him to Spain. On the breezy ferry ride over, we linked arms and watched the water, kissed, smiled at Moroccan passengers, and found a hostel that night in Cadiz, the oldest city in Spain. Conquered once by Moors, it has cobblestone streets and a rocky sea wall, where Wolf suggested we go with a bottle of Jack. I said sure, and he poured me a cup, poured himself a cup, and kept pouring himself cups, never noticing that I wasn't drinking it. I sipped, listened to him talk, as he got loving, loving and kind and sweet and wanted to kiss me and hold me...
Then, like something snapped in him, he started ranting about women. He insulted me personally — I was stupid, useless, had no idea what he wanted or needed — and women in general, all of us, worthless. We had wrecked his life. We were bitches, whores, and I was the worst of the lot. Pulling away from me, he threatened to jump into the water. When I begged him not to, he pushed me away so hard that I tripped backwards. Then he stormed off through the streets, leaving me to trail after him, begging him to tell me what was wrong. He wouldn't, instead blaming me for his current state, saying I didn't know anything about him, he didn't know me, he didn't want to be with me. He was going to leave me here.
I, sobbing, told him I didn't know where the hostel was. He would show me, he said, but then I had to leave. He couldn't sleep with me one more night. He followed me through the streets, berating me from behind, telling me when to turn but only when I asked him, until we got back to the hostel and he became all soft and loving again, wanting me to lie down with him and cuddle. Just as quickly, he veered into threatening to "kick my ass," shoving me away, calling me names. I fell asleep wrapped in his arms, heavy as an anchor, afraid. The Wolf I had known was gone.
Until he was himself the next morning, not mentioning what had happened.
It was the first time I had ever been around anyone who was really drunk. My mother drank a little too much when I was younger, but always quietly, on the balcony, with a series of unfiltered Camels in her other hand. There was sometimes a bottle of Sambuca in the garbage, but nothing serious.
After that first time, it happened over and over. He drank, then abused me, calling me a whore and all women bitches. He threatened constantly to leave me. Once, walking over a bridge in Slovakia, he stopped halfway across and claimed I didn't love him. He climbed over the side of the bridge, lowered himself down until he was dangling by his hands from the edge, and stayed there while I frantically pleaded with him not to let go, until he got tired and climbed back over. In France, he accused me of flirting with a young man who had just climbed Mont Blanc with him. I didn't deserve him, he told me.
In Sevilla, back in southern Spain, he got massively drunk with a group of three Canadian strippers and insisted on all of us making out. He urged me to get one of them into a threesome with us. It was clear she wasn't into it, so he yelled at me for not doing what I said I would do: I was a liar, he couldn't trust me. Then, we went back to the room, and to "make it up to him," he insisted that we "perform" for the strippers. He held me against him, made me suck his cock, but couldn't get hard. That night felt like it went on forever. I remember the strippers spanking my ass at one point, talking about me like I wasn't there. I remember him shaking me by the shoulders, yelling, "It's just like we usually do," angry that I wasn't doing it right.
NEXT: "I was nineteen years old, and he was the great love of my life..."