Freak: The True Story of an Insecurity Addict

The nurse kept coming in and telling him to leave. He’d get up, follow her out, and come back a few minutes later. I admired his ballsiness.

About three hours after he got there, Mike suddenly stood up, reached into his back pocket and pulled out a comb. He said, “I’m going to comb the blood out of your hair.”

I was less than receptive.

“The hell you are. Don’t touch me.”

He was taking the railing down on the side of the bed.

“I promise I won’t hurt you, Beck.”

“Yes, you will. Fuck off.”

“I’ll be really careful. If I hurt you, I’ll stop.”

He went into the bathroom with my water pitcher, filled it with warm water, and came back with a handful of paper towels.

Sliding oh-so-slowly onto the bed behind me, he propped me up, gentle as thistledown, and laid me against his chest. Dipping a towel in the pitcher, he stroked it across a lock of my muck hair, dabbed it with soap and slowly combed it out, repeating until the section was clean. He did this until my hair was empty of gobs, clots, and any other slop. None of the gruesome filth grossed him out enough to quit.

I was breathless. Even the pain, hovering in the background, was silent in the face of this moment. I laid there and soaked it all in. A beautiful strong young man, holding me against his beautiful strong young chest, was taking care of me. Drugged, smelly and gross, I was reveling in my first real romantic moment.