Airoholism has consumed me since I was seven years old. The summer between first and second grade my mother had me enrolled in a swim class at the local pool. The class was going great until we had to see how long we could hold our breath. Other kids got all giddy the way kids get when they feel better than everyone, saying things like I bet I can hold my breath longer than you and No you can’t, I can hold my breath for two hours, watch! before resurfacing twenty seconds later. Billy went right before me, following his claim of being “the best breath-holder going into the second grade” by staying under for one whole minute and thirteen seconds. Even the teacher told Billy she was impressed. “And now, Derek,” she said to me sweetly, “it’s your turn to go. Think you can beat Billy?”
“Yes,” I said, “you bet!”
I took a deep breath and plunged beneath the glass-gloss surface. Before the ripples passed the width of my shoulders, I reemerged from the pool.
“Half a second, Derek, I think you can do better than that,” Miss Misti said.
“I could’ve died. I did die! I’m drowning!” I said. The kids near me chuckled.
“Stop being funny,” Miss Misti scolded. “This exercise is to be taken seriously.”
“But, Miss Misti, I could have died!”
“That’s enough, out of the pool,” she said, waving my mother over from the stands on the other side of the fence. She waited silently as my mother rushed over. “Mrs. Derekson, your son refuses to take this class seriously. Until he changes his attitude, he will not be allowed in the pool.”
“I’m so sorry,” my mother said. And then to me, “Get your butt out of the pool, Derek. And before you ask, the answer is no. No ice cream today.” I lifted myself out of the water and she grabbed my ear, pulling me toward the parking lot.
Still within earshot of the kids in the pool, I heard Billy floundering in the water and saying, “I’m drowning! I’m dead!” and then years of laughter.
***
The second major episode happened on prom night. Since the incident in the community pool, I had avoided any scenario that might have involved breath-holding—taking more than a single sip of liquid at a time, eating a bite big enough to last more than a chew or two, exercise that significantly raised my heart rate, smoking cigarettes or weed. I’d also never kissed a girl before. Not because I feared the air supply it might cut off, but because I never had anyone to kiss. During my senior year of high school, I watched a lot of porn. If I didn’t reach an orgasm in less than three minutes, I’d stop because of the lack of air. So when prom came around that year, I was fed up with my lack of a sex life and decided to do something about it. I was seventeen and had never even kissed a girl.
I was going with Martha, a not so beautiful redhead who had as many pimples as she had pubic hairs (I realized the latter later). But I really loved the female body, especially those with fire crotches Anyway, somehow I’d convinced her that I was all that in the sack. She bit the bait, and minutes after the last dance we were on our way to the closest motel.
She insisted on using the bathroom first, so I undressed and lay in bed, envisioning my moves.
I had two immediate thoughts when she first stepped out of the bathroom: what a nice fucking fire crotch, and her tits are way smaller without a top on. I shared the first thought and she blushed, and, for a moment, I almost forgot about the pimples.
Martha walked toward the bed timidly, and rested her body beside mine. I looked at her and gave her a quick kiss before mounting. So far, so good, I thought.
When I got on top of her and tried to ram myself inside, the skin on my dick pulled taut. She made a soft whispery sound, like she was trying to keep something sharp in her mouth.
“It’s okay,” I assured her. “This is supposed to happen. We’re just warming up.”
“Okay,” she said. She didn’t seem very excited.
“Here’s the nice part,” I said. Slowly, I crawled down her body, lightly kissing her nipples and her stomach. I spread her hair with my hands, Moses parting the Red Sea. The moment my tongue touched her vagina, the taste of her dried sweat choked me. It got worse as I stuck my tongue inside her. I was drowning. And once my tongue was fully extended, my lips pressed against hers, I passed out.
I came back to consciousness, she informed me, after roughly five minutes. She said it felt good when I put my tongue inside her. I knew she was lying. When she asked if I liked it, I returned the deceit.
“Your turn,” I said.
“Are you sure you’re okay to keep going?”
“Yeah,” I said, using a hug as reassurance.
“Okay,” she said.
She crawled down my body, grabbing my dick with her hand before moving it into her mouth. I came fifteen seconds later. She gagged a couple times before vomiting.
After we both rinsed our mouths with sink water, she asked, “What do we do now?”
“Why don’t we try making out?” I said.
“That sounds like fun.” She smiled.
We peeled our lips open and silently clapped them together. After a second and a half, I separated my face from hers. “What’s wrong,” she asked.
“Couldn’t breathe,” I whispered, gulping for air. “Almost died.”
***
I went to my first AA meeting two years ago. Members introduced themselves to me and told me of their alcoholism—when it started and how long, if at all, they had been sober. Everyone clapped after each introduction. Finally it was my turn. I said my illness started when I was seven, and I had been struggling all day everyday since.
“Since you were seven?” the counselor asked. “How’re you still breathing?”
“I can never stop,” I said.
“What do you mean?” one of the alcoholics asked.
“I’m an airoholic,” I said.
Some of the alcoholics around me cracked their knuckles, hit their fists against their palms.
“That’s not at all funny,” the counselor said. “These people have serious problems, and you think it’s funny to come in here and mock them? I must ask you to leave immediately.”
“I’m not joking. I’m an airoholic. I can’t live without breathing constantly.”
“Yeah, really? Same here. Same with Patrick and Betty and Richard and Dustin and Margie. But they also have alcoholism, a real illness. So leave now, please. I will not ask again.”
“You don’t understand,” I said.
“What I don’t understand is why you are still here.”
***
I turned thirty-five last week and decided to celebrate by going to Aruba and facing my biggest fear—water. I was tired of being alone and figured getting out of the house might do some good.
The first thing I did once I landed on the island, even before checking into the hotel, was rent a deep sea diving suit. They gave me an old brass bubble helmet, a light brown full-body suit, an oxygen tank, and big black boots. Walking through the muggy heat to the hotel made it difficult to breathe, especially since I was hauling that heavy gear, but eventually I made it, checked in, and got ready for the beach.
It was hard keeping my balance as I walked through the hotel lobby wearing my deep sea diving suit. But I was happy about the decision once I exited the hotel’s back door and walked right onto the beach. The heat and humidity didn’t bother my breathing with the oxygen helmet on my head.
I didn’t hesitate to meet the water. I knew that prolonging the descent, even by seconds, could blow my entire mission. I walked past the sand and the shells, past the staring boys and girls, mothers and fathers, until my suit touched the tide.
Once the water was knee-deep I closed my eyes, leaped forward, and landed on my stomach. My head sank below the surface and plopped against the sand. Oh shit, fuck, shit! I’m dying! I thought. Then I wasn’t. The suit saved me. I opened my eyes and took a hit of oxygen-tank air.
I stayed underwater, scouring the surface of sand. I wanted it all: the sand crabs, the salt-water, the little fish. By the time I resurfaced, I’d swum out so far that when I stood, the water was eye level. That was enough.
I slowly walked back to the shore and lay down in the tide.
I woke up to dying, death! After a few seconds, I realized that I had just slid a few feet closer to the ocean and that the tide had risen. I lifted myself up out of the water. The sun was setting and was so bright that I turned toward the hotel to keep the glare out of my eyes. And that was when I saw her.
Walking out of the hotel was another figure in a deep sea diving suit. I wanted nothing more than for it to be a woman. I stood, and started moving toward what I hoped was a her.
As I got closer I started to note simple things: height somewhere around five feet and seven inches, body type relatively thin, posture almost perfect (please let it be a redhead). We were only a yard away and I was now positive that it was a woman. Oh my God, she is a fucking angel, I thought. I went to her, wanting to spread my arms as if to give her a hug, but before I could collect the courage, she had passed me and continued to make her way toward the water. I turned and followed her, pretending to ignore all the people watching us. She moved into the sea.
She’d been waist-deep for about fifteen minutes while I watched from the shore. The sun had faded to the size of a pimple. She didn’t notice me as I walked up behind her. Timidly, I extended an arm and tapped her on the shoulder.
She turned so quickly, I flinched, half-expecting her to hit me, but she just smiled. Red lips, standard, but more beautiful than any other pair I’d seen. Green-blue eyes. She extended a hand to shake and I bit the bait. She pulled me in tight and gave me a hug.
We were back in my hotel room. Both of us naked save for the heavy helmets, still connected to the oxygen tanks in the bathroom by long hoses.
We sat side-by-side, hands held tightly as we shared similar smiles. I don’t know how long we sat there, but eventually just sitting wasn’t good enough. She transitioned from the bed to my lap and her fire crotch absorbed me.
