my dirty bare foot. . . . Junkies have no shame. . . .
They are impervious to the repugnance of others. It
is doubtful if shame can exist in the absence of sexual
libido. . . . The junky’s shame disappears with his nonsexual sociability which is also dependent on libido. . . .
The addict regards his body impersonally as an instrument to absorb the medium in which he lives, evaluates
his tissue with the cold hands of a horse trader. “No use
trying to hit there.” Dead fish eyes flick over a ravaged
vein.
Using a new type sleeping pill called Soneryl. . . .
You don’t feel sleepy. . . . You shift to sleep without
transition, fall abruptly into the middle of a dream. . . .
I have been years in a prison camp suffering from malnutrition. . . .
The President is a junky but can’t take it direct
because of his position. So he gets fixed through
me. . . . From time to time we make contact, and I
recharge him. These contacts look, to the casual observer, like homosexual practices, but the actual excitement is not primarily sexual, and the climax is the
separation when the recharge is completed. The erect
penises are brought into contact—at least we used that
method in the beginning, but contact points wear out
like veins. Now I sometimes have to slip my penis
under his left eyelid. Of course I can always fix him
with an Osmosis Recharge, which corresponds to a
skin shot, but that is admitting defeat. An O.R. will put
the President in a bad mood for weeks, and might well
precipitate an atomic shambles. And the President pays
a high price for the Oblique Habit. He has sacrificed
all control, and is dependent as an unborn child. The