The first time a guy asked me that ( I think in a bathhouse), I figured he was ready to share a six pack of vodka coolers. I learned pretty quick that he was either looking for a fellow druggie to sniff or smoke with, or more likely, some free stuff.
Listen, if anybody should have been on drugs, c’est moi. Raised by a slightly psychotic mother who my sainted father wouldn’t rap, I was a lonely, highly introverted, nerdie adolescent, self conscious, not about being “different,” but about the fur sprouting all over a body that was made to play sports. Feeling unpopular and unloved, I thought of suicide more than once.
But at a point in my life where turning to addiction would have been oh so easy, I instead refocused my energies into building a career, and became a successful public relations executive in New York, and later an educator in Florida. Never once, in college. the workplace or even the scene, did I buy drugs or pursue them. Not even grass which never gave me a real high. (Give me a Long Island iced tea any day.) But, hey, if a trick offered me a line or handed me the pipe, why not experiment on his dime, right? Though I confess I’m an addictive personality in other ways, I was never concerned I’d get hooked. Nor did I.
No, the real problem I quickly discovered, even in my pre-Viagra days where a billboard of Markie Mark would give me a raging boner, was that while coke or crystal meth puts you in seemingly Perpetual Arousal, Horned Up Heaven, Mr. Peter is taking a nap. For me, if I and the guy can’t get it up – isn’t the penis the reason we like men? – well, what’s the point, pray tell? Apparently, not a problem for the drugheads I’ve encountered over the years, even the ones butch as hell with a nine inch dong between their legs, who love ending up being bottoms. High on shit, they can lie there for days getting fucked while Mr. Hard does all the work, that is, if there were an army of dicks at their beck and call. Safe sex? Huh?
Another sidebar to partying is the eventual paranoia, like the time one cokehead I was playing with suddenly got all uptight, stared at his pc, and stammered, “You think the cops are camming me?”
I had a fuck buddy years ago in Jersey whom I rendezvoused with at his place after work. We’d start in the living room with a beer, then we’d have a joint, then we’d move upstairs to the bedroom where we’d each sniff a line. By the time we were ready for more shit, our dicks weren’t.
Or take my 6 foot, 4 cowboy from Austin, Texas, who met me at my snowbird condo in Lauderdale. After getting high on his coke, we caroused on the outdoor terrace, rolling around in perpetual horniness but unable to even jerk off.
Then there was New York transplant Mitch, my meth-head clone, 5 foot, 8, humpy, hairy, and handsome, whom I knew I could fall in love with if I let myself but didn’t, and who despite a thick uncut cock wanted me to fuck him all night. But after a mutual feast of meth and G, all I could do was use my fist.
And yes, over the years I’ve even had my string of train wrecks who, once they unveiled their pipes, made us both feel like Sex Gods. At least for the first few drags.
So today, when I’m on the web and a guy (particularly those under 35), after making me think he’s really interested in having sex with me, drops the bombshell, “You party?”- now I know what he’s really fishing for is free drugs – my stock response is: “No, I don’t, you can if you like, but I ain’t got any stuff.”
You wanna know how fast he disappears into cyberspace?