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Know Thine Enemy I was a bad, bad, bad, bad boy on Friday. This is my confession: I have made a hypocrite of myself, yet stayed true to one of my ideals -- "Know thine enemy." In the afternoon, I discovered that some friendly acquaintances from Massachusetts were just south of Hartford. As I enjoy their company, and they mine, in more ways than one, we arranged to get together after I finished with work, which I predicted would be around 7 p.m. As usual, I was late, but by 8.30, I was being welcomed into their hotel room, at a Holiday Inn Express, which smelled and looked every bit like a Holiday Inn, so I'm not sure what the difference is. The two lads, whom I'll call Shawn and Andy, are a couple, around my age, who've been together for six years, but enjoy a third party or a bit of group fun every now and again. Andy is a beefy, six-foot-five shaved-headed Italian, who looks a bit intimidating, but is actually one of the nicest guys on earth, who happens to enjoy getting fucked immensely. Shawn is a scrappy little tightly-built 5'5" or so almost-blond jockboy who likes watching guys use his boyfriend, will normally join in for a bit of oral fun, and definitely suffers from "Little Man Syndrome" in his personality, as he's usually a bit shy, but simultaneously aggressive (The "LMS" has nothing to do with the size of his cock, which is just fine). So we hung out and talked, Shawn looked for fourth parties online (decidedly not a high-expectation source of prospects, and predictably, we didn't find one), and we all showered. Here's where I was bad: They offered me a substance against which I've spent a rather significant amount of time railing and about which I've read horrible things -- crystal meth. I was hesitant at first, given everything I've heard and read and considering my own experiences peripheral to the drug, in which I found it to render its users sexually useless, but I was curious, so I accepted shotgun hits ("blow-back") from the two of them. It seemed a decent excuse for a bit of mouth-to-mouth action, and they're both very good kissers. I did end up taking a few hits of my own, though, and it was definitely a learning experience. I learned that it doesn't do a damn thing for me. I learned that it doesn't taste very good. I learned that it irritates my throat and my lungs a bit. At one point, I felt a little hazy, a little jittery, but this was probably as much attributable to the fact that I'd skipped dinner as it was to the drug. If there was an appreciable effect, it was simply that I didn't become sleepy during the course of the night, which passed a bit more quickly than I'd expected it to do. It didn't render me sexually useless, as I'd feared it might (we traded blowjobs throughout the evening and made out a fair amount, though I didn't get to fuck them both as I'd intended to do, despite Shawn's 99.9% top status), and I didn't become a raving nymphomaniac (at least, not any more than I normally am) who wanted to be gang-banged bareback (which I would never consider), and I didn't become incredibly hyperactive (which is inconceivable anyway), and I wasn't overwhelmed at how much more beautiful and warm the world was while tweaking (it wasn't). I became vaguely aware that my pulse had accelerated a bit. Rah. Fucking. Rah. In all honesty, the drug seems a terrible waste to me, I've no intentions ever of doing it again, and I'd advise anyone considering trying it not to bother, and certainly not to waste the money. Personally, though I find it to be largely incompatible with the sort of sex I often prefer, all things being equal, I much prefer the powers of delta-9-tetrahydrocannabinol, so I'll just stick with my old friends booze and smoke from now on. They are more reliable, and apparently, in moderation, less harmful. Around 5.30 in the morning, the lads, who were apparently mostly just out to have the kind of chemically-altered "let-loose" weekend they can't normally have at home because Shawn's brother lives with them, were contacted by some acquaintances outside Boston who were doing GHB, which Shawn described as "an experience", and fooling around. (Whatevsky. While gamma-hydroxybutyrate is produced in trace amounts naturally in the human body, most of what people are consuming is produced from floor-cleaner, and I have no desire whatsoever to consume it, nor do I have any clue why anyone else would. My internal workings are not analogous to your cheap-ass linoleum kitchen floor, thanks.) I had a rehearsal to attend at 2 in the afternoon, so I couldn't go with them; I bade them farewell, and I headed home around 6 a.m. Driving home, I listened to Abandoned Pools' Humanistic, a great album for venting rage and soothing the angry beast (and I was a little miffed at the guys' decision to head back to MA before I was satisfied, naturally), and sang along, both to, ahem, express, and to make sure my voice was still okay after the smoking and not sleeping. It mostly was, though more tired from the not-sleep than anything else, I suspect, and that disc is a difficult/bad thing for me to sing along with, even in very good voice, 'cause Tommy's is so very different from mine. Despite their predictions that I wouldn't be able to sleep for probably another eight or ten hours, when I got home, I lay down and took a nice nap for between one and two hours. I hope they had fun in Dorset, or wherever they were, and I hope they played safely. As for me, I've determined for myself that whatever crank may be said to do to people, the only thing I think it does consistently is make them slightly more flaky than they already were, particularly if the people in question are fags. (I'm aware that I rip on fags a fair amount, but I think I'm justified in doing so. It's not like I'm casting aspersions from outside the community or being homophobic; I do not mean to include all homosexuals in these generalisations. It's just that such a vast majority of the gay guys I encounter -- in whatever milieu, be it sexual, social, or professional -- seem to leave SO MUCH to be desired. We'd all be incalculably better off if they'd all try just a little harder to be...well...more like me. There. I've said it. I absolutely adore some of the gayboys I know, though; I just don't write nice things here as often as I write nasty things. Maybe I'll take to writing character sketches and odes to the folks that I like. But then, I hear Mr. Yorke singing, "Don't get sentimental; it always ends up drivel." And I'm off...) r
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