A Meth Addict Breakup

Slammed: a Memoir — Chapter 3 Part 8

After returning home from Richard’s, enjoying a delicious buzz and afterglow, I finally called Randy back. Shortly thereafter, I was once again at Matthew’s.

I regaled Randy and Matthew with the events of the past couple evenings. I tried to keep an air of “listen to the fun I had,” but not being terribly tactful, it came off more as “listen to the fun I had without Randy.”

I’m not normally braggadocious, but at that moment, I simply could not help myself. I was empowered, I was arrogant, I was shameless in my storytelling which boiled down to, “Hey, did you know you can use Tina and fuck? Crazy, right?!”

At first, I provoked a most delicious response from Randy. To my surprise (and noticeably out of ear shot of Matthew) he became quite flirtatious. He sidled up to me, firmly grabbed my waist, and gently pressed his body into mine.

“So, you feel like having some fun today?” He bent his head and began nibbling my neck, the copper stubble of his unshaven face scraping my skin. This felt lovely, especially with the lingering buzz I still had going on, as I wrapped my arms around his torso and began stroking his back.

But I was feeling myself. He had shown his hand and I was emboldened and spiteful. After letting him nibble for a few moments I gently but firmly pulled away from him. “Sorry,” I said, “not really in the mood.”

“Well,” he fumbled for something to say, “do you…do you want a hit or something, cause I…”

Oh now she wants to share!

“Thanks, but I’ve practically been up for two days. And you know how I get when that happens.” I have so rarely had the upper hand like this and I was loving it!

However, “Pride cometh” as they say.

Before heading home, I asked Matthew if I could jump on his computer real quick. He said yes and I made my way to the living room, Randy not too far behind me. I sat down and logged onto Manhunt, knowing full well Randy was watching. I was flatly contradicting my not being “in the mood,” but I just couldn’t resist this thumb in the eye.

With this, I overplayed my hand.

The next day I was invited over to Matthew’s. When I arrived, Randy was waiting for me out front of the building on the sidewalk.

“Hey there,” I greeted him.

“We have to talk.”

Well this can’t be good.

“Ok. Well, let’s go up…”

“No,” he stopped me. “We can’t go up. Matthew’s sleeping. Let’s take a walk.”

Dense as I was on any given day, high or not, I could tell that whatever was about to happen was going to be unpleasant.

We walked in an awkward silence till we found ourselves on the westernmost avenue of the neighborhood. Whatever this “talk” was going to be, Randy deemed it necessary to take me blocks away in case I, what? Made a scene? Started screaming or crying? Even though Matthew was allegedly asleep in his apartment, Randy was going above and beyond to take me well out of earshot.

We finally came to a stop by a century old stone retaining wall that looked out over the Hudson River and the Palisade cliffs of New Jersey. When Randy stopped and turned to me, I had a clear view of the George Washington Bridge over his left shoulder, red and white lights from ever flowing traffic growing slowly brighter in the fading evening light. The steady hum of traffic with the sporadic whoosh of speeding cars flowed up from the West Side Highway below us.

Having picked up on the idea that Randy was expecting me to make a scene, I girded my loins, summoned myself to be still, and willed myself to present a calm, pleasant, and receptive demeanor. In a way, turning on that AMDA light.

What followed from Randy was an hour-long lecture of fractured thoughts and halfcocked reprimands. It was a real dressing down from Nanny, if Nanny had just mainlined coke after receiving a coffee enema. He became more and more animated the more he talked. His eyes rolled wildly in his head. He gestured multiple times while making a single point. His serious tone was belied by his own shifting and fidgeting, like he was a 5-year-old forced to watch Hamlet, unabridged… in French. His lecture was like someone explaining Chaos Theory in the style of a Bobcat Goldthwait screaming standup routine from the ’80s.

His lecture boiled down to this: “John, you’ve been using Matthew and me. You’ve been disrespectful. You’ve abused our friendship and our willingness to share. You need to get your act together. Perhaps Tina isn’t the drug for you. You don’t seem to be able to handle it.”

Ya know what? True.

Every single word. Absolutely true.

And I would have none of it.

It was like a drunk telling another drunk they have a drinking problem. I absolutely refused to be told by this docile, tweaked out, hot mess of a control freak that I was the one who needed to get my act together.

I didn’t say this out loud, however. I held my receptive-listening pose, even while the rabid monkey inside me went completely berserk, till Randy ran out of steam.

Finally, “So… do you, get. Get what I’m trying to say?”

“Yes,” I said, still holding the monkey down, “and I’m sorry. I apologize. I’m sorry if I’ve been rude. I’m sorry if I’ve abused your and Matthew’s hospitality.”

Still, not wanting to be the only bad guy, “I do have to say that being stood up on my birthday…”

He cut me off. “We were dealing with an issue with Phil,” as if that was the end of the discussion. “That’s why I didn’t call you.”

There’s a certain weird satisfaction when you know someone has just bald-face lied to you, and with such bravado.

The previous evening, before Randy showed up with old shirts and dry cake, I asked Matthew where Randy had been during the day of my birthday.

“Randy? He crashed and slept all day. I didn’t even know it was your birthday till he woke up and told me to call you.” Matthew apparently hadn’t known anything about the failed birthday plans.

Still, I didn’t challenge Randy on his “dealing with Phil” claim.

“So,” he said, clearly relieved to have that task over and done with,” how about I give you a call tomorrow or something and we’ll hang out.”

So, I’ve been disrespectful, abusive, I needed to get my act together, and I couldn’t handle doing Tina, and you want to do… what exactly?

“Sure,” I said out loud. We gave each other a quick hug and I headed home.

We didn’t hang out after that.

That weekend, Rich picked me up and we headed back to New Jersey.

The latter part of my summer turned out to be a shit ton more enjoyable than the former. I was finally PNP-ing like I had wanted to all along.

Every weekend for the next few weeks I partied with Richard in New Jersey, though I started making my own way over there, a quick bus ride over the bridge then a short walk to his place, sparing him the cost of toll and gas.

At first it was just Friday and Saturday. Then it was Wednesday through Sunday, even Monday. Then at one point, when he offered to give me a ride back to my place, we both realized that I had been at his place for an entire week.

Even though I was quickly becoming a fixture at Richard’s, I wasn’t overstaying my welcome. Richard was blessedly direct. If and when he needed me to go, he just flat out told me.

Like Matthew and Randy up to a point, Richard was also willing to share his Tina, which of course had me ready, willing, and out my front door whenever he extended an invitation. Yet, unlike Matthew and Randy — especially Randy — Richard and I actually enjoyed each other’s company.

Part of that enjoyment was we both had one interest and one interest only when getting high: fucking. It was in the in-between moments, the lull after a marathon, stopping to grab something to eat, where we started to form a kind of friendship.

We would often have a third or fourth join the fun, and I began to fully explore my overstimulated sexual abandon. No longer was I alone, waiting, jealously watching porn as my hands attempted a poor substitution. Now the porn was just underscoring the real life bacchanal I was submerged in.

It wasn’t only at Richard’s. I was finally putting my Manhunt account to real use, finding myself exploring my high octane promiscuity all over the city. Upper East Side, Upper West Side, Harlem, the Financial District, even Yonkers.

But it was during a trip to the East Village where I would cross the Rubicon and fall even further down the rabbit hole.

Next Chapter

Chapter Guide

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