A Naked Weekend Slamming Meth

Slammed: a Memoir — Chapter 4 Part 4

Warning: Graphic depictions of drug use and sexual situations.

“What are you talking about?” Nick scoffed. “There’s no such thing as bad sex. Bad sex is still sex which is better than no sex at all.”

I had just returned home from Seattle to find my roommate Nick, and Jason, who was crashing on my couch, in the middle of what was clearly a highly philosophical discussion.

“Hey dude,” Jason greeted me before turning back to Nick. “Bad sex can be much worse than no sex. Trust me. No, dude, trust. Me. You’ll know it when you have it.”

Jason was in town because we were hitting the road in a couple days to Dexter’s hometown of Springfield, Illinois, to perform Killer Jazz, a fun little murder mystery written by Dexter in the style of The Mystery of Edwin Drood where the audience picks the murderer in the end.

I gave the boys a warm “Hello” and took my bags into my room. As they continued their fucking debate, I was full speed ahead with my plan of actually fucking. Once I was sure neither of them were about to follow me into my room, I opened my top dresser drawer, took out a spearmint Altoid tin and, forcing myself not to hurry, walked to the bathroom and shut the door.

I carefully opened the tin as if the metal click of opening it too loudly would alert the boys that mischief was afoot — still that little boy trying not to make noise while playing with matches. I took out a small pink baggie about an inch squared and a short straw cut on the diagonal. Gently scooping out a small portion of Tina, I carefully put the baggie down, held the straw as carefully as a martini filled to the brim, and reached over and flushed the toilet. Using the sluicing water as a cover, I snorted the bump, quickly sniffing through the burning before the flush had finished.

Even as small as the bump was, that first high after my break was absolutely delicious.

Once I had a hold on the rush, I returned to my room and gave Richard a call.

“I’m back.”

“Great, I’ll come pick you up.”

20 minutes later, I was heading back out with my bags in tow.

“Hey, where are you going?” Jason asked, bewildered.

“There’s a friend I promised to hang out with before I leave again. Don’t worry,” I tried to reassure him with one foot out the door. “I’ll meet you outside Dexter and Laura’s in a couple days.”

And with that, I left.

It was early evening down on Nagle Avenue. The fall sunset had the sky a ruddy orange and the wind was starting to pick up, gusting down the various caverns of apartment buildings.

When Richard pulled up, I saw he already had a passenger sitting shotgun. After tossing my bags in the trunk, I hopped in back.

As Richard pulled into traffic, he said, “Jackson is going to join us tonight. That ok?”

I looked at Jackson who was looking back at me and smiling. “Sure,” I said, smiling back. “The more the merrier.”

I met Jackson during one of the first few weekends I spent at Richard’s.

On a Tina and sex filled afternoon during one of our first weekends together, we paused long enough for Richard to throw on a pair of jeans and let in a new visitor: Jackson, late 20s, taller than me at about 5’10” and a slim 135 pounds. His light brown hair was slicked back from his long square face; his hound dog eyes hid behind a pair of aviators. He wore a light gray sport jacket over a black t-shirt and necklace with a small silver cross. Now, I don’t know Jersey or its various cultures to have an opinion, but something about his appearance said Jersey to me, with hints of Hawaii Five-0. All told, he presented an intriguing character.

For as much as I was taking him in, he was returning the favor. The tweak had me feeling far too superb to be bashful or shy, so I remained nude, lounging in repose on Richard’s bed, as if I were the beguiling subject and muse of a painter in his studio, going back and forth between painting and fucking, which honestly wasn’t too far off.

When Richard introduced me, Jackson simply turned to him and said, “Nice,” as if I was a possession that Richard had recently procured. I was absolutely fine being objectified that way.

Far too high to catch any of the substance of their conversation, I did grasp that Jackson had just returned from living in Las Vegas, which led me to nickname him “Vegas” till I could remember his name.

When we arrived at Richard’s that late September evening, Jackson played the gentleman and helped me with my bags and we made our way inside. After putting Wheezer in his crate, Richard sat on his stool in front of his computer. “So, you want to slam?”

Fuck yes!

“Sure,” I said, barely containing my excitement.

When I had asked Richard about slamming before I had left for Seattle, he had said, “Absolutely not. That is a line I will not cross.” Apparently, with Jackson’s help, he crossed it.

I couldn’t slam myself at this point, but that was no problem as Jackson was more than happy to oblige. I stripped and sat on the edge of the bed and waited while he made up three slams. Jackson wrapped a rubber tourniquet around my upper arm and told me to make a fist. I didn’t close my eyes this time. I watched him as he slowly inserted the needle, registered that he was in, and depressed the plunger. The cold rush of air hit the back of my throat as the slam overtook me. I fell back onto the bed and began to stretch and writhe. I had slammed a couple of times, but this was the strongest one since the glorious first.

Jackson then slammed Richard who joined me on the bed and we began enjoying every part of one another.

Jackson tried to slam himself, but every attempt failed. He seemed to have an even worse go of it than Randy. Giving up, he had to wait for Richard to come down enough to help him out.

I watched with fascination from the bed, naked and sweating, my blood still rushing in my ears as Richard tried again and again to slam Jackson. Where my veins are strong and readily accessible — a phlebotomist once said she could hit my vein from across the room — Jackson’s veins were weak and elusive, probably due to having been endlessly poked and prodded. He held his breath, tightly scrunched his face, clenched his teeth, occasionally whimpered as Richard searched and searched for a good vein.

Then he would find one and, slowly, begin to inject.

“Teh teh teh teh teh teh teh stop, STOP!” Jackson winced. Richard had lost the vein.

Finally, they were successful. Still wide eyed, I watched as Jackson relaxed into the chair he was sitting in, reveling in the rush that was at long last flowing through his body.

The evening quickly became mid morning, and we slammed again. Rich then excused himself to take one of his ungodly long showers.

I was standing in the middle of the room, naked, absently running my hands over my hot and cold skin, my eyes locked on the porn playing on the small tube TV.

“Hey,” Jackson said. “Come here.” He waved me over to the bed. “Lay down.”

I did so.

He took my right arm again, and again wrapped a tourniquet around it. It hadn’t even been an hour since my second slam, but I didn’t care. I was transfixed. Every movement of his was measured, gentle. He took my arm as tenderly as if he was caressing my face. I watched him unblinking as he inserted the needle. Having registered the vein, he began to depress the plunger torturously slowly, locking eyes with mine. I held his gaze as he penetrated me. The rush hit the back of my throat and then my entire body, only with a much slower, spectacular climb. My mouth dropped open as the escalating euphoria washed over me, never breaking eye contact with Jackson. It was one of the most erotic moments of my life.

He withdrew the needle, released the tourniquet, and slapped a quick Band-Aid on the crook of my arm before releasing me to writhe and moan and beg. I had lost control. I was an animal. I was submissive. I was willing to do anything he, or anyone, asked of me.

In realty, as counterintuitive as it was, there wasn’t a whole lot of fucking going on. There were moments to be sure, but there was drug dick to contend with as well as Richard’s never ending showers. I would come to realize, for Jackson, slamming was sex.

Still, with it being so new, the slam was enough.

At about 8 PM, Richard and Jackson wanted to slam one more time.

I looked at the clock. I was meeting the gang in Queens at 10 the next morning. That was 14 hours away. I figured that a slam only lasts about 12 hours — based on what evidence I could not tell you — so, of course, I said, “Yes,” and I slammed a fourth and final time.

The next morning Richard drove me over to Queens to drop me off. Believing the high was receding, I was fairly confident I had a handle on myself and that everything was going to be fine.

As we pulled up to the meeting point, I saw the tiny — so very tiny — minivan I was about to spend the next 18 hours in. Whatever illusions or confidence I had immediately evaporated and were replaced by a ballooning anxiety.

This was going to suck.

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Chapter Guide

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