Cock Blocked while Slamming Meth

Slammed: a Memoir — Chapter 6 Part 4

Warning: Graphic descriptions of drug use and sexual situations.

I inserted the needle, pulled back on the plunger, saw the red flash in the yellow liquid, and depressed the slam into my vein.

I quickly capped the syringe, placed it on the hotel room dresser, and jumped onto the bed just as the rush hit me. Arms enveloped me, legs interlocked, and I was chest to chest, mouth to mouth, cock to cock with a man I had just met. I couldn’t even tell you his name. He kissed me ferociously, crushing his body into mine, our moans thick in our throats.

This guy was definitely trade. He had a rough face and a lean and agile body. I licked the skull tattoo on his chest. He groped and manhandled me as if I was his plaything, which of course I was. Our writhing bodies fit perfectly into one another.

Best of all, his cock was rock hard!

Though each slam was nearly always delicious, it was no longer enough. The slam was the primer, elevating the receptors in every part of my body — outside but even more so inside. Fucking was no longer just preferable. It was necessary. It was required. Otherwise, the slam was wasted.

Whatever sex life Richard and I had at the beginning had faded to a shadow. To be honest, it never matched the thrill of our first night fucking in the rain. Richard would rarely top anymore, partially due to drug dick, but he was also constantly falling asleep.

He was falling asleep so much he even tried to get a doctor to declare him narcoleptic so he could collect disability.

Of course he was falling asleep all the time. We were staying up for days on end and his body was desperate to rest. I just wished he would stop falling asleep while literally on top of me. When this would happen with people around, I would pull out my best Madeline Kahn from Clue: “Get off me.”

When he wasn’t falling asleep, he simply couldn’t get hard enough to penetrate.

“I guess you don’t want it,” he would say dismissively, rolling away from me on the bed.

“What?” Hadn’t I been lying there patiently, encouraging, while you struggled for the last five minutes? “I want it.” Are you fucking kidding me?

“Nope, you don’t.” He wasn’t even bothered, just stating a fact. “If you wanted it, you’d let me in.”

So, it was my fault he couldn’t penetrate me with a wet noodle?

Yet, as incredulous as I wanted to be, I am so suggestable, gullible to a fault, that gaslighting always works on me to some degree. I knew perfectly well he couldn’t get it up because of drug dick and exhaustion.

Yet I still felt like it was my fault.

By this evening in mid February 2003, I was exhausted from confronting Richard’s psychosis on a daily basis. I was tired of walking the line between neither reinforcing his delusions nor calling him crazy, which was getting harder every day, every slam, every shower.

He had also become increasingly mean.

“Open your eyes, you fucking idiot.” He was close to yelling as he continued to roll and pinch his skin while in the shower. He would periodically try to prove to me he had “staph,” to show it coming out of his skin. Much as it might have made things easier, I never could lie and say I saw it. “I don’t know how you don’t walk into walls you’re so fucking blind. Get the fuck out!”

Without retort, I would leave him to his showering, feeling like I failed , that I was doing something wrong, that I wasn’t actually helping, that I was making it worse, that it was my fault.

He wasn’t mean all the time, but the fun was gone.

And I couldn’t leave.

Aside from running the business, which I enjoyed, I felt like I was indebted to Richard. He continued to share so much of his Tina with me I felt obligated to make sure he didn’t hurt himself or drown in the shower. I couldn’t abandon him, no matter how mean he got. I also couldn’t walk away from my best, most abundant, and only source of Tina.

With no real guests any more, only clients, and hardly ever going anywhere without Richard, there was plenty of slamming, but very little fucking going on.

Which is why I was throwing myself at this guy in Jackson’s hotel room.

We met Jackson at a very nice hotel, a Radisson I think, with a room big enough to set up a portable metal-framed sling next to the bed. I was looking forward to trying it out with my new playmate.

As we enjoyed each other, writhing and kissing and fellating with abandon, Richard was sitting alone on the hotel room couch. He hadn’t even touched his second slam. It was like he was pouting.

I was trying my damndest to ignore him.

This guy, this playmate, this trade was rocking my fucking world. It had been so long since I had hooked up with someone so focused, so dominant, so hard!

And Richard was over there looking like some kind of sad fucking puppy. He looked jealous, hurt. He continued to sit and do nothing out of, fuck, I don’t know, spite?

In that moment I hated him for it.

“Come here,” the guy said. He jumped off the end of the bed, grabbed my ankles and pulled me toward him. “On your knees.”

I obeyed.

I presented my willing ass.

I buried my face in the bedding.

He prepared me.

He penetrated me,

With one hard thrust.

“Fuck, yeah!”

The bed muffled my moans.

He railed me,

Savagely pounded me.

I became lost,

In my exploding pleasure,

In my singing prostate.

This is what I wanted.

This is exactly what I wanted.

This was the point of it all.

This was everything.

This was my purpose!

And yet…

And yet…

And fucking yet…

When I lifted my head to look back at the guy, I saw Richard as he disappeared into the bathroom. I wasn’t sure, but it looked like he was about to…cry?

Fuck!

I told the guy to stop.

This wasn’t fair.

This wasn’t fucking fair.

This was the first time in a long time I was finally getting the fucking I always wanted, like I needed to be fucked, right after slamming.

But watching Richard flee to the bathroom, my pleasure was immediately soured by guilt.

Fucking guilt!

I looked over at Jackson. He was sitting at the hotel room desk with an array of contraband spread out in front of him as he repackaged his wares for delivery. He had been enjoying the show till it stopped.

I gave him a look as if to say “Is he really fucking doing this?”

Jackson shrugged and turned back to his work. He didn’t give a shit about Richard’s feelings.

I envied him for that.

“Are we…” the guy started to ask.

“Wait…just, wait.” I scooted off the bed. “Give me a minute.” As I started toward the bathroom, I turned back and said, “Hold that thought.”

I could hear the shower running when I knocked. When I opened the door it was pitch black. He hadn’t turned on the light, just the shower. I closed the door, kept the light off, and stepped in the shower with him. Water flicked onto me as it hit his skin.

He wasn’t even washing himself or doing his staph cleansing. He was just standing under the water.

“Hey, what’s the matter,” I asked, trying to sound as caring as I could, like he was a child — cause that’s how he was fucking acting.

“It’s ok,” he said, defeated. “Go do what you want to do.”

It sounded like he was breaking up with me?

“What I want is you.” These words were out of my mouth before I knew what I was saying, clasping his face with my hands. “I’m here. I’m with you here. I’m not going anywhere.”

I can’t really tell you why I said these things.

Can something be both true and a lie?

I did want him, but I didn’t want only him.

I wanted that sense of familiarity that had grown between us over the last several months.

I wanted to know all my time and investment into managing his loose hold on reality hadn’t been wasted, that I wasn’t a failure as a friend.

I wanted endless access to his Tina and to continue slamming every day.

I also wanted to be railed by guys with hard dicks and endless stamina.

Is that too much to ask?

I stayed in the shower, kissing him, hugging him, continuing my lines of reassurance, till I was able to coax him out of the shower.

When we had dried off and re-emerged, the trade was lying on the bed, stroking, eyes glued on porn playing on a laptop nearby. Bless his heart, he had been waiting patiently for me.

As much as I wanted to jump on the bed and have him skewer me again, I felt I couldn’t without undoing all the pledging and promising I had done to get Richard out of the bathroom. The main wave of the slam had passed anyway, so I started gathering up my clothes.

“You heading out?” Jackson asked.

“Yeah,” I answered for both of us. “Sun’s coming up and we don’t want to get caught in morning traffic.” I made that shit up, I had no earthly idea what the local traffic was like. I wasn’t even sure where in Jersey we were.

“Wait. Here.” Jackson grabbed a brown paper lunch bag which held a wrapped up half ounce of Tina, a half gallon milk carton filled with GHB, and handed them to Richard who had already dressed.

While the two of them started conversing, I began putting on my clothes. As I pulled up my pants, I looked up to see the trade was still stroking and staring at me. We locked eyes. He tilted his head and mouthed the words “come here.” His dick was still rock hard. He grabbed it at the base of the shaft and offered to me, teasing me, still ready to pick up where we left off.

A throb of adrenaline filled my chest. I wanted to rip my pants off again and take him into my mouth, feel his hands run through and grab my hair. I imagined him flipping me over on my back and penetrating me again, kissing me hard as he fucked me like I wanted, needed to be fucked.

But I didn’t.

I bit my lip and just stared at him for a good long moment before mouthing “sorry” and put on my shirt.

My night and fun clearly over, I wanted to fucking leave forthwith. Since Richard had the goods in hand, I started moving toward the door, hoping he would get the hint.

“…you’ve got a free bedroom, don’t you John? Where are you going?” Richard asked, all chummy now, the pouting puppy now a thing of the past.

“What?”

“Didn’t your roommate move out?”

“Yeah?” Nick, my last roommate, had moved out. When? I couldn’t tell you. He had a pretty good idea what I had been up to, and he hadn’t signed up for any of it, especially the rent and bills that weren’t being paid. Honestly, I couldn’t blame him.

“Why doesn’t Jackson take your second room?”

I looked from Richard to Jackson. He was leaning forward, smiling. I knew he had been wanting to move out of his mother’s apartment, but the thought had never occurred to me of him becoming my roommate.

But why was Richard suggesting this? If Jackson became my roommate he most likely would replace Richard as my main source of Tina.

Perhaps Richard hadn’t believed a word I’d said any more than I had.

After I hadn’t said anything, Jackson asked, “What do you think?”

I blinked. “I mean…sure. Could be fun.”

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