Gay Meth Addict has a Bad Day: All Pozzed Up

Slammed: a Memoir — Prologue 2

Warning: Graphic descriptions of drug use and sexual situations. What you’re about to read is not fiction. It happened to me.

After a quick rinse in the shower, I throw on a fresh white t-shirt and a pair of old faded jeans fraying at the cuffs. I’m not too concerned with my outfit as I won’t be wearing it long.

A quick check in the mirror: my features are attractive — though not stunning — in a boy next door kind of way, somewhere between Robert Sean Leonard and Mike Myers, nothing too out of scale; my brown hair is still too short to be anything but there; my eyes are free of dark circles thanks to the 13 hour nap I just took; my jawline is bit more pronounced by my constant clenching; my body is pale and slim with a more lean, fed and healthy look, a big improvement compared to a month ago. If I want to have fun, I must avoid starving myself, or worse, look like I’m starving myself.

If I want to fuck, well then, better be fuckable.

Another message gives me his address, which I write down on a purple post-it. Then out the door, $20 from an ATM for cab fare, a quick (though not quick enough) cab ride, and I’m down in Chelsea.

The door to a 4th floor apartment opens and there stands my host, Ted. Greeting me shirtless, his body is thick with strong arms, beefy legs, a proud belly, and a broad chest with pierced nipples, all covered with a pleasurable amount of hair. A little taller than my 5’8”, in his mid 40s, the crown of his buzzed and balding head seems slightly narrower than his jaw and neck. He reminds me of a boar, which gives me hope he’ll live up to his Manhunt handle, “PNPig”. There is a rough trade, blue collar-ness about him, like he could throw me over his shoulder if he wanted to, but he hadn’t run a marathon recently nor would anytime soon.

He smiles through his handlebar mustache as he takes in the sight of me. Closing the door, he pulls me firmly into him, slipping his rough hand down the back of my jeans, enjoying my lack of underwear. Taking in the sight, scent, and feel of me, he says, “Oh you’re going to be fun.” He smells of musk and cigarettes, a combination I do not find unpleasant.

He kisses me hard before I can respond, his tongue invading my mouth to find my tongue active, eager to meet his challenge while his hand down my pants probes the goods.

He releases me and I say, panting, “You seem like fun yourself.”

“Feel free to put your stuff here,” he says, releasing me, gesturing to a kitchen chair as he walks over to his bed.

As I disrobe, I take in my surroundings: a studio apartment with an overall storage unit feel. His Pullman kitchen counters are cluttered with dishes and pantry items. The chair I drape my clothes on belongs to a table jumbled with even more dishes and a few days worth of mail. Against one wall cardboard boxes stack four and five high, the lower boxes squished by the weight, like they had been placed there when he moved in years ago and had never been moved since. To my right is a desk with a computer, Manhunt still open on the screen, while under the windows sits an armchair doubling as a hamper. In the middle of the floor lay his bed, just a mattress without a frame or box spring.

It’s clear that Ted has somehow avoided the amphetamine-induced compulsion to clean and organize that possesses many a tweaker, including myself.

None of this matters to me. You can’t judge a fuck by it’s cover. A gorgeous apartment with an Adonis host may be aesthetically pleasing, but that in no way means they know how to get in there and do what needs to be done.

What matters is the fuck.

What matters is the investment into the wanting body before you.

Into the prey that has offered itself willingly to the hunter.

What matters are fingers stroking, entering, sliding over skin slick with sweat and spit.

Hands holding my face, clutching his shoulders, the back of my head, running through my hair, grasping, pulling, kneading my flesh, raking his back.

Grabbing legs, grabbing hips.

Holding on to him, holding me there, reaching into the depths.

Face against face, open-mouthed, vibrations deep in his throat, the heat of my body.

The sounds, the words, the commands, begging, pleading, submission.

The weight of his body, lifting me up, holding me down, legs clasped, arms pinned, holding me there, holding him in.

The scrape of his beard on my lips, my neck, the middle of my back, the inside of my thigh, my taint.

Reaching into me, into that place, hitting that spot, deep inside, sending me over, away, forgetting, myself.

Nothing.

Outside.

The world.

Heat.

Flesh.

Sweat.

Spit.

Skin.

Teeth.

Sounds.

Contact.

Penetration.

Again.

Penetration.

Yes.

Penetration.

Keep going.

Penetration.

More.

More.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck!

“I’m ready for you.”

He sits at the head of his bed, a rubber tourniquet in one hand, a filled syringe in the other, with a second filled syringe for himself waiting on the top of a box nearby. It’s the size of a pen with little wings at one end giving it a “T” shape, its white plastic plunger partially extended out of a clear cylinder marked with lines and numbers. The syringe, the needle still covered with its hunter orange cap, is filled up to the number 3 with a faint yellow liquid. He motions to a small green pillow in front of him where I am to place my arm as if he is going to read my palm. He’s offering to shoot me up himself.

“Oh. If it’s alright, I can slam myself.”

It wasn’t very long after my first slam that I could inject myself. Luckily for me, I’ve never really had any problems. I’ve got “good ropes,” thick veins. I probably didn’t even need a tourniquet, or a belt which is what I usually used. I hit easily and quickly almost every time.

Others aren’t so lucky. I’ve seen slammers with elusive veins turn their arms, hands, even legs and feet into pincushions with varying levels of whimpering frustration before hitting, though often not before the syringe looks to contain more blood than Tina for all their failed attempts.

I graciously take the slam from him, “Why don’t you go ahead and do yourself and let me know when you hit. Then I’ll do me.”

I wait as Ted takes the slam from his makeshift nightstand and turns away from me, sitting cross legged off the edge of his floor-bed, his attention entirely focused on the inside of his arm. Thankfully, he has little difficulty. He finishes, snaps the tourniquet off his arm, and blindly holds it out for me. “Ok, go!” I can already hear the blood rushing in his voice as he lays back on the bed pressing his other hand into his arm.

In one fluid movement, I tie the rubber tourniquet around my left upper arm. I remove the hunter orange cap with my left hand and present the crook of my left arm. Resting my right hand against my left forearm, I slowly penetrate the thick vein with the needle, that small pinch of pain having become pleasurable. I gently pull back on the plunger seeing a small red cloud burst into the pale, thick liquid. The flash. I have hit. I depress the plunger sending the slam into my vein, into me. I withdraw the needle, cap it, put it out of harm’s way, and release the rubber tourniquet with a snap just in time for the heavenly rush of cold air to hit the back of my throat.

Ted opens his arms to me as my legs give way. I gasp for air, thrilled by the temporary sensation of suffocation.

My heart races, my limbs stretch, my skin flushes with waves of euphoric heat, my lungs ache for air.

I slowly fall into him.

Our hands, our mouths, our bodies begin to explore, trying to feel every inch of each other all at once.

The time, the day, the world are gone.

There is only this.

Only the heat, the reaching, the elation.

I am no longer John.

Ted is no longer Ted.

We are skin and hair and breath and sound.

We are flesh and I want his flesh on me, inside me, as deep as he can go.

And then he speaks.

“Fucking pozzed up boy. Fucking freshly pozzed up boy. Fuck. Got yourself all pozzed up didn’t ya? Fuck yeah boy. Someone fucking gave you their gift. Gave you their gift and pozzed you up. Fuck, I wish it had been me. Wish it had been me that fucking pozzed you up. Fucking impregnated you, bred you, filled you with my babies. Fuck yeah, pozzed up boy.”

Well, shit.

Far be it from me to kink-shame anyone. For the most part, I’ll try anything twice. Leather. Bondage. Roleplay. Could be fun. Hell, I’m not going to judge you if you get your kicks dressing up in a full Pluto costume or covering your whole body in cobalt blue latex.

But HIV? Getting “pozzed” up?

Fucking why?

I came of age in the 90’s, the first gay generation that was more or less spared the war, trauma, and heartbreak of the AIDS epidemic, like a soldier who avoided being drafted into Vietnam by a matter of months because Saigon fell, relieved to be spared the hell of watching all your friends die and perhaps dying yourself, but never truly being able to comprehend the experience of those who lived through it.

My entire education as a gay man growing up in the ’90s was that I had one job: Don’t. Get. Infected.

Practice safe sex. Be responsible. Honor the fight, the sacrifice, and the lives of those who came before you. You only have one job!

I had one job.

And I failed.

I tested HIV positive a month ago, no idea when I became infected or by whom, and now I am actively and consciously running away from that fact. I am running away from all the ghosts, running away from my betrayal of the dead whose names survive on quilted panels, running away from a war I’ve enlisted myself into, a war I had been afforded every opportunity to avoid.

I am running away.

Right now, I want nothing more than to swim in a chemical sea of indifference, to escape into a world of pleasure, of moans and skin, of flesh, cock, and sweat. I want beguiling penetration into oblivion to forget the fresh fact about my life: that I am HIV positive.

For Ted, on the other hand, HIV is his kink, his reason for fucking.

I land back out on the street a couple hours later feeling more soiled than I anticipated. I didn’t leave right away with my shock at Ted’s “gift giving” pillow talk. Going out in public while a fresh slam thundered through my body was highly inadvisable. Plus, let’s be real, he had bought my time. He had shared his Tina with me without a request to financially contribute, and there was no getting it back. Also, rudeness and disgust are volatile ingredients when dealing with the chemically enhanced. Besides, I didn’t feel I was in any immediate physical danger, so I played along long enough for him to get off.

Unlike last week when I was almost literally thrown out of a gorgeous yet tragic fitness model’s apartment. I hadn’t meant to be rude, but after politely listening to him talk nonstop for five hours straight about absolutely nothing while periodically hitting his meth pipe and crack pipe, I concluded that no action was going to be had and simply said thank you and I was going to head out.

“Get the fuck out of here, you fucking thief! Smoke my shit then just fuck off?!” I barely had time to open his front door before he shoved me through it. “Fucking piece of shit! Fucking worthless Tina whore!” As I ran down the stairwell, I swear I heard his fist go through a wall.

So, between that guy and Ted, my batting average is way down.

As I walk to the subway, I check my phone. 8AM. No texts or voicemails from Richard. Well, at least there’s that.

Richard always has a knack for calling or showing up unannounced when I least wanted him to, usually when I’m trying to have some fun without him. Especially since the chances for fun increase exponentially without him. Still, it is partially my fault. My radio silence is a bit of a tell. Part of me is still a little boy who thinks he can get away with something by not making any noise when it’s the lack of noise that sounds the alarm.

I clomp down the subway stairs, up to a Metrocard machine, hit the series of touch screen buttons for a single ride, and insert my debit card.

Denied.

I must have hit the wrong buttons. I go so quick I barely give the touch screens a chance to appear. I do it again and swipe my card.

Denied.

“What?” No. This can’t be right. “I just pulled $20 out of you this morning.” All of which I gave to the cab driver.

Buttons. Card.

Denied.

“God dammit!”

I try my debit card again. My maxed-out credit card. My Staples Rewards credit card (which I didn’t actually think would work and had been canceled anyway but, hey, worth a shot).

Denied.

Denied.

Denied.

I feel the rush of air from an incoming train, the clack-clack clack-clack bouncing off the station walls, the high pitch squee of metal wheels on metal tracks. I reach into my pocket and retrieve the only money I have: two quarters. The brakes groan to a stop, the train doors flunk open, and I stare at empty orange and yellow seats, like a poor child gazing through the widow of a bakery, like a poor drunk gazing through the window of a liquor store. Like a poor tweaker who just wants to fucking go home.

All the shit I’ve done in the last couple of years, the laws I’ve broken, state and federal, but I don’t have the balls to jump the turnstiles.

A muffled “Standclearoftheclosingdoors” and the doors flunk close. The creeeek of the train wheels as it pulls out of the station, the clack-clack clack-clack picking up speed and fading into the tunnels, and the station is once again empty and quiet save for the din and occasional car horn of the city traffic above.

Not having the first idea what to do, I climb the stairs out of the station and back onto the street.

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