Gay Meth Addict: The Last Slam

Slammed: a Memoir — Chapter 11 Part 6

Warning: Graphic descriptions of drug use and sexual situations.

“Would you like to come over for Thanksgiving? I’m making ham.”

I had hooked up with Stephen a couple of times. He was an odd duck: early fifties, jet black hair receding to a widow’s peak, tall and lanky, generous nose, big ears, like a real life version of Ichabod Crane from Disney’s cartoon film Legend of Sleepy Hollow. Though instead of the round and silvery tones of Bing Crosby, Stephen’s baritone was wide and solidly in his nose. When he laughed, it was like the honking of a goose.

All of this was endearing as he also had the warmest heart. He was polite, gracious, and the consummate host.

“Ham?” I asked, surprised. I love ham. Growing up, I’d always wished we’d have a Christmas ham, but it was always turkey.

“Yup, I’m cooking ham. I like to have a little Friendsgiving every year for wayward misfits.”

“Well, I’m a wayward misfit, and I love ham.”

“Great! Why don’t you come by around 6?”

“Absolutely! Is there anything I can bring?”

“Just your sweet toosh.”

“I can bring that. Will there…afterword will we be… having ‘dessert’?”

“Oh, absolutely!”

Come for the ham. Stay for the slam.

I fully embraced my relapse, enthusiastically slamming and fucking with zero time or fucks for Richard. I hadn’t seen or spoken to him since the day we drove back from Ohio. He hadn’t tried to contact me, which was somewhat of a surprise, though I’m sure he took my exit as some kind of proof: I had fled because he “found me out.”

I was absolutely fine with that. I wasn’t interested in wasting any more time or any more slams.

Freed from having to manage another man’s psychosis, I lost myself in the slam, free-falling down the rabbit hole, using as much as a half gram in every shot. With Stephen’s enthusiasm, plus his in-home sling, plus a series of guests and groups that overall were more hits than misses, I was finally — finally — getting the quality fucks that matched the thrill of the slam.

In my experience, when PNP’ing with one or more guys, there was always a minimum of one guy incapable of focusing on the dicks in front of him, endlessly scrolling Manhunt to find another guy to join, ignoring the guy or guys already there. I know, because I’ve been both the guy ignoring and the guy being ignored.

There’s a curse that comes with PNP’ing. No matter the quality of the meth or the quality of the company, it could always be “better.” If there was just one more guy, one more dick, one more slam, one more porn, one more hour, one more day, then it would be a party. We were always trying to better-deal what we had in the moment, chasing after the grand party we so fondly remember having…but never really did.

After nearly three years, finally, the fucks were worth the slams, and the slams were worth the fucks.

And, after nearly three years, finally, it was coming to an end.

It had to.

Because, this relapse?

She had an expiration date.

As much as I was enjoying myself, I knew it couldn’t continue. All the things that were true when I came to my crossroads in front of the arch in Washington Square Park were still true.

I didn’t want to lie to my friends anymore, to wear a mask and try and fail to live a double life.

I hadn’t given up on my dreams, and if the last seven months had shown me anything it was that my dreams hadn’t given up on me.

It had to stop.

I had to stop.

So, I made the choice to use through the holidays and then make the biggest New Year’s resolution of my life.

Saturday, December 31st, 2005.

A blizzard had engulfed New York. Out the window of Stephen’s apartment, the air gusted with thick white flakes covering the roads in a treacherous, sound-deadening blanket. Cones of yellow light shone down from street lamps illuminating the flakes that fell below them. The snow was so thick, from the middle of the block you couldn’t see either avenue.

Stephen had given me a key to his apartment and I was waiting for him to get home from work. I sat in his bedroom holding a syringe I’d already loaded with a little more than a half gram of Tina. I hadn’t filled it with water yet as I didn’t want to torture myself more than I already was.

I had learned enough self control to not slam the first moment I was able. When I slammed, I wanted to be savagely and ruthlessly fucked while still riding the initial wave. If there was no playmate there to obliged, the initial euphoria of the slam would quickly be replaced by a desperate longing and growing disappointment. The slam would have felt wasted. As my quit date got closer and closer, I wasn’t going to waste a single slam.

But, oh, what torture!

I stared at the syringe in my hand, at the white compressed shards.

It felt like I was shackled to a moment in time, like there was no air in the room, trapped in inescapable anticipation.

“Honey, I’m home,” Stephen bellowed from the front hallway.

“Halle-fucking-lujah!” I answered back. “Hurry up, If fuckin dying here.”

“Question for you, can you wait just a teensy bit longer?”

An involuntary groan escaped me before I could help it.

“I know, I know. But I want to slam and since this is our last hurrah, I’ve asked Dane to come over and help me.”

“Is he on his way…?”

“I have to call him and let him know I’m home.”

Another groan escaped me, but I got a hold of myself. “Ok, call him.”

Stephen liked to slam but was not as successful as I was at slamming himself. And I wasn’t any help. As effortless as it was to slam myself, I had only ever slammed other guys twice. Both times were nerve racking. I was terrified I would fuck it up, hurt them, and waste their Tina. Also the experience of watching someone get slammed and not be slammed myself was surprisingly disturbing. I know some guys get off on slamming others. Jackson certainly did. But watching someone experience the slam from the outside was like watching someone disintegrate into themselves. It was unnerving and, honestly, anticlimactic.

Since I couldn’t be of any help, Stephen had to phone a friend.

He was in good hands with Dane, who’d partied with us on a few occasions. He was a strict slammer, though his veins were such that he resorted to alternative injection sites. I watched one time as he searched for a good 10 minutes for a cooperative vein on the back of hand before finding success.

Stephen’s veins were perfectly healthy, just not as easy to hit as mine. So Dane wouldn’t have any problem.

If he ever got over here!

I lay on Stephen’s bed, already naked, holding my slam. I had taken the steps to fill it with water and dissolved the Tina, but the cap was firmly in place as I waited. I felt like I was holding my breath, like Dane would never arrive. The crook of my arm was almost aching to be penetrated as I would be aching to be penetrated once the slam was in me.

Finally — 90 minutes later — a knock at the door!

I mean, it’s not like he had to travel through a blizzard or anything.

Stephen left to fetch Dane.

When Dane entered the bedroom, he was wearing a full black tie tux!

I forgot my impatience for a moment. “Oh my, you look snazzy. What’s the occasion?”

“Why, you gentlemen are.”

I was so confused.

“If this is going to be your last slam, then I wanted to dress for this very special occasion.”

I laughed, still perplexed by the site of a man in a full tux while I lay buck naked.

Dane gently took the slam and a rubber tourniquet from Stephen’s hands and got on one knee. “Stephen, will you do me the honor?”

Stephen moved a chair in front of him and sat down. Dane tied the tourniquet around Stephen’s arm. “Make a fist.” When he found a good vein, with the finesse of a seasoned phlebotomist, he slammed Stephen.

Stephen put pressure on the injection site with a Kleenex as his slam started to hit.

“Success?” I asked.

“Success,” Stephen replied as he melted onto the bed.

He handed me the tourniquet which I wrapped around my arm in one swift movement.

“I’ll leave you boys to it. Thank you for inviting me to be part of such a profound moment. Enjoy!”

And with that he left.

I don’t know if I thanked him or anything. My attention was on the slam.

I looked down at the crook of my arm, at the thick vein littered with a handful of healing track marks.

I positioned the needle, but hesitated.

This was it.

This was the last time.

This was the last slam.

I took a deep breath.

I inserted the needle.

Pulled back on the plunger.

Saw the red flash in the thick liquid.

I pressed down on the plunger,

And sent the heavy slam into my veins.

For the last time.

With practiced movements,

I capped the syringe and put the point out of harm’s way.

Cold air hit the back of my throat.

My lungs ached, struggling to expand.

Euphoric heat exploded in my core,

Flowed through my limbs.

My eyes spazzed out, snapping back and forth.

Just like my first time.

I writhed on Stephen’s bed,

Lost in time.

Lost in space.

Stephen’s hands found my body,

My hands found his,

Already slick with sweat.

Our mouths found each other.

His fingers found my hole.

My mouth found his cock.

We fucked

And fucked

And fucked

And fucked.

We enjoyed each other all night and into the morning.

As we lay exhausted, the mid morning sun of January 1st, 2006, shining through the windows, he asked, “Are you sure?”

Did I want to slam again?

Of course I did.

Could we slam again that very day? Absolutely.

So much of me wanted to.

We could get more Tina

I could slam even more than half a gram.

We could invite a few guys over,

And really make my last time a fuck to remember.

We could.

We always could.

It could always be better.

And

It would never

Be enough.

“Yes.” I took a deep breath and let it out. “I’m sure.”

We showered and went and had breakfast at a local diner.

I got home that night and crashed.

I woke up on January 2nd, 2006: day one without meth.

As of this writing, I’ve been clean for over 17 years.

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Chapter Guide

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