High on Meth and Alone on My 25th Birthday

Slammed: a Memoir — Chapter 3 Part 6

Warning: Drug use and sexual situations.

July 2003, 10:30 pm: The evening before my birthday.

I took a small bump of my birthday present from Randy, turned on the porn, and logged onto Manhunt. As I watched the clock tick toward 11 pm, I began imagining the kind of debauchery I was going to have to celebrate my 25th birthday.

Earlier that day, Randy and I had been hanging out front of Matthew’s building. He was sitting on a railing in light blue shorts and a tank top of thick white and green horizontal stripes. Even though it was the middle of July, I was wearing jeans and a black t-shirt, cause I’m weird like that.

“So,” he began to ask conspiratorially, “what do you want for your birthday?” He reached out and took ahold of my shirt and gently pulled me toward him so I was between his legs.

If getting playful Randy instead of irritated Randy was one of my birthday presents, I was absolutely fine with that.

I put my hands on his thighs, warmed by the sun that beat down on both of us. “Well,” I began, my voice full of mischief, “I’d like to try some group action.”

“Yeah?” I had his attention.

“Yeah, you come over, I’ll see if there are any others who’d like to join, and we’ll, ya know, have a grand old time.” A little British slipping in there at the end.

I wanted to get blitzed and live out my porn fantasy. I was beyond done with dipping toes and fingers and dicks in the water and was ready to dive in head first.

“I love it,” Randy replied. “How about tonight. I’ll come over about 11 and we’ll ring in your birthday with a bang.” He pulled something out of his pocket. Not opening his hand, he grabbed mine and palmed it to me. I felt what it was before taking a quick glance. It was a little baggie with what looked to be about a half of a quarter gram of Tina. I quickly stashed it in my pocket.

“Now don’t do any of that till tonight.”

I dropped the flirting and pretense “Great! So, 11 pm?”

“Yeah,” he smiled.

“You’re going to come over at 11pm?”

“Yes,” as if to say that’s what I just said, slightly confused.

“So you. Are going to be at my place. At 11. P. M.”

It then dawned on him what I was doing. He couldn’t deny he was a victim of Tweeker Standard Time, often flaking past the point of being late and often not showing up at all.

“Yes,” he said firmly and pleasantly. “I will be there at 11 pm. I promise.”

11:00 PM. I scrolled through Manhunt looking for possible guests to invite for that evening’s sinning, waiting for my phone to ring.

11:30 PM.

12:00 Midnight. Happy Birthday to me. Still waiting.

12:30 AM. Beep. “Hey Randy, it’s John. Ready to go. Give me a call.”

1:00 AM.

2:00 AM. Beep. “Hey Randy, it’s John. Wondering where you’re at. Give me a call.”

3:00 AM.

4:00 AM.

5:00 AM. Beep. “John again. Give me a call.”

8:00 AM.

10:00 AM. Beep. “Come on, man, it’s 10 o’clock.”

12:00 Noon. “Hi Mom…Thanks!…No, no big plans. Gonna go out with some friends for a drink. Nothing special…Yeah….Love you too. Bye!”

6:00 PM. “Hey Jason…Thanks fucker!…Nah, keeping it low key. It’s a school night and such.”

10:00 PM

10:30PM. Manhunt message.

From profile XNNJGWBNYCX: “Want to come over for some PNP at my place?”

His profile picture was a slightly blurry full body shot lying naked on a tan couch. It was hard to tell what he really looked like except that he was white, had a shaved or bald head, possibly lean body, and, I guessed, early to mid 40’s.

The entirety of his profile bio said “PNP ok.”

Yes! Yes yes yes! I very much do want to come over! Please, can I? Please, please, please?!

To XNNJGWBNYCX: “Can’t travel tonight, but I’ll definitely take a rain check.”

From XNNJGWBNYCX: “Ok,” signed Richard.

Should I have taken Richard up on his offer? Yes I should have. Yes I absolutely fucking should have. I had spent, at that point, 22 hours of my 25th birthday nursing Randy’s birthday present, watching the same porn over and over, pointlessly scrolling through Manhunt, trying with my hands to fruitlessly imagine what the impending yet elusive sexual abandon would be like, believing — without a shred of evidence — in the promise Randy gave me.

I knew his promise was empty. Of course I knew! Yet, in my mind, when he gave me his promise and I took his Tina, we had made a binding contract. For me to invite others over and start fucking around while high on his Tina without him would have been a breach of that contract. And, since it was technically still my birthday, he was not yet in breach of contract.

Of course that makes no actual sense, but that was how I rationalized it.

11 PM. My cell phone rang. It was Matthew. “Happy Birthday!”

A short while later, still technically my birthday, I walked into Matthew’s building. I felt a growing relief and excitement that the day (night) wasn’t going to be a total loss and that I may finally be jumping in the pool.

It turned out that I had beaten Randy to Matthew’s as he came swirling in about 10 minutes after I had arrived.

“Hi hi hi! Happy birthday!” After giving me a hug, he revealed a small chocolate Entenmann’s cake he had just picked up from the bodega downstairs. It was old, hard, and dry. He proceeded to pull several club kid shirts of his that he was giving me, less like a birthday present and more like I was some kind of gay Goodwill who had nothing to wear to Splash or the Tunnel. Shirts that were so beyond what little style I had and had zero chance of being worn.

After my “Thank yous” which I hoped had come off as at least half sincere, I let the moment land, felt the conversation lull, and began to ask, “So, are we…”

“Not gonna happen tonight, sorry,” Randy said, cutting me off. It wasn’t a “sorry” as in he was sorry for leaving me hanging all fucking day. It was a “sorry” like the retail clerks from Pretty Woman. “They’re very expensive. Please leave.”

“We’re tired,” he continued, speaking once again for both himself and Matthew, “and I think we’re just gonna crash tonight. Keep it a short evening.”

Half an hour after arriving, I was walking home.

In the movie of my life, the shot would be me walking down the sidewalk, anger plain on my face and in my gate. I would approach a corner garbage can, slam in both the cake and the shirts, and walk off, leaving the camera to close up on the discarded presents.

In reality I brought them all the way home, threw the cake out there, and tossed the shirts into a corner of my room where they remained for months till I finally did throw them out never having worn them.

When I woke up from the crash the next day, it was already early evening. I got up, lit a cigarette, and logged onto Manhunt.

Manhunt message.

From Richard, “You want to come over now?”

To Richard, “Yes!”

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