My Meth Fueled Christmas in an Underground Sex Club

Slammed: a Memoir — Chapter 6 Part 1

Warning: Drug use and graphic descriptions of sexual situations

The slam rampaged through my veins. Blazing like a forest fire, it consumed all cares, all worries, all inhibitions, all that existed outside my bedroom. Rolling flames of lust licked every square inch of my skin. I felt powerful, lascivious, uncontained.

In the mirror I had set up next to my bed, I watched myself, watched my eyes dilate, observed my hands running over my hot skin, mesmerized by the beauty of my body, wishing Richard would run his hands over my body rather than be swimming in his own bliss.

I got up from my bed and adjusted the mirror so that I could continue looking at myself, stretching, flexing, Narcissus reborn. I looked back at Richard who lay naked on the bed, his eyes closed, his hands on his chest, lost internally in his own euphoria.

We were slamming at my apartment that evening because Richard had an idea about heading down to a place in the East Village. Earlier I was hesitant, resistant to the idea, still not comfortable being high out in public.

I slithered down onto the bed. I ran my face slowly up his leg, running my tongue up the inside of his thigh, inhaling his musk, feeling the tiny hairs on his leg brush my lips. I took him into my mouth. He moaned and ran his hands through my hair, grabbing a fistful, which thrilled me. I lost myself in the drug-fueled pig that I was as I fellated him. This was all. This was everything. This was my purpose.

Finally, I came up gasping for air, drunk on dick, drunk on the slam.

“Hey,” I said, looking up from his waist. “Let’s go.”

He looked down at me. “Yeah? You want to?”

“Fuck, yes.”

We sped down the winding path of Harlem River Drive on the east side of Manhattan. The countless apartment buildings on our right twinkled with lit up apartments and a smattering of colored lights tracing windows and balconies. The lights from the Bronx reflected off the river and seemed just as festive and magical. The winding highway straightened out, becoming the FDR Drive.

I hummed Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, my body thrumming from the slam as we hurtled toward a new sexual adventure. We parked and I followed Richard at a brisk pace, the biting December cold assaulting my flushed face and ears till we arrived at an unmarked door just over from East 4th and 2nd Avenue. We descended down stairs that were both steep and wide with walls painted a burnt orange, stopped at a box office window, and then into an underground cinema.

There was a dimly lit bar along one wall while the main area held a small movie theater seating about 100, walled on three sides and open at the back. A couple of guys sat at the bar, maybe five in the theater. Of course, guys didn’t come here for a movie or a drink.

Behind the theater walls ran a hallway about 3 feet wide, lined on either side with little rooms no bigger than a closet. Each was furnished with a small bench and a naked red light bulb, all of it built of plywood painted black.

Nearly every doorway held a man: some nature had been kind to, some nature had rode hard, some not enhanced like I was, a few flying too high to be conscious much longer.

This was no place for prudes. This was no place for those who limit themselves to steroid jacked Adonises or dolphin smooth twinks. These were rough-trade working men, men on the downlow, all shapes, all walks of life, hiding in the shadows, hunting under red lights. These were men who dared — or were desperate enough — to descend into the bowels of the East Village to hunt for game, for contact, for more than whatever life above was giving them.

Even the proprietors were hiding down there, making their money off those who came to hunt, they would nonetheless troll the halls. Not to make sure that no one was fucking. Guys were absolutely fucking. I was absolutely fucking. They were making sure no one could be seen — or heard — fucking.

This wasn’t a sex club. This was a movie house and bar.

They were hiding, pretending to be something they weren’t, denying what they truly were, like every man who walked through their doors, who walked down their back hallway, who disappeared into their closets with a stranger under red lights.

Richard and I tried cruising together but quickly found no one was interested in the pair of us, so we split up, agreeing to meet back up at the end of the night.

I walked down the gauntlet, a piece of meat. As high and horned as I was, it was still an internal fight to make myself look at the men waiting in each doorway. When I came to an empty, available room, I quickly claimed it for myself. I’d rather be one of Baskin Robin’s 31 flavors than have to choose one of my own.

The first guy to choose my flavor looked like a trucker, short and slender in a plaid flannel shirt, sporting a generous beard. He disappeared with me in my closet. With a swift motion his hands lifted my shirt revealing my pale chest made red by the light. He went for my nipples with his rough hands. He pinched and tugged them causing me to reel up against the sudden coupling of pleasure and pain. He released me and I settled back down, bracing for more. Either that was enough for him or he realized he wasn’t interested and he moved on. I took my place back in the doorway.

A young Black man was next. He was slightly taller than me, slender, but with rounded, muscled shoulders. He bit his lower lip as he looked me over.

“Take off your pants,” he said. I had barely enough time to get them off when he spun me around. I threw one foot up on the bench and braced myself against the closet walls when he entered me. He held nothing back as he fucked me, immediately hitting the spot and never relenting. I wanted as much of him as he could give, and would have been happy for him to finish me off for the night, but my yelps of pleasure were surely going to have the proprietors knocking on our chamber door after much longer. He stopped and I quieted down, catching my breath. We zipped up and he gave me a quick passionate kiss before moving on.

The final guy of the night was white and middle aged. He had a beard and semi-long hair with a bit of a receding hairline. It might have been red or even blond, but it was nearly black against his white skin under the red light. He was not a large man yet still thick and bear-like with a hairy chest and tummy. He sat on the bench as I stood before him. I stepped into him, feeling his arms wrap around me. His hands caressed my body as I felt his beard run along my stomach. He was gentle, sensual. As we kissed and pleasured each other, I didn’t have the sense of him being lost in his passion or mindless in his pleasure. He seemed to be entirely present, consciously taking in every part of me, savoring every touch and taste and scent. To my surprise, it was calming. I began to feel a spark of…what? Human connection?

But I wasn’t there for human connection.

And so I moved on.

I hadn’t finished off as closing time came, but that wasn’t out of the ordinary. I found it nearly impossible to cum while high on Tina. Plus it was never about finishing, never about working toward climax. It was about keeping the action going for as long as possible, as the sun came up, as the sun came down, always hunting, always fucking, never stopping.

Because, if I stopped…

Hours later, in the cold morning sun, we climbed into Richard’s car, shivering, waiting for it to heat up before making the trip home.

The forest fire had nearly dissipated. I felt dried out and charred on the inside.

I felt dirty. Sexy-dirty, but I also felt messy-dirty, soiled-dirty. I needed a shower. I needed another slam.

I looked over at Richard. He looked tired. He looked old, dehydrated, hungry.

I watched the iced-over windshield begin to melt, my breath vapor visible in the cold air.

“Merry Christmas,” I said to Richard.

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