speakeasy. one.

it’s not a speakeasy. or it is, but only if you strip the word of all romantic associations associated with the historical and contemporary fine cocktail bars in the better cities that call themselves “speakeasy.” it’s an illegal bar. a firetrap. if you need a bathroom, go piss in the back alley. but it has community and i’m privileged that my friend brought me here.

“wanna bump?”

cocaine. yes. of course i do, but i have rules. drugs aren’t consumed with friends, aren’t consumed with habitual users, and aren’t consumed with a dark soul.

“yes – pass it over.”

shit. at least three people at the table are on a dark road that no one should get on.  and i’m hurting.

he passes me a spoonful, carefully – not passing the stash.

i’m now high.

“dude, she was hot, she was smart, why’d you fuck up?”

“…”

“you fucked up, fucked around again, right?”

“seriously? now?”

he’s asking me about why we ended out relationship, after 7 years, without communication with friends, without the standard pre-breakup rituals. i think he’s hurt that he heard about all this in historical statements.

“did you fucked around again?”

“i didn’t.”

“so then…”

it’s not clear to me how i’ll explain this. i’ve avoided discussing it. i’m fucked up now.

“i haven’t fucked around in two years – but i broke up with her because i fucked around. she couldn’t forgive me, it just took two years to figure that out.”

“but you fucked around on her only after she fucked around on you.”

true. irrelevant. this might take explaining for him.

“she fucked around on me, but i could forgive her. she couldn’t forgive me. it’s not about who fucked who, and keeping score. it’s about what we could give each other, and she couldn’t give me forgiveness.”

“but you stayed with her for two years.”

“i wanted to give her time, and then it just took a long time to realize it wasn’t going to change. i’m not sure she believes she can’t forgive me yet, but i couldn’t go through the rest of my life feeling guilty about the past.”

i got tired of constant suspicion, constantly reminding her of her pain soley through my presence. got tired of failing to live a full life because i had to watch what significance my actions carried in reminded her of the past. i got tired of hearing the anger in her voice.

in truth, not cheating was far more exhausting than trying to hide the fact that i was cheating. i loved her, but we failed each other and rebuilding ourselvers afterwards failed.

“you’re a pussy.”

“fuck you.”

“have another bump.”

“thanks.” i reach over becoming a repeat offender on my rules.

we’re going to keep talking about this for a while now, i might need the feeling. he was one of the ones that fucked her.

i’m not sure that he knows she told me it was him. knows that i got over it. it was raw, and hard, but worth it.

i just wish he’d tell me some day. i love him, he’s dear to me, but i’d like to know he’s half the man i believe him to be, this should be his opening to honesty. tonight. i hope he will, i’m getting tired of the secrets, it hurts a little, exposing myself to this.

i’m snorting again. i’m challenging myself. risk.

i’m taking risks.

things to do while i can.

i got an email from a reader after i wrote about the artist becoming disgusted in me. it was warm and friendly and reminded me that there’s a lot of value of exploring the darker corners of my psyche while i’m alone, while it’s easier [i added the later reason].

and with that, as a model of inspiration and self-motivation, here’s a list of fucked up things, rooted in the darker side of my life, i might try to do while i can, while there’s no one who cares about me to stop me, or object. i’ve also added my pre-arranged excuses for failing to try them:

• smoke heroin, possibly also shooting heroin (fear of needles, difficulty procuring either grade of shit, trying to slow down my chemical life)
• explore, and perhaps complete, a financial transaction for sex (fear of, well, future disclosure, not clear how to go about it ethically)
• engage in (#)-some sex, preferably with someone(s) i have a long term interest in (lack of bed-mates)
• engage in anonymous group sex (lack of access, a bit intimidating)
• fuck a (cel|blog)ebrity (lack of prominence, lack of being interesting, general shyness, why?)
• sleep on the street for a few days with a camera to document the experience (lack of street edge, completely unprepared, it’s a cliché)
• slut around (check!)
• take pictures of someone that might qualify as pornographic (lack of ability, lack of anything to contribute to the genre)
• visit the real middle east (reasons too numerous to count why i’m a poor candidate for this right now)

i’m generally hopeful to expand this list as i move forward.

crack.

about 4 years ago, under the influence of william t vollmann and other sordid authors who follow me on subways, buses and coffee shops everywhere, i began a six month long effort to procure and try crack cocaine.

there are, i believe, services that will enable this quite simply, for a fee, so that you don’t have to leave white, successful enclaves you might not want to leave. i didn’t have access to these services, they are significantly different from the pot service you might use now, harder to find and more awkward to ask about.

the effort was more focused on logistics then anything else. i had a live-in girlfriend who wouldn’t approve (the emotional wall between us is worth its own post) and a highly professionalized job from which this was to be kept secret.

you need time to smoke crack in secret. time to go buy it, to find a place to smoke it where the crass odor won’t linger, and time to recover from the cranky monster you’re about to become. it’s frankly a pain in the ass.

but the high.

words can’t do this justice. i’ve tried a lot of drugs. they’re all hard to describe. but this one might be the most special. you can be god, briefly, if your brain responds correctly. mine does. you feel empowered, free from real constraints.

the high lasts seconds, maybe a minute. but the low is pretty rough. you feel spent, possibly shamed, and general wasted away.

i tried this three, four times. not much. not enough to get into trouble. but it was fun, i liked it. i’m willing to admit it was a stupid idea, though.

i mention this now, because that feeling, back in my head, that rush, is the feeling i might have when we come together tonight. drugs, alcohol and sex are a mix to me, not just as vice, but sensation. i try to separate them but i fail.

it can’t be the best association, but it can’t be the worst either.

i’m glad to have discovered that we have this in common, but you need to know, that for an instant, one split second, all i’m thinking about is that old fix. then i’ll be back with you.