sex on meth
or How I Meth Your Mother
The tiny ziploc bag of meth was sitting on the desk in the open, as it probably shouldn’t have been. It was thrown together with the art supplies, reading glasses, and a guitar pick – the muse and the music reunited in neglect.
I’m not much of a drug person, and this may or may not be a fictional account. A friend came over, and we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. After, as we lay side by side catching our breath, the topic of the little white ziploc bag came up.
One of the housemates had moved on, and I had found it among the things he had left behind. I asked him if it was cocaine or salt or dandruff, and he said no, it was meth, purchased on some ill-advised night at an ill-advised place and never used. He did not want it back. Neither did I.
But she did.
She liked to try things, she said, from crack to heroin to one-night stands in Cancun. Nothing really ruffled her. Meth fell somewhere on the adventure scale between not as edgy as heroin, but not as timid as cocaine. I wasn’t sure what she meant, but I didn’t have to drive anywhere for at least 14 hours, which is usually my biggest fear when experimenting with unfamiliar human pastimes.
Also, one gram of the stuff, split two ways, would probably not stop traffic.
It tasted sour and salty and a little bit soapy, like some kind of crushed medication on my fingertip. I sat back and took her in as my body digested the drug and my brain the experience. She was semi-clothed and smiling mysteriously, seductively and needily. Suddenly I wanted her again.
She grabbed me and gulped me into her again in a whirlwind of wet, lips, hands, and pussy. There was a kind of urgency scratching at the back of my brain this time, a frantic sort of necessity, like the most sensual of tasks had been assigned to us and must be completed punctually. Her sugary screams harmonized with the hive of honeybees buzzing in my head, and soon we collapsed again.
The lights went out, and we said good night.
And laid there. And laid and laid and laid there, laid awake staring at the boring insides of my eyelids while my fingertips caught fire and silently burned.
I laid awake as the universe seduced me with its molecules; Mother Earth undressed and sat on my face, rubbing her clitoris raw and rosy on my tongue until she exploded in a waterfall of Amazon lightning dripping down my face and neck. Then Mars took a turn, thrusting herself over me, grinding, pounding my body into ruby red dust.
Hours passed, or maybe minutes, of consensual cosmic copulation, and then suddenly I felt warm human hands on me. The goddesses dissipated, making respectful room for the mortal, fragile bodies that they could never be. She, flesh and blood by my side, grabbed my waist and said, “Are you awake?”
She climbed onto me and stuffed me into her greedy mouth again. The sun showed no signs of rising.