Adam's blob

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Let’s Talk About Gay Sex and Drugs Part 3: Fireworks

I know that the theme of the night is ‘Fireworks’ and I tried really hard to come up with a coherent narrative that would reflect on that time when I was in the midst of experiencing these crystal-meth-vapour-fuelled explosions. So I thought to myself: how about I tell them a story about that time when I was so high in the sky I didn’t notice when the guy I was with slipped his big, manly arm up my ass. Or how about that time when I have locked myself out of my flat, and I thought it was reasonable of me to exit through the window in the building hallway (positioned two levels above the ground), slide sideways while clinging onto the bricks in order to get to my room window, then smash the window glass in order to get into my flat... Because I didn’t want anyone to notice I was high. Or how about that time when I was with that guy who got so carried away with the dirty talk, he leaned over at one point and whispered into my ear: ‘Let’s go and masturbate the neighbour’s dog!’, a suggestion which took me so much by surprise I could not think of a better response than: ‘Yeah, that’s horny!’. But these are only brief episodes, single drops in the ocean of experiences which I will never be able to reclaim.

Have you ever been at a firework display where the fireworks are just so beautiful and amazing you think to yourself: ‘This is the moment I should capture with my iPhone!’. A few days later you happen to go through your phone because you are looking for that perfect dick pic you want to send to a potential grindr hookup, and you come across a series of abstract-looking blurry shots of those fireworks you were so captivated by the other day. And you just can’t help, but wonder: ‘Are my photography skills that bad or was the experience itself actually that shit?’. And the question of authenticity of the fireworks going off in my head when I was having chemsex is all that I am left with today. Just a big question mark over what the fuck happened to the last 3 years of my life.

So instead of dwelling on the subject of being high and horny, I would rather talk to you about what it’s like having sex in the post-chemsex reality - something what I like to call ‘ALMOST fireworks’.

Observation number one: it’s finished before you even notice it started. And I know that some of you may think I should attribute the lack of sensations, to my ass being so overstretched because of that time when I got unexpectedly fisted. But you will be pleased to know that my muscle control is exceptionally well developed something which I am willing to prove to anyone unconvinced by my oral testimony, right after the show. See, I’m not talking about intensity here. Because getting fucked in the ass while completely sober - kind of hurts. I’m talking about the length of the intercourse. Just when you’re about to enjoy the discomfort, he cums and it’s over.

Observation number two: you now have to actually pay attention to what he says. Yes, long gone are the days when a simple ‘let’s have a line of m, shot of g, a quick slam of tina and fuck for hours’ was enough. Now you have to come up with small talk subjects, pretend that you are actually interested in what he says to you, reciprocate his level of excitement and come up with clever replies. So much effort, for miserable 3 minutes of questionable pleasure. 5 if he’s cut.

Observation number three: you have to finally face the fact that sex in itself isn’t really that exciting. Yeah, it can be fun, but only if you connect with another person.

Which brings me to the observation number four: the real connection occurs extremely rarely and you will have to learn patience as you pace yourself through your sexual experiences going forward. No more empty escapism. Fucking is no longer a reward. Fucking becomes a form of expression. And the word you’re trying to express is: love - the organic brand of fireworks.  

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Let’s Talk About Gay Sex and Drugs Part 2: Fears

Welcome to the October night of terrors! Adam could not be with you tonight, so he sent me instead! My name is Molly and I am your tina-smoking fairy godmother who makes all of your wishes go to hell and tells you to buy more drugs instead. I am the little voice in your head which tells you don’t look into the crystal bowl, but smoke what’s inside it!  Like this… 

(takes out a crystal meth pipe) 

Just put it on fire and read from the crystal vapours of destiny. 

(Molly lights up the pipe; the noise of a striking lightning emerges from the speakers)

I am going to read from Adam’s diary which I stole from underneath Adam’s bed. Let’s see what’s here that we can laugh about.

Friday night and I’m home alone. Why the fuck am I home alone on a Friday night? What’s wrong with me? 28, single and moderately fuckable. I should be out there enjoying myself in the company of other moderately fuckable people. I sense there is that big party somewhere out there, that I am supposed to be a part of, but I am not there, and that leaves me feel incomplete. But what is one to do? With the dick in one hand and grindr in the other you feel the excitement. But when I compare my torso with the standards represented on the mobile screen I begin feeling so inadequate my balls pack their bags and decide to move back into my belly.

And then... Tina walks in. She’s wearing that beautiful crystal dress which makes her look so yummy you want to inhale the bitch on the spot. And so I inhale and up-up-away I travel... Into some random stranger’s council block which smells of human piss and cat poo (or at least I hope it cat’s)y around. I knock on the door. The anticipation puts my heart into override and I stand there for a few moments hoping that the guy is neither a hot model or a stinky hobo. I am scared of extremes. Mediocracy suits me just fine. But what if he doesn’t like me and asks me to leave? What if he does and chains me to the bed and then forces me to marry him? So many questions go through my head I feel dizzy. And then the door open.

(lightning sound)

A dark silhouette of a man emerges from within and kisses me on the lips. It does’t stop there. 

(lightning sound) 

His mephedrone-ulcers-ifested tongue pushes its way into my mouth like a slimy worm or a McDonald’s chicken nugget and penetrates me orally without consent. This is too much, I don’t like this I should turn around and go home, this is obviously not going to work. I want to scream!! 

(lightning sound) 

The man pulls his tongue out of my mouth and asks gently: Come in? ‘ Yeah sure’ I reply mindfully.

I hardly manage to introduce myself and there is already a selection of drugs displayed in front of me on a sampling platter. The abundance of chems is so overwhelming I am scared of how fucked up I may get that night. So I figure… I should get so twatted I won’t be able to remember anything when I wake up tomorrow. The drugs feel great and they really enhance the experience of having sex with my host who’s g-face expresses 50-shades of fucked up all in one go. The plasticity of his multiple expressions is so disturbing and unattractive for a short moment I forget about all that anxiety that I normally feel. If only my therapist could see me now! Years spent on discussing personal issues didn’t solve my fears as successfully as getting fucked by the elephant man. 

(lightning sound)

My mind drifts away speeding through the universe in search of the meaning of life. It returns seconds later bringing back a profound sense of disappointment. That’s all that’s out there? Sadness fuelled by the experience of loneliness? Aren’t drugs supposed to open you up to outer body experiences? Didn’t Steve Jobs come up with the idea for an IMac while taking acid? Didn’t drugs inspire most of my favourite music on the iPhone? I feel cheated. Maybe I should ask the elephant man to get off me and we should call it a day? But then he offers more drugs. 

(lightning sound)

So I stay. Maybe it isn’t the drugs, but the amount of them. Maybe I should increase the dosage? Maybe I should mix more? I am so scared of going back to reality, I am so scared of facing the fact that I’m not particularly happy with my life, fucking-the-pain-away seems like a pretty good idea.

The night ends and I leave. I fear I won’t be home in time before my flatmates wake up. I don’t want them to see me so twatted. People on the tube stare at me. They know. They fucking know! 

(lightning sound)

I come home. Silence in the other room. Yeah, that’s right, I think my flatmates are plotting to kill me! I need to pee. But can’t risk my life by leaving the room. I find an empty bottle. For the love of life I cannot leave the room. It’s too scary. It’s too risky. I will stay in and smoke some more. Up up and away! I’m taking the pipe-express trip out of this world. Tina-smoking godmother, lift me up and let me fear no more. The vapour of the melting crystals will propel us into the troposphere and the heat emanating from the pipe will melt through the firmament of reality and the sky will come down on our heads like an atomic bomb. The Earth will split into a million pieces and it will be terrifying and irreparable, but so are we.

(lightning sound; Molly gets on top of the crystal meth pipe and waves goodbye to the audience)

Now excuse me. Up up and away!

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Let’s Talk About Gay Sex and Drugs Part 1: Aliens

My career as an alien has begun at a very early age. I was still in my mother's womb when I was ostracised for the very first time and given the label of an assassin. Allegedly, the doctors told my mother that the content of her lady parts is potentially life-threatening and advised her to terminate the pregnancy. But as a good Catholic my mother chose prayer over science and just like that, without my consent, she made a deal with God. If God lets both of us live she shall give me in sacrifice to the priest. …Hood. PRIESTHOOD. I was basically meant to become a priest in exchange for life. I still struggle with the subtleties of the English language even after all these years. So difficult!

In any case, from the very beginning my life has been marked with this expectation to literally become an outsider - an oddly dressed weirdo who surrounds himself with men, taking orders from other men, walking the streets preaching and judging people holy-fuck-mother I've made it! But back to the story... What really sealed me in my own shell happened at the age of 3 when I came face to face with my own mortality.

I woke up to a loud bang coming from outside my room this one morning and instantly chased towards the source of the noise. When I opened the door I found my grandad on the bottom of the staircase bleeding out in front of me. He forgot to put his slippers on, tripped, and fell to his death. But as a self-absorbed gay boy with a hell of an imagination I couldn’t stop myself from making even my grandad’s death all about me. I remember standing there and thinking to myself: “Someone has just killed grandad. I'm the only witness. I must be next on their kill list”. See, my entire childhood was never just about avoiding old men offering me candy, it was about avoiding all of the humankind in the name of self preservation. I became a quiet introvert torn between the desire to seek affection and love, and the necessity to survive.

The next life-altering event came at the age of six when I watched The Sister Act. I identified with the film so much! Whoopi Goldberg, who just like me was in pursuit from some really bad people, found solace by becoming a singing nun. The very next morning in the kindergarten I was asked to draw whom I wanted to become when I grew up and inspired by the film I decided to draw an image that in my mother's eyes was a sign from God that I was subconsciously fulfilling my own destiny.

I have drawn a priest.

Years later my mother received a phone call from her, now estranged son, and heard the words 'I'm gay' spoken on the other end. Deafening silence on the phone. All these thoughts were going through my head in that short moment: Am I doing the right thing telling her? Am I sounding confusing? Does she even know what gay people are? And then I hear her long sigh followed by: “I always knew you were supposed to be a priest!”

Turns out my mother not only knew gay people existed, she had a very specific place in the society for them. I envied her in a sense because to her it was all black and white: you're gay, you become a priest, so simple! To me it was all grey and ambiguous, I didn't know who I was, why I was and what I was meant to do with myself.

So I looked for myself, and on my way I fell further and further away from the very core that made me, me. I was a boyfriend, then a husband, lover, cheater, liar, victim, alcoholic, drug addict, barista. I changed identities more often in the past few years than Madonna went children shopping abroad. But the breaking point came last year when I became an alien to myself, when I hit one low point after another and could no longer recognise the person I stared at in the mirror.

And then I got diagnosed with HIV.

You see... It turns out I wasn't on anybody's kill list. My grandad did not die because some bad people pushed him down the stairs. He died because he was careless. Because this one time he forgot to put his slippers on. Perhaps the doctors were right - *I* was the assassin and the person I was after was myself. And yet... I'm still here. I slipped but I regained balance just in time. I now see that one has to be careful when walking up the stairs, and one shouldn't walk alone in the dark. None of us is alone. If you need help ask for it, if you need someone to switch the lights on or help you walk, there will be people who will do just that and more. And whatever you do, do not ever become an alien to yourself. Do not ever let that staircase beat you prematurely. Stay calm, and trot on you beautiful unicorn you.

[touchinnuk-blog]

Masters of Chemsex

‘Chapter 1.

He adored chemsex. He idolised the experiences of it out of proportion… No. Make that: He… He romanticised it out of proportion. Yeah. To him, chemsex symbolised the subversive nature of human existence which now pulsated to the rhythm of an inextinguishable desire that has awakened within him.'

Ugh. No. Let me start this over.

'Chapter 1.

He was too romantic about chemsex, as he was about everything else. He thrived on the disinhibiting platform of sexual freedom it provided. To him, chemsex meant an abundance of hot and sweaty men, and an unceasing supply of desire which always found its way to his cock…’

Ah! Corny, too corny for my taste. Can we... Can we try and make it more profound?

'Chapter 1.

He adored chemsex. For him, it was a metaphor for the decay of contemporary culture. The same lack of individual integrity that caused so many people to take the easy way out was rapidly turning the town of his dreams in...'

No, that's going to be too preachy. I mean, you know, let's face it, I want to sell some books here.

'Chapter 1.

He adored chemsex, although to him it was a metaphor for the decay of contemporary culture. How hard it was to exist in a society desensitised by drugs, loud music, internet, crime, death, Grindr…'

Too angry, I don't want to be angry.

'Chapter 1.

He was as tough and romantic as the sex he loved. Behind the curtains of the regular life he pretended to have had was an underground haven of surreal existential escapism that cut through space and time, sharp like the tip of the pin which drilled into his veins in order to open the gates of heaven - every Friday evening, when the weekend began.’

I love this.

'Chemsex was his life, and it always would be’.

A bit of explanation here... I am not comparing my prosaic capabilities in any way to those possessed by that other Jew name Allen. I am using his monologue from Manhattan as the blueprint for my ‘Homage to Chemsex’ precisely because I possess no literary skills at all. And also, because the anguish of expression conveyed in the piece feels very appropriate to me. If someone asked me to write a book about chemsex when I was still a part of the scene, I would most certainly spend just as much time (if not more!) trying to come up with a fitting opening line as Woody Allen did whilst summarising his love for New York City. There was no simple way to describe the complexity of what I felt towards the lifestyle I lead. Chemsex was neither about chems nor sex. It was a calling. It was greater than life. It was divine.

I still remember those Monday mornings when I would get to work still high from all the drugs that I consumed over the weekend and instead of feeling ashamed of the state I was in, I felt like a superhero because of the two identities I developed. In one of them, I was a regular guy who had a regular, boring office job, and did regular, uninteresting things. But when the weekend started I was no longer Clark Cent. Oh no, I was Superman. No, wait. Superman was lame. I was more like Bruce Banner who experimented with some dangerous chemicals every Friday evening inevitably unleashing the Hulk whose actions and motives could only be summarised by his overused catchphrase, which in this case switched from ‘Smash!’ to ‘Fuck!’. And boy did I fuck!

The amount of men that I slept with every weekend almost never closed in a single digit number. The constant pursuit of new flesh resulted in such large quantities, the game lost its sports-like appeal and turned into an abstract form. Imagine if each splash of colour on one of the Pollock’s paintings represented a person you slept with over the weekend. Now, put aside the quantity of those splashes (yup, those weekends were *busy*), their shapes and forms are so inconsistent and deformed the entire experience becomes not only surreal but incoherent. That’s what my weekends felt like to me in retrospective. But just like Pollock’s paintings there was a force behind those experiences that always managed to lure me back in.

I would often walk down the street and see someone rushing towards me, and I got too scared to look them in the eye out of fear that we may have fucked at some point in the past. Or there were those times when I would get on a bus and the only free seat available was next to a guy whom I vaguely recognised from one of the sex parties I attended over one of these indistinguishable weekends. My life turned into a stream of loopy jumps between my identities, each jump irreversibly weakening my core.

So what is it like being off chemsex? Do I miss it? Would I go back into it? The short answers to each of these questions would be: it sucks, yes and no, not intentionally. Every addict is at some point faced with a choice between life and death. The tricky thing about overcoming an addiction though is that the desire to change must come from within. You must be the one who wants to quit using if you desire that change to be truly effective. And although Woody Allen’s addiction to his beloved city was never of life-threatening proportions, he too had to finally realise that New York was no longer doing the trick for him. He had to take a different approach to battle through life. He had to look for new surroundings, new people, new experiences in order to find the right inspiration and to fulfil his ambitions.

But if it is not New York City that you are addicted to, please don’t waste your time watching Woody Allen this autumn. Watch Chemsex instead. It’s a disturbing, graphic piece which captivates both the despair of being caught up in the vicious cycle of drugs-fuelled fuck-weekends, but also the hope that comes with a bit of determination to seek happiness again. And while we’re on the subject of hope - why not stop by 56 Dean Street on your way home from the cinema, and visit David Stuart who runs the Chemsex support group at the clinic? Tell him that Adam says thank you for helping him when he needed it the most. You’ll be in good hands.