Acid Temple Ball
Classic title from Ophelia, starring a woman who makes love while under the influence of no less than seven different controlled substances (not all at once; she lingers in magnificent fashion.)
Acid Temple Ball
This page copyright © 2005 Olympia Press.
The East Village. Bums, homosexuals, teenagers with hot young bodies in from Queens looking for action, love people from tub-in-kitchen apartments; couples, trios, and more elaborate sexual groupings, communes and tribes. I walk along stoned in the acrid fall wind, dark hair blowing around my arms and shoulders, cowboy boots and tanned thighs, skirt just below my crotch. The old Puerto Rican men leer at my soft 21-year-old body; I stare lustfully at the long-haired boys of seventeen or so. Blank-eyed, they meet my glance and I am briefly embarrassed and touched with a flash of desire. Everything is ringing and bright, naturally, because I smoked a nice rounded pipefull of excellent grass before facing the great outdoors. I want to take each of these pretty boys, one by one, and tangle my hands in their dirty hair smelling of pot and incense, stroke their slim stomachs and backs, bury my face in their warm thighs, lick and taste their hard pricks, kiss their laughing lost eyes.
However, I send myself out on the street with certain directives, like a homing pigeon carrying a message. I am on my way to school and it would take at least an active offer of drugs or sex to deflect me. My art school, after all, offers the companionship of old friends and possible lovers, fat joints passed around in the painting studios, good rock on someone's transistor radio, and probably an offer to snort speed or trip at least once in the course of an ordinary afternoon. I can't object to sitting around there spaced out of my head, daubing pretty colors on a smooth board.
On the other hand, I must pass Davy's pad on St. Mark's Place in order to complete my five-block Odyssey, and this fine morning I am intensely tempted to see him and try to seduce him. Davy is a skinny, strung-out drug dealer and movie-maker. His hair is even coarser and blacker than my own, his hunger for drugs more intense. He is always moving and looking around, always worrying or needing something, always gentle and patiently friendly. He wears dark prescription glasses concealing elegant drooping eyelids. His eyes are as obscenely beautiful as naked genitals and it seems as reasonable to conceal them; I lust for Davy's eyelids, I picture him in bed with his glasses off.
I have wanted him for a long time, perhaps a few months. But time has a habit of being strangely stretched out, and even sequence is beginning to vanish. I have wanted to screw Davy for a ridiculously long time. And he probably won't be home anyway.
I walk through the green entranceway, down the hall, knock on his battered metal door. The hallway smells of urine, cabbage soup and pot. Perhaps he is home. A longish wait, sleepy mutter. He opens the door; I am extremely, happily aware of his presence.
“Hey, how are you doing?” San Francisco-gracious, the noblesse oblige of those totally wiped out on drugs; he's probably coming down from speed or on tranquilizers. Bare-chested, tight pants, big awkward naked feet. Moves jerkily, like a puppet.
“So how are things, man?”
“O.K. I was on my way to school, decided it was too big a deal this morning.”
“Yeah? Oh, here's the pipe.”
Davy twitches around the two-room apartment, putting Janis Joplin on the turntable, picking at some crumbling brownies on a pile of old newspapers, pushing his hair back from his eyes. I light the pipe, take a deep drag, hand it to him with a light caress on his bare bony shoulder. We smoke, handing the pipe back and forth, smiling at each other. Things improve, and they weren't half bad to begin with. The light in the room sparkles, Davy's flesh seems soft and cool, I want to drink him into me. Janis is singing the story of life, the brownies are beginning to look awfully good; Davy looks even better than usual. I want to feel my hands on his thin hungry body, want his hunger to feed on me, to feed on my hunger. His nervousness excites and torments me, I long to feel his tension eased in me, to feel his need revealed and exploding in my body.
I feel lonely even though I have an old man at home; grass sometimes makes me feel terribly lonely. Or not, depending. But everything is intensified, made more emotional, I really need Davy's body against me, I am haunted by the shape of his thin belly, his blunt fingers, the rough dark hair on his arms and chest. Looks pass between us which would be old-movie hilarious, except that we're both beginning to groove on this scene: romantic, stoned lust. Staring deeply into each other's eyes, our lips parted.
“Have a brownie, Davy?”
He grunts acceptance, I move close to him and place the brownie in his mouth. I watch him sucking and chewing, I rub my mouth hard against his, smell chocolate and desire, take a bit of the brownie from between his teeth. A deep pleasure all its own. We crunch away happily, and I lean against him, rub my head lightly against his chest. At this point I am being even blunter than usual, hoping that hippie good manners plus temptation will sweep away his reservations.
He begins to stroke my hair, slightly trembling fingers moving hard against my skull, brushing my hair down across my back. I remove his glasses and kiss his hot translucent eyelids, the black lashes and brows; my hands stroke his thin vulnerable back. His fingers are on my shoulders and sides, find my buttocks, squeeze and press, I begin to tremble and arch against him. Our mouths eat at each other, wet curious chocolate tongue twisting and stroking into my throat.
We find ourselves on the floor, arms locked hard, the record over. Davy puts on Jimi Hendrix. I roll my skirt down, slip out of my underpants, pull off my soft sweater and remove the cowboy boots. I stand naked, moving to the music, touching my hard nipples with my fingertips.
Davy watches me, laughs, comes back to nuzzle my upturned breasts, his mouth hot and greedy, his hand between my legs now, stroking lightly back and forth, squeezing my thighs, flicking his fingers into me and out again. I bend down and begin to kiss his chest and stomach, nuzzling the curls of dark hair at the base of his belly, working at his belt. He wriggles out of his pants and lies back on the floor watching me from under his heavy eyelids, his breath fast and irregular. I kiss his body all over, all the little delights I have been hungering for, his throat, the hollows of his thighs, palms of his hands, and again and again his prick, sweet little flower growing hard and long under my tongue, thin and long. Sweet needle to fill my hungry guts: heat and dissolve before injecting, dissolve him under my tongue. The source of endless thrilling rushes and short intervals of content. Will he give me pleasure and peace, will he ease my hunger? I climb onto his body, slip down over his tense prick, feel his hardness gliding smoothly into my eager cunt, feel his balls against the back of my thighs.
I press my breasts against him, bruise the swollen nipples against his thin chest. Roll my hips, feel him deep and solid inside me, solid and real as space on acid, the shape of desire. I want him sharp and firm inside me, want it more and more, feel it more and more. At some point I notice that I am grinding mindlessly against him to the irresistible rhythm of a record which is over. Click, click, click. Grunt, grunt, grunt. I slow down, lean back, sigh and get up before I can think about it, turn over the record.
I come back toward Davy dancing, rolling my belly and shaking my breasts to excite him, getting hung up on the music and an illusion of perfect control over all my muscles. Ripple by him laughing, stroking my belly and thighs with my hands, lean over and rub my breasts against his face. He laughs and chews and sucks on them, grabs my shoulders and tumbles me over on my back, falling between my legs, fucking like hell. His thin hard body driving into me, bright patches of color in my mind, unrelated scents and sounds, overwhelming pressure, pounding. His sweet body moving in its own self-absorption. I kiss his ears, the tense muscles in his neck, whimpering, squeezing his ass against me, cramming it tight between my legs.
He begins to ball very slowly, pulling his prick almost all the way out and then easing it in with a slight twist, the swollen head jolting into me. I hold my legs tight against his, push my hips forward to meet each thrust, bounce against him and press him toward me. He moves almost all the way out, chews on my neck, then groans, coming into me like an explosion going hot all over my body, my own waves and moans rushing and beating against his, squirming beneath him as he lies inert and potent at his greatest depth, solid and spurting within me; I grind out the last of my lust and sink back happily beneath him.
We rest an endless time in clicking silence, Davy breathes deeply, the long-over record turns. I watch the ceiling playing Times Square in a modified fuzzy way. Not really coming forth, all made manifest, undeniable, as on a trip. But there for one who knows how to look. Davy cuddles against me, skinny warm pleasure-giving flesh. He mutters: “Mexican food.”
“I'm starving. Mexican food.”
“We could take speed and ball all day.”
“Mexican food,” Davy replies, with uncommon finality.
“Shouldn't we smoke some more first?”
We eat lunch at a little restaurant near Washington Square, spicy beef in crisp corn chips, crushed avocado salad, red wine. Somehow I'm always ending up at this taco joint with more-or-less lovers; perhaps fucking me induces a taste for highly seasoned food. I was there on opium once, not eating much but really digging the colors and smells. Hit my head three times on a wooden light-shade and didn't feel a thing.
I go home smiling, after days like that one, and am particularly loving to my old man Eric. He balls me better than anyone I know, no weekend joy-popping thrill, but like wine, grass, home-baked bread, a real nourishment for body and soul, day in and day out. We've made love on buses, beside highways, on mountain tops, in pine forests, in various combinations with friends of both sexes, on a good number of the drugs known to Lower-East-Side man. It's like meeting yourself again and again, at the back of every dream, the author of every trip. We find each other and know each other over and over.
We've been having some lean weeks lately, both feeling preoccupied and strung out, both needing to feel close together again. Decide to drop some mescaline this weekend, spend the rest of the week waiting. Two dirty brown capsules big enough to stone a horse. Early morning, grey sun through window gates, drop the caps on an empty stomach and a sleepless night. Always the thrill: I can't turn back now, it will begin to come; in forty minutes, or ninety minutes, inevitable, unstoppable, perhaps stronger than anything before, perhaps terrible, perhaps so joyously true as to destroy the whole structure of my life. The first signs, nausea and a vague wavering of surfaces. Nausea becomes severe, I fall to the floor seeking comfort in a rocking sea. He comes to me.
“Are you all right?”
“Beginning to go up, feel pretty sick.”
He strokes my back comfortingly, begins to moan with the drug. We clutch each other, rocking on the floor, grabbing at each other's warmth, lost in all space and all dimensions, each other the sole source of stability, the umbilical cord to life. He becomes my mother, my best friend, a succession of lovers. Colors roar by.
We begin to feel less sickened and unsure. Hot and cold, remove what clothes we had on, material is too intense on the skin. The radio is on, intervals are so elongated that nothing makes any sense. Occasionally get hung up on a song, or hallucinate that it's a different song. Discussing it changes the sound, and the colors and vibrations in the room respond to our conversation, which is obsessive and rambling, huge edifices of logic and revelation rising and crumbling like waves. We are loving but asexual, comforting each other with gestures of our bodies. Detailed historical investigation of the clock, conclude that an hour and a half has passed since we swallowed the caps. Have no idea if this means anything. Decide to smoke some grass. (It's a good idea any other time, isn't it? Tends to improve the outlook on a trip, brightens up everything and soothes physical discomforts.)
Rolling joints is beyond us, we fill the pipe with trembling peculiar-looking fingers, can see each shred of grass as a multi-toned, sculptured shape. Inhale. Eternities of joy. Surges of highness, have to put the pipe down. Sense of humor returns, some emotional equilibrium.
Begin to feel aware and awake all over my skin, take his hand and rub it all over my body, squeeze it between my legs. Something simpler and more necessary than ordinary sexual desire. I take different fabrics, an old velvet skirt, a fur hat, a cashmere sweater, and stroke them against my flesh, lightly over the tips of my breasts, against my arms and legs, press them against my face and belly. Stroke the long hairs of the fur cap between his legs, against his prick and balls, he moans and I watch his cock swell and rise, bobbing. No more feeling of sickness, only elation and a sense that anything is possible. So many things I want to do, erotic images, men I've had, pictures of my being tied down and tortured by a succession of men who play with me and rub their cocks quivering in me, but always stop before I can come.
I lie on the floor, holding my baby's prick in my hand, moving my ass against the cool floor to the rhythm of the music, pressing the fur to my belly with one hand and holding his hand against my mouth with the other, chewing on his fingers and sucking at them, pushing them against the back of my throat. We decide to smoke some more grass. I sit in our big, ragged arm chair, my legs up over the arms, he sticks his fingers in me and moves them in a circular, swirling motion as he hands me the pipe. I take deep drags, and contract the muscles of my cunt as great gusts of sweet smoke pour into my lungs, into my arms and legs and the marrow of my bones. Push his fingers into me and draw the smoke into me, higher and higher, my muscle contractions incredibly strong and controllable, like a baby sucking milk, like sucking the pot smoke into me, instinctively and blindly. After a while the pipe is out, too much trouble to smoke, just want to float on colored shifting clouds, and feel sweet pressure in my cunt and all over my skin.
We decide to rub olive oil all over each other. Amazingly, manage to hunt for and put down a towel before we begin this activity. One tiny little towel which could do no possible good. Olive oil bed for weeks. I lie back in my sea of dreams, feeling his fingers glancing over my body, rubbing my nipples, between my legs. Begin to feel sexual desire, in a confused way, but mostly in a general pervasive sensuality. Sexual pleasure all over my body, the oil changing me into some different creature of glistening wet surfaces, dolphin-free, floating in pleasure. Rub oil on his body, gliding my smoothness against his, lie with my head between his legs sucking on his swollen cock, rubbing my oily hands up and down the insides of his thighs. He buries his tongue in me, I feel his furry head between my thighs and the whole smooth length of his body against me. Intensity of sexual contact on every inch of my skin: hard against soft, wet and smooth, all parts of our bodies meaningless and lost in sensation. I rock my hips and moan, he climbs on top of me and we play at fucking, long lingering insertions and withdrawals, all creating multi-sensory images in my head. Cascades of mountain streams. Avalanches. Torrents of unrelated textures; fur, rock, tapestry, my body is hot in the sun, opening into celestial distances, branded with the imprint of Turkish designs. His orgasm comes like some creation of reality from the void, pinning me to his sensations, forcing me to recognize him, forcing me to remember his body, the incredible solidity of his prick in me, forcing me hard and tight to be satisfied and resolved. My muscles move in spasms against him, I hold him deep in me, sobbing, then relax in crystal content.
We spend most of the rest of the trip cradled like embryos in a lukewarm tub, ostensibly washing off the olive oil. Light filtered through shower curtain, the jungle pool of childhood, our pink wrinkled bodies cuddled together.
When we begin to come down we drink tea and eat strawberry yogurt, the sugar sending me up again briefly, strawberry-rushes of giddy happiness and bright patterns before my eyes. The usual period of exaggerated physical discomfort, pain behind my eyes, strained muscles, thousands of tiny bruises I can't remember receiving. Smoke grass, have a quiet evening—it passes.
Stoned and groovy-feeling for days, we work off muscular tension balling. Tripping with someone is like another, more intimate version of sex. Take off all your clothes and let me stroke your soul in my hand.
Even when I manage to get to school, I always come home at lunch to get stoned, listen to rock, generally clear my head. Our old grey cat sits on my lap, getting sleepy and high, the sun goes in and out from clouds, dancing on the floor, bums throw bottles outside the windows, Puerto Rican school kids hassle each other, sing, pick up girls; old ladies yell at the kids. Like life is really going on, all the time, despite cracked plaster, usually cold water, cockroaches... It beats any other place I know for a real sense of something happening, thousands of little deals and games and peculiar needs finding satisfaction. A market place for flesh and minds and all varieties of hustling. I sit and smoke and groove on the action in the street, feeling confident that whatever happens will be a trip of one sort or another. Took a little speed this particular morning, getting a bit behind on work. Methedrine always sells well in my art school's cafeteria: half my class must be speeding on any one day. Bitter white powder wrapped in aluminum foil, close myself in a toilet stall after my first class, lay out the powder in little rows on a hand mirror from my pocketbook, snort it into each nostril with a soda straw. In just a few moments a rush of well-being and energy —I just take enough to settle in for some schoolwork, don't want to spend all day running around, talking compulsively with anyone I meet. Any kind of complicated boring project seems possible and fun. Everyone I talk to seems charming and worthy of a lengthy conversation. Toss off some book design assignment that's been annoying me for weeks, fairly much dig doing it, smooth coordinated action of hands and mind. Feel beautiful, healthy, and in absolute control.
Actually it's a nasty drug with bad physical and emotional coming down—but the big rush of optimism is out of sight, and it is a way to get almost any job done. Bop home considering all the fun things to do, since my schoolwork is now mostly up to date and I'm still feeling energetic and delighted with myself. Pick cat hairs off the carpet? Try on all my clothes one by one? Do freaky dance exercises? Wash out the refrigerator? Anything is easy to do, and once started, almost impossible to put down. Big powerful business people almost all do a lot of speed—their fucking psychiatrists prescribe it—knowing which side their bread is buttered on. So bop home, walking quickly and erect, conscious of myself like a dancer or a racehorse. Smoke a little grass to calm down and get a new point of view on how to spend my afternoon. Smoking pot on speed is very strong and trippy, calms you down and makes you more sensual, but doesn't generally wipe out that delicious energy, that sense of well-being, and that compulsive desire to talk and do and move around. I'm just sitting, minding my own business and taking drags on a joint, comes a knock on the door. It's Nathan from his apartment upstairs. Davy is going in on a grass deal with him. They just got in three kilos from the west coast, want to borrow my old man's scale to weigh the shit out. And would I like to come up and maybe help them break it up and maybe try a little of their new dope? Sure thing, not a really extraordinary offer, but certainly something I could dig this afternoon. Nathan is physically the opposite of Davy, a plump, slightly aging cherub, bright red curls and blue eyes. A really pleasant, easy going guy, also into making movies. Sees Davy over some of his rough times of coming down, always knows what to say to give someone a nice lift. So we climb the additional four flights to the sixth floor, carrying the scale in a paper bag with needless paranoia. I'm forever having to carry quantities of money and drugs when I've been speeding; and am prone to getting really freaked out: nervous about cops and such. But I can even get into digging that, sixty bucks in the bottom of my cowboy boots and a quarter pound of grass in my pocket, am I a wolf among sheep or a lamb among wolves? More of them, but I'm higher, so that's cool. I climb with Nathan to the top floor apartment he shares with still another movie-maker, really enjoying the way my legs handle the steps, no strain, I'm light as air and strong as an Olympic runner. The sun streams in the uncurtained windows, city slum stretches beyond, street noises are softer and less insistent. Heavy blues on the turntable, Davy bouncing to it and running his hands through the grass in a huge shopping bag. Haven't seen him since the time at his place, maybe a week ago, thrill of my body recognizing and craving his. Know me baby, know me, don't pretend we haven't been there together!
“How are you doing, baby?”
Touch his hair lightly, he smiles recognition, not afraid to see I still want him.
“Dig this beautiful grass. Did you bring the scale?”
The kilos are hard-pressed blocks the size of a textbook. We crumble off hunks into the bag, have to get it loose so they can weigh it out in salable quantities, an ounce or so each in a plastic sandwich bag. Maybe they should include peanut butter and jelly for favorite customers. We break up the shit, resin from the plants sticking on our fingers and under our nails. Glorious strong smell. A knock on the door; everyone jumps three feet and hides everything suspicious, cigarette papers, scale, grass, pipe, pill bottles. Just a neighbor from down the hall to inform us that junkies are using the building roof as a place to shoot up. Found works, needles and empty ampules, inside the roof door.
“Watch out, they'll steal everything.”
“Thanks for the tip, man, we'll be careful to lock up.”
He leaves, we go back to breaking up the grass. Almost done with the first stage of getting it into decently small hunks; Davy begins rolling joints from the new grass. Time to celebrate. A fresh record on the turntable and seven fat joints for the three of us. We sit cross-legged on a mattress, keeping two joints going at once, start a new one every time one is finished. Breathing nothing but dope, no time to talk, just suck in grass, pass joint, take next joint, exhale, suck in more grass. Sometimes forget to exhale. Really almost tired of smoking, colors are as bright and electric as on a trip. Force ourselves to keep smoking, really pushing, how high can we go on mere grass. My head is still flying from the speed, everything is super-cool and I'm having a ball, laughing and trying to stone myself into oblivion with these two great guys; lover and friend, three friends who could be lovers, who could do anything. More and more touch Davy as we pass joints, rub against him, put my hand on his knee.
We're all more or less collapsing, put out the last joint with an obscenely long butt. I rest my head in Davy's lap and he plays with my hair and strokes my bare shoulder. Poor Nathan is looking a bit woebegone.
I whisper in Davy's ear, “Is it okay if all three of us... ?”
“Sure, baby, wouldn't leave Nathan out of something so nice.”
I put one leg across Nathan's lap. “Why don't you join us, Nathan,” laugh, lean back into Davy's lap and rub my now bare foot back and forth on Nathan's thigh. Nathan groans slightly, begins stroking my legs and thighs. My arms are over my head behind Davy's back, he leans over me, thrusting his tongue deep back into my throat, squeezing my breasts in his hands. Nathan lies between my legs, stroking my sides and legs, and kissing my belly and cunt through the thin material of my dress. I'm moaning and rolling around, feeling all these fingers and lips, feeling super-stoned yet feeling like moving; don't just want to be fucked, but actively to fuck, grinding my hips and dancing with all my muscles, each movement effortless, rolling like a belly-dancer under their hands and mouths.
Davy rolls my dress up over my head and Nathan helps him pull it off, Davy undresses while Nathan works my underpants off with his teeth and hands. He unzips himself and I suck at his pink cock, sprawled across his lap with legs open, my ass moving up and down. Davy gets between my legs, rubbing his prick across my ass and between my legs, and then slams into me, hard, pounding, and I force my ass up to meet him, biting on Natha's prick and grunting with each thrust. Deep hard strokes fast as we can do it, and then he pulls out of me slowly, still hard. I groan and grab for his cock.
“Nathan's turn,” he laughs.
I lie back, Davy beside me, my hand squeezing his cock, his lips on my ear and neck, all over. Nathan strips, kneels between my legs, fucks me with a slow hard beat, twisting his body between my legs, drawing long sobs from me. I put my legs up, knees bent; Davy sits over me, dangling his prick over my lips, and holds my legs back hard against Nathan's thrusts. I bounce my hips against Nathan, harder and harder, grinding deep against me, want to keep fucking all day, whimpering and nibbling at Davy's prick. Nathan comes quickly and surprisingly into me, a deep groan and all the weight of his body surging into me, quivering hot gusts ripping in me. I arch my back to grind against him, but Davy forces my legs apart and down, stroking me lightly and soothing me. Nathan rolls off to lie beside me with tiny wet soft kisses. Davy and I stare at each other with bottomless hunger. He kneads my breasts and rubs his hard cock against me. “Lie on top of Nathan.”
Smiling at Nathan, I lie face down on his soft body, my legs between his, soft little penis nestled against the front of my cunt, begin deep sweet tongue kisses, feel Nathan's prick swelling a little, his hands cupping my breasts, pinching my nipples. Davy rubs my back, squeezes my ass, bites the back of my neck as he eases himself between my legs. His weight grinds me against Nathan's body, he slams into me as though he wanted to ball forever, stretch and iron out every wrinkle in my cunt, fill to overflowing every opening in my body. Nathan's prick is hard now, rubbing back and forth against my stomach and clitoris, pushing the lips of my cunt sharp against Davy's driving cock. Nathan's legs are outside mine and Davy's, he moves against us and squeezes our legs tight together. We're all bouncing and grinding our hips and bellies like mad, Nathan begins rolling under me, beginning to come, Davy rams into me with all his hunger, all his force to fill me and stuff every quivering inch into me, coming in hard shuddering spasms, Nathan's prick spurting against my clit, I explode between them, shaking my ass, opening my legs and pressing them tight together, rolling and moaning between the two throbbing insistent bodies, waves and waves of hard gasping pleasure shuddering forth between my legs. We sink back, wet, tangled together, stinking of sex, and stoned out of our minds.
So every once in a while I drop by Davy's place, and sometimes he pretends he doesn't know me, and sometimes things are cool. Nathan's still a friend, all right, and I can hang around his place and smoke dope and watch the tube—but I believe that scene the other day rather freaked him out. So I play good little girl who got a bit too stoned. Not that anyone believes that sort of thing; you always are yourself, always do what you want—but it's a social convention that allows such episodes to be put aside and forgotten until an appropriate occasion.
Things are complicated but okay with the old man; he digs group scenes with other couples, which we don't have a tremendous amount of luck arranging; but basically it's a traditional possessive relationship. The couples who are really intensely interested in that scene, “swingers,” are very uptight, uptown, well-groomed types—a real drag. Really afraid to get old and fat without ever having lived. No real grip on the grooviness of living and loving, of fucking as something nice to share with other people. They terrify me, they really do. Slender bodies maintained in gyms, at country clubs, and on diets; fashionably hip color-coordinated suits and ties, fashionably intense desire to find out what it's really all about and make use of my tender hippie flesh to do so. Man, my tender hippie flesh is for anyone with the cool to share it with me, but I'm totally turned off by impotent advertising executives who just haven't learned it's no big thing. If you're too terrified of life and love and the earth to fuck me, just lie in the dark and groove on being flesh, on feeling desire because another human being, a strange and unknown human being, is naked and open to you. I just can't put up with the masculine performing art of sex; I'd rather get high and hold hands with a hippie any time.
Shit, holding hands is one of the great childhood pleasures that drugs make possible again. You walk into a darkened room at a party, maybe you dropped some THC (synthetic grass but much stronger and trippier), maybe you just smoked some hashish. Someone equally stoned is collapsed listening to music, his head resting on his hands, long golden hah-, fairy-tale prince silky hair, hanging down over his face. Sit by him, feel your legs receding, feel the long pauses in the music, and the tension and unvoiced desire between two beautiful young bodies. Unbearable desire to stroke that hair, to caress that poignantly bent back, the body holding a mind lost deeply in itself.
You sit closer, touch his hand, he takes your hand in his with a soft, blind gesture. Close your eyes, and lean your head back against the wall, feeling the light pressure of his fingers against your palm rushing through your nervous system, making you dizzy and open to every pulse or movement of his hand—totally existing in your locked hands, fingers caressing or pressed tight, a tender and total link between your desires. That's sex too. That's a lot more where it's at than wife-swapping in the suburbs, put the kid to bed (it was before pills, ya know), and take out the one pipeful of grass reserved for such occasions. Now the hippies will teach us about love. I don't know, I just don't know if you can teach a thing like that. Those swinger freaks sure taught me about sterility and fear. You just hold hands as described above, for maybe two, three hours, and then see if you can handle moving on to balling while keeping tenderness and intensity at that same level. So it can't possibly matter who performs how or what, but just this fantastic thing human bodies do for each other.
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