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a piece by Don Baird
Booty Bump...sounds like a cute dance you might have learned in
high school, or maybe some incredible thing that Beyonce does with
her ass on MTV, but it's something else entirely. It's a method of
administering crystal meth by mixing it with water and putting the
liquid in a syringe with the needle broken off, sticking it up your
ass and injecting it. It is also, in my opinion, one of the least
effective ways to do crystal and highly undignified and awkward.
Instead of merely passing someone a mirror and a straw to snort from,
or a glass pipe or bong to smoke from, the booty bumper will have
to prepare their apparatus, take down their pants, elevate their
ass above their heads and often ask someone else to help press the
plunger, then remain ass up in front of others until they feel the
liquid is completely absorbed. It can really cast an awkward shadow
over the usual greet and snort or ritualistic passing of the pipe.
It's an unusually high maintenance spectacle that screams, "look
at me, I'm putting drugs up my ass, the first of many things to be
going up there tonight, I hope," because often times the person
who booty bumps acts as if it's a magic key, suddenly opening the
door to the kingdom of passive anal pleasure. The most it has ever
done for me is give me an upset stomach.
Personally I've always preferred snorting it, the process can be
quick and easily concealed on the sly, or more elaborate and ritualistic,
like on a mirror, divided into lines and passed around for more
formal situations. There are literally hundreds of plastic straw
exchange
programs in operation citywide, often at fast food franchises and
participating Starbucks where the straws are green and wide and
extra sturdy, none of those skinny little black cocktail straws,
I hate
those.
Choosing to administer through your nose will usually keep you
away from those weekly treks behind Safeway to the needle exchange,
waiting in line wearing dark glasses and wigs like you're getting
ready to rob a bank. That's an exaggeration, not everyone who
does drugs intravenously wears disguises to the needle exchange,
in
fact you would be surprised at the array of socio-economic levels,
paupers to professionals that you will see there, but some of
my friends have definitely donned wigs for the chore, and some
even
refer to it as the wig exchange. Some use the term as euphemism
for times when they might be overheard by others or during phone
conversations as phone lines might be tapped you know, and what
could be more wholesome then a fun trip to the wig exchange or
the novice IV drug user who needs assistance might ask a friend
to "style their wig" for them. I personally have a
definite aversion to needles and have never administered drugs
that way
and never will as I sometimes faint at the sight of a needle
pricking skin.
Over the years I've watched some of my friends graduate to the
IV method and often wondered why. Another straw toting friend
said, "You
know why don't you? So they won't have to share with us anymore." Perhaps
that's why, but just because I stayed with the straw doesn't mean
I'm not familiar with those who shoot up, their habits and behaviors
as well as the judgment and much of the stigma they face for their
choice. This is because I participated in a couple of benefits
for the needle exchange program many years ago, as it was one sure
way to decrease the high number of HIV infections in the city.
My assistance involved modeling some clever accessories crafted
by a generous and talented wig stylist called the "I-can't-believe-they're-for-junkies" arm
bands, which were like socks with the end cut off and pulled up
the arm from here to here and decorated with bows or tracks from
a toy train set sewed on them, bedazzled with studs, plaid for
fall, holiday themes, some even fur-lined and of course all proceeds
from their sales were donated to the program. That's one good deed
I'll probably never live down. All because I modeled a few armbands
and a rubber bathing cap covered with syringe caps and whimsically
titled "A day at the beach," many people forever thought
I was an IV user. I might as well just be wearing a button all
the time that says, "Excuse me, is this the line for the needle
exchange?" But I don't mind the association really; I've always
been pretty forthright about my own drug use, my general rule being
if you do drugs, just do drugs and don't lie about it and don't
blame it on anyone else, especially someone who was nice enough
to share their drugs with you. Take responsibility for your own
actions. If someone asks how you are just say, "I'm on speed,
day two and I'm spun the fuck out," if that applies. However,
these days I might suggest being a little less than forthright
about using crystal methedrine, as the drug has endured a huge
media demonization (not to mention the Rufus Wainwright seal
of disapproval) and special task forces have been assigned to
eradicate
the substance as it ravages the Castro and spreads HIV and syphilis
throughout the gay community, dancing lead with young gay victims,
down the path of self destruction by providing that false sense
of well being and invincibility and heightened sexual urges that
lead to unprotected sex, bug chasing, and even selective infecting
by twisted vindictive evil villains with minds corroded by advanced
drug addiction, yeah, like a Jackie Collins novel. That's a lot
of stuff to pin down to a substance that for some people produces
frenzied projects that draw them away from other people and more
to hot glue guns and window treatments and sponge painting and
organizing collections or pinching your own nipples for 12 hours
straight or developing an advanced level of paranoia that leads
you to call the police and report that your neighbors are trying
to drive your cat insane, or dumpster diving for things to put
up your ass or gazing out your window into a neighbors window
and seeing him jacking off and joining him for hours of exhibitionism
till the sun is up and you realize you've been cruising a large
houseplant and sofa all night, and other games that don't require
two or more players and seldom involve unprotected sexual activities
as they seldom involve other real people.
Often times people who do speed do a fair amount of cruising
for sex via the phone lines and the Internet. These methods often
require
a general descriptive message left for others to hear or read
and decide if they might be a match. Keywords for people who
are doing
speed are 'partying,' 'PnP,' or often 'slamming' or any reference
to 'points' if they're shooting. Other thinly veiled references
to 'party favors,' 'Tina' and 'Chrissy' or 'crystals' really
make me cringe whenever I hear or see them.
These girly code names are a major turn off and make no sense
at all as I'm sure if the narcotics task force is tapping into
these
conversations on an all male sex connect line, hearing "We're
partying with Tina tonight!" is really gonna thwart their
investigation. When I hear it I assume this person is no one I
want to meet let alone fuck and I often respond with, "Do
you mean crystal methamphetamine, Agent 99?" Their cover is
blown. Click. I prefer to call it crack or just dope, that's far
more butch -- must gay men feminize everything? Does speed really
turn us into such Nellie swishy bottoms we have to nickname it
after a character on Dynasty? One need also be aware that anyone
asking if you're partying and further details about it, like "what
are you partying with? Do you have a lot?" might not only
be a cop but could also be a spun out bag chaser - a high maintenance
bore of a sex partner whose quest isn't for the biggest dick or
hottest sex but more the biggest bag of dope. These are the ones
who will snort or smoke up every bit of dope you have and rifle
through your pockets when you freshen up in the bathroom, take
your cash and when you discover it's gone, will help you tear apart
your room looking for it for hours, then when your connection stops
by with the stuff you were going to buy until your money disappeared,
your trick disappears with him, of course, with the guy with the
bigger bag. Bag chasing can go to some shameless extremes sometimes,
for instance when your trick innocently asks, "Can you piss
inside me?" Yeah, believe it. A person wanting to get more
high so badly they'll not only be penetrated without a condom but
won't mind smelling like 6th Street from the inside out to get
that way. I usually respond with a curt "I'm pee shy, sorry," or
if I'm really feeling cruel I'll say, "I can, you would most
certainly overdose." And I think about those men hanging out
in urinals in gay bars, making it a nightmare for people like me,
just to take a piss, as they incessantly ask to drink yours, thrusting
empty cups in front of you at the communal trough. "No way
sponge bob, get your own high!" No wonder I'm pee shy.
There are a couple of annoying dynamics you'll often find when
hooking up with guys and doing speed, one of my least favorite
scenarios are with those guys who just can't wait to get high
then they announce that speed makes them unable to get a hard-on.
First
off, anyone who states they can't get hard on speed has already
made a decision, admitted a defeat, chosen the course of events
to follow without challenge. They have accepted the fate of 'crystal
dick' without even trying to step out of that mindset and get
past that obstacle. They've written the story and that story
is tired
and I don't buy it. A good workman never blames his tools, and
if your dick is limp don't blame it on speed, cocaine maybe but
if a substance makes you incapable of achieving an erection then
wouldn't you avoid it when hooking up for sex? I think crystal
dick is a malady or psychosomatic condition invented by males
with an ulterior motive, not unlike the legendary condition known
as
blue balls, the alleged painful result of being aroused repeatedly
without ever ejaculating; a totally archaic ploy to get good
girls to provide sexual relief to their suffering boyfriends,
after which
they usually drop the girl and she ends up in a sanitarium for
whores. But what is the ulterior motive behind having crystal
dick? Hmmmm. Could it possibly be to facilitate being the enthusiastic
passive anal partner who is 'usually a top', except when they're
on speed, and then they transform into the bottom that ate San
Francisco, they use you up, milk you, drain you of your essence,
and then start asking if you have any room mates, dildoes, big-dicked
friends you could call, more dildoes, a code for the phone line,
etc. So you see, speed definitely turns many guys who like to
consider
themselves tops into hungry bottoms or the bottomless, as I like
to call them. I even know heterosexual males who do speed and
claim to get and I quote, "butt hungry" and end up
fucking themselves with their girlfriend's sex toys all night.
The alleged
crystal dick affliction then is attributed with shutting down
one avenue of sexual activity and opening another quite wide
like a
four lane highway for those who have to justify this behavior
as a definite aberration from their usual top status. I guess
some
guys are still hung up on playing the passive anal role, like
it makes them 'the girl,' or something firmly entrenched in screwed
up antiquated notions of masculinity. Certain friends of mine
and
I often joke while reading profiles of men cruising online for
sex that if they state they're tops, that means they're really
bottoms. It's shocking how frequently it's true really, especially
very late at night.
One time I viewed an ad placed by a couple and they seemed appealing
enough except for the statement, "No PnP, no tweakers, not
into guys who party." Thinking this to be some kind of unusual
challenge I pretended to be okay with that detail and arranged
to pay them a visit. I knew I could be adequately convincing
in the role of a non-user, one of my lesser known talents, and
I figured
I wouldn't have to submit to a blood test or anything so this
might be kind of fun. Then afterwards I would confess that I
was on drugs
and show them how lame they were for excluding drug users in
their quest for sex.
I arrived to their home and was ushered into their somewhat cluttered
bedroom just in time to see one of them snorting a big fat line
of speed from a mirror and shove it out of site. Delighted with
this unexpected discovery, I said, "Hey, you guys said you
weren't into PnP tweakers and partying in your ad. What's the deal
here?" One of them started stammering out some kind of explanation,
when the other stated matter-of-factly, "No we said we weren't
into tweakers and guys who party, we didn't say that we don't party." I
was perplexed and disturbed. "Why the hypocrisy, you condemn
people who do drugs yet you do them yourselves?" The stammering
one said, "We have nothing against people who do speed, lots
of our friends do it, we don't condemn them for it." I said, "Your
ad doesn't seem to clearly reflect that sentiment. What's the point?" One
of them in an exasperated raised voice said, "Look, we're
both total bottom pigs and we were looking for someone who could
keep a hard on. Most tweakers can't. That's why our ad says that,
okay!" I was amazed and repulsed. "So you said that just
to be assured of a trick who can go the distance?" They laughed
a bit and one of them said "That's right stud," removing
his sweat pants to reveal his wilted, dormant, likely even cold
to the touch member, trussed up in a variety of cock rings. "And
you look like you can meet the challenge, so how about we stop
talking about it and start fucking?" He made a grab for my
cock and I stepped back and said, "Well, I would but I can't.
I must confess, I'm high too, so I'm really not what your looking
for am I? Goodnight gentlemen." I showed myself out.
I've met tricks for sex who I've watched lose their minds in
as short as 90 minutes. Then there was the one who told me that
he
knew there were fiber optic cameras in the holes in my ceiling
where the mirror ball used to hang and offered to prove this
to me if I had a pair of needle-nosed pliers, and I did but something
told me to not place any form of tool in that ones hands. He
said
he wouldn't have sex knowing he was being filmed and it was sick
motherfuckers like me who deserve to be castrated like rapists
and child molesters and left. I made a mental note to buy some
Spackle.
One time I had been playing with this guy for hours in that perfect
accelerated and charged amphetamine fervor that does happen from
time to time where you are both inspired to exhaust every known
sexual activity possible between two people, no act too difficult,
every option approached with zeal, every mountain climbed. We
were having such a good time we decided to invite another person
to
join us. We chose a buddy of mine who I knew was fun and he came
over and wanted to get high before we started going again. He
asked me, "Do you have a wig for me?" and I promptly
went to ask my roommate for one. While I was out of the room
the other
guest asked my friend, "What do you need a wig for?" to
which my friend coyly responded, "I always have to wear
a wig every time I do a hit." I returned with the apparatus
and saw that my first guest was dressing hurriedly. I said, where
are you going and he told me he had to feed the parking meter
and would be right back. He never returned. We couldn't figure
it out
then a few hours later another friend called us and said the
guy had fled our place and came to his saying he had narrowly
escaped
being killed by some queen who was gonna put on a wig and kill
him, mafia hit man style. That friend tried to calm the confused
guy down but he was inconsolable and apparently was sent back
home to Mom and Dad in New Jersey in a matter of 48 hours. If
he hadn't
gone home we probably would have stalked him wearing wigs just
for laughs.
I often like to confront people who have taken their drug experience
to the delusional extreme and later ask them to explain some
of the odd claims and hallucinations and behaviors in hindsight.
Many
say you shouldn't but I always feel like it helps people come
to terms with what happened. I often feel like speed gets scapegoated
as the one-way ticket to psychosis and often upon inspection
you
realize that some people don't need drugs to be fucked up. I
also feel it's not exactly fair to blame speed use on the inability
to get an erection. It's a sorry excuse, just like the people
who
get high and find themselves having unsafe sex and it's understood
and sympathized with. "I had unsafe sex because I was high
on speed," is a sorry excuse. It might work in therapy or
in meetings or support groups or as a doctor prescribes post-exposure
prophylaxis but in the here and now there's bound to be many
more reasons of a darker deeper more complex nature behind the
dangerous
stupid things you might do, especially if it's something so clearly
wrong you ultimately don't want to take responsibility for it.
Blame the drugs? I don't buy it.
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