Sex and drugs have never really overlapped in my life.
My teen years prior to that phase were rife with experimentation and my mid-20s saw me wholeheartedly embrace my identity as a slut. My adult intake has been reduced to moderate drinking and the occasional toke of pot (which goes nicely with intimate relations). But at the point in my life when I was snorting and swallowing my way through most weekends, it was also one of the least sexual times in my life.
I’m obviously aware of party and play (PnP) culture among gay and bi men — guys seeking to reduce inhibition and increase pleasure with recreational drugs.
While sex work has seen me ready to try nearly anything for the right amount of money, I’ve actively avoided PnP.
Part of it is the fact that drugs generally make me feel anything but sexy. Another factor is that clients into PnP are often looking for guys who’ll accept drugs as partial payment. They’ll try to convince you to do an all-nighter in exchange for a few hundred bucks and as much as you can smoke or snort.
For guys who use escorting primarily to fund their partying, it might be a worthwhile deal. But if, like me, your income from turning tricks is designated for supporting an art practice, paying a mortgage, or both, drugs in lieu of cash isn’t exactly tempting.
I get approached about PnP often by clients. I generally say something to the effect that I don’t mind if they do drugs, but I won’t join in. That’s largely unappealing for them though, because taking the drugs together is part of the experience. If one partner is sober, it messes with the vibe.
As a result, my experiences with PnP have been negligible. But on a recent trip to Ottawa, I got a message from George.
His first email is long and specific. He’s a bottom looking for a romantic session lasting three hours. He specifies everything from which position he wants to be fucked in, to how I should kiss his neck.
The final paragraph details his drug habits. Substances, he says, are essential to his sexual experience. He wants to take some G (liquid ecstasy), smoke a little Tina (crystal meth), and about halfway through, he wants to “slam” (parlance for injecting).
I assume he’s not going to be interested if I don’t partake as well, so I send a polite email back, saying yes to everything except the drugs. I leave the door open, letting him know I’m fine with him doing whatever he wants as long as he can stay in control. To my surprise, he doesn’t care if I stay sober and wants to come by within the hour.
Not long after, there’s a knock at my door. I open it to a small, clean-cut guy with thick black glasses and a three-piece suit. He briefly glances at my face, then walks past me into the room and begins unpacking the bag he has with him on the table.
He carefully extracts items one at a time and lays them out — lube, condoms, gloves, a bottle of apple juice, a vial of G, a pipe, three baggies of Tina, a tourniquet, alcohol swabs and a pack of syringes. Even though he told me in advance that he wanted to slam, I’m still startled when the syringes land on the table.
Everything seems to be out of his bag and he’s just staring at the objects on the table. I come up behind him, wrapping my arms around him and he jumps a little. Putting my hands on his hips, I swivel his body towards me and hold him close. He melts comfortably into me, but keeps his face towards the floor.
“It’s okay,” I say. “You don’t have to be nervous.”
His eyes flick up and he meets my gaze for a split second, before returning to the carpet.
“It’s just hard for me,” he says. “I hope you understand it’s not because I don’t like you.”
I give him another squeeze and a kiss on the cheek.
“Whatever works for you,” I say. “No pressure.”
He breaks our embrace and turns his attention back to the table. He picks up the vial of G and I realize how nervous he is as I watch his hands shake, trying to get it open.
He manages to do it and then takes out one of the syringes from the package. For a moment I’m terrified, thinking he plans to inject it. But he just wants to use it to measure the amount.
His shaking hands mean he can’t get the needle in the neck of the vial, so I take it from him and measure the desired quantity. He opens the apple juice, squirts it in, and then knocks it back in two or three gulps.
Next, he empties a bag of Tina into the pipe and lights up. I watch him as he smokes. His hands already seem less shaky, but I’m assuming that’s just him feeling more comfortable and not the drugs kicking in.
He doffs his suit, carefully folding the pants and hanging the shirt and jacket on the back of the chair. He’s got a lean body, darkly tanned with an ample bulge encased in white Calvin Klein briefs.
I put my hands around his waist and guide him towards the bed, seating him on the edge. I drop my jeans, pull my T-shirt slowly over my head and guide his face to my crotch. He rubs his nose along the outline of my cock and balls, sucking at them through the fabric.
I’m rock hard and feel ready to fuck so I push him back onto the bed, slide a pillow under his ass and enter him. His hole opens easily and his eyes roll back in his head while I tease his nipples.
After a few minutes of slowly riding him, he asks me to pass him the pipe. He sparks up as I continue to fuck him.
We continue this rhythm, me fucking, him taking occasional hauls on the pipe. I can feel myself getting close to coming but I don’t want to finish too soon in case I can’t get hard again. I kiss him deeply and withdraw, saying we should take a break.
I get a couple of glasses of water from the bathroom and then come back to cuddle up next to him. Sessions usually start with a little small talk, but we’ve hardly exchanged two words, so I try to figure out a little more about him.
“Any plans for later?” I ask.
“Yes, I have a meeting around five.”
“Back to the office I guess?”
“No actually,” he says. “I need to pick up my wife.”
The majority of your clients in the sex business are going to be married so it shouldn’t be shocking when someone volunteers that they’re hitched. For some reason, his admission takes me by surprise.
I know a lot of bi guys find action on the side. But it never occurred to me that men already hiding a secret sex life from their wives would also be managing a drug habit on the side.
His story comes pouring out.
He’s been married for 25 years and has two children. He’d long suspected he was gay, but only started experimenting with men a couple of years ago.
His wife knows, but looks the other way. They’ve been sleeping in separate beds for more than a decade and haven’t had sex since their second child was born.
His story is familiar though the timeline seems quite compressed. Two years is a long time to go from furtive blowjobs to drug-fuelled fuck-fests.
It turns out substances weren’t so much an evolution as a necessity. Even after coming out to himself, he’s still incredibly uncomfortable with his sexuality. He knew what he wanted to do, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. An early hookup once saw him get so drunk in advance he vomited in the middle of the sex.
Then a guy he met online suggested they do Tina together. He was immediately hooked. Not addicted to the substance that is, but dependent on the inhibition it brought. Finally, he was able to have the sex he wanted without the shame and discomfort.
We still have a little less than an hour on the clock so I propose we start round two. Either the conversation, his diminishing high, or both have caused him to retreat into himself. I’m half hoping we can just continue as is, but he stands and heads to the desk, saying it’s time for him to slam . . .