We hadn’t discussed it, but he tells me that he wants me to be the one to inject him.
He can’t do it himself, he says. The sight of blood makes him nauseated.
I grew up in a medical household, reading anatomy textbooks and watching videos of surgeries over grilled cheese sandwiches. I’ve given injections before and I’m not squeamish with blood. But right now, I’m freaking out a bit.
It’s not a discomfort with the body that’s making me nervous. It’s the reality that he’s about to pump a quantity of chemicals cooked up in a bathtub directly into his arm and that if something goes wrong, I could be held responsible for administering the substance.
I just shake my head and tell him to go ahead, while I flop back onto the bed. Once the syringe is ready, I pull up a chair next to him, wrap the tourniquet around his arm, find the vein and clean the area with an alcohol compress.
He turns his head away while I inject and I place a cotton ball over the point while I withdraw the needle, closing his elbow to stop the flow of blood.
My experiences with chemicals have always been energizing. Maybe it’s because I associate them with warehouse parties and techno beats, but they just made me want to dance. With him, they seem to dispel his nervous energy, leaving him relaxed and calm.
He returns to the bed, this time on his knees with his ass in the air and I mount him from behind. The whole thing is strangely normal. If I hadn’t shot him up myself, I’d have no idea he was high.
We continue fucking rhythmically for a while, me alternately pounding his ass hard, then leaning forward to kiss his neck and play with his nipples. I’d always envisioned PnP sex (party and play sex, also known as chemsex) to be sort of violent and shaky. But he just seems very relaxed.
I’m getting close to coming so I reach around to grab his dick. It’s completely flaccid, either because of the drugs or his nerves or both. I assume he’s not even going to try to come, so I flip him over, straddle his face and jerk off into his mouth.
There’s a thing that happens sometimes with guys when they orgasm, where whatever comfort that has been built up suddenly shatters and they return to the shy, awkward state they arrived in. In this case, it seems my orgasm does that to him.
With drops of semen still on his face, he turns away from me staring, at the wall. I cuddle up next to him, trying to make it feel more intimate.
He doesn’t pull away but his openness is gone. After a few minutes, he quietly gets up, returns to the desk and begins getting dressed. He carefully puts all his items back in his bag and puts on his shoes.
It feels odd that we’ve just shared this moment of intimacy, and now it feels so cold and disconnected. I walk towards him, gather him in my arms and press my lips to his. He kisses back with his eyes closed. When he opens them, he crosses my gaze for a fraction of a second, before returning his eyes to the floor.
“You have to understand — it’s very difficult for me,” he says. “That’s the reason for the drugs. I can’t be with a man otherwise.”
My impulse is to try to start a processing session but he needs to leave in less than 10 minutes to meet his wife, so I decide it’s better not to initiate something I’m unlikely to finish and leave him more fucked up than before.
I see him to the door and send him on his way with a peck on the cheek and a pat on his ass. He pauses in the hall for a moment and I think he’s going to say something. But he just turns and walks toward the elevators without looking back.
I flop onto the bed and start clicking through the TV channels until I stumble on the Colin Farrell remake of Total Recall.
Usually the moments right after a session, when I’m alone with my drying jizz and a stack of bills, are among the most contented in my life. But right now I feel conflicted.
I gave him what he wanted but somehow I don’t feel like I gave him what he needed. It’s not my job to fix people psychologically — I’m here to offer sexual satisfaction.
But when I encounter someone who seems so clearly in need of therapy, I can’t help but feel like it’s my job to reach out to them.
My limited view of the PnP scene had led me to believe certain things about the guys who were in it. I had the idea that once they tried sex with drugs it was just never the same without them.
But now I see that’s not always the case. With George, drugs weren’t about lowering his inhibitions and heightening his pleasure — drugs were a way to temporarily erase the crippling shame that prevented him from even beginning to access his desires.
It’s sad to see someone settle for temporarily escaping guilt in lieu of true self-acceptance. At the same time, he’s managed to find a way to explore his sexuality. However conflicted he might be, maybe I should be happy for him?
Sex and drugs have never gone together for me. But for other people, they literally can’t be separated.