The Hemorrhaging of a Crystal Soul

I suppose it’s his swarthy complexion that leads men to offer him drugs.

He is my friend and I am his sage and thus his recent acquisition of meth came into my hands.

Yes, meth.

The big bad.

In spite of my experience it scares me.

The state of instability one must find themselves in to encourage use of such a compound is surely severe; I believe a past self would ask no questions.

I do have questions, however, and thankfully the gay scene—the scene in which my friend of ambiguous exotica was offered the small baggy of chemical achievement—is rich with nodes of experience.

So was the man that approached me as I breathed a contemplative cigarette on the 2am curb of this twilight hour.

From Halifax, a formative ground on which my memory falters and emotional resonance dictates the account, he entered my abode.

Invited, of course. I needed a sage myself; I needed a man mentored in the minefield of meth.

Trouble is, I don’t have a pipe because I’m not a meth user and the inclination was not rooted on my radar. Yet circumstance took its course and so was I, Halifax man, and an Indian man with earrings sitting in my bed and desk room on what is thankfully a weekend.

The man was of a peculiar sort, yet absolutely recognizable to me.

He was a Halifax gay.

His wife knows of his craving for cock and his children will surely piece it together as the teasing intensifies.

A jolly banter of Reflections and The Fruit Loop ensued! Only in chastise had I mentioned these names before — to be a part of the culture and identify with another member, what a thrill!

I found myself conscious of where my knife was in the room.

Indian man left on an excuse less viable than a damp cigarette.

You give a man drugs, drink, and conversation, and still they want more.

Acceptance is an all or nothing package, apparently.

Halifax man probed and I parried; he groped and I guarded; he insisted and so did I.

You have a story, I told him.

Is that not better than a piece of ass?

He did not seem to agree.

I asked him what I liked.

I had told him I liked to read and write. I had told him I was a bottom.

He told me I liked to bottom.

Misfortune lies in the ear of perception.

An objective reading of the evening would highlight a net win for the man who dared cross the street. His objectifying reading came to a different conclusion, although came is perhaps not the right word.

I fed him a grape and directed his hand towards his own body.

Like a child at a toy store told firmly and finally by that all too engaged parental voice—you are not getting that, you have plenty of toys at home—I lead him outside to his quickly cooling friend.

That was the end of eye-contact and civility, but perhaps the beginning of courteous behaviour reciprocate.

It’s okay to have urges, wants, desires—passions of a moment. But if in following those most carnal impulses you find yourself in a position lacking empathy and consideration, then the best recuperation is found in withdrawal. Pressing forward with an acknowledged mistake is surely the most egregious path a person may take. I know; I am the sage.

And so I sit now at desk and laptop, wondering: What will wear off first? The meth or the man’s impression on my soul?

First times have an uncanny knack for imposing titular dominance and alas, I have forgotten his name.

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