Monday, May 13, 2013

i'm getting tired of telling these stories (part 1)

or maybe it's more i'm getting tired of living 'em.  whatever--

he called outta the blue last week--a very pleasant surprise, because joaquin is special.  when last we'd spoken, he was preparing to head down into mexico, the land of his parents, to research indigenous ingredients and recipes for a cookbook he was writing--joaquin is a fine young chef--and he'd call me when he got back, fix me a great meal. that had been almost two years ago.

he was back in LA, he told me, working as a private chef for a family in the hills above sunset plaza, they were outta town, he was without a car, he'd love to see me and could i come get him?  we arranged for late last night, and when i texted him that i'd arrived, he emerged from the house looking much as i'd seen him last--lanky and cute, with thick, black hair falling over his eyes, and that smile.

and those lips--he gave me a hungry kiss when he got in, and as we drove the narrow, twisting back route connecting his canyon to mine, i remembered how it had been with him, and sped up a little.

he'd done a lot of living in these last two years, he told me during the drive--from mexico, he'd gone on to work on film locations all over the world (sixteen-hour days, nothing glamorous about it, he assured me), and was happy to be back home in a low-stress job that would allow him the time to finally finish his book (and maybe even spend some time with me, i hoped).

and then at my place, in my bed, he broke away from me at a moment in which he would have never broken away before, to reach into his bag.

"you don't mind, do you?", he asked, as he started fiddling with the paraphernalia.  "i wanna feel it with you this way--the instant the needle comes outta my arm, i want your dick going in."

and i just said, "well, we'd better time it right, then--gimme a minute, 'cause i've lost it."  and he did, and i put it outta my mind, rose to the occasion like i always do, and then we did.

and it was wild, and he was wild, and not joaquin at all.  i entered him much faster and harder than i would have joaquin, and his tightness gave way and i was deep and he was clawing at my back and gasping into my neck and sweating and bucking and straining for more, and his eyes rolled back and he was off into some place that didn't include me at all.

but whatever it was he was experiencing, it wasn't sex, i know that.  sex with joaquin had always started slow and sweet and ended with him coming like a freight train, all the while kissing my lips and looking into my eyes.  but this--whatever it is these walking dead experience, and as transcendent as it may be for them, it's not sex, or at least not human sex, because the dick always knows what sex is--and when the mouse stays soft, small and sleeping inside its little house when the body it belongs to is doing what we did, it's not sex, and i don't care what anybody says.

afterwards, drenched in sweat--mine and (mostly) his--i asked him if he's gonna be able to sleep, and he said yeah, it leaves him quickly.  and it did (after he showed me all 68 apps on his ipad in three minutes, that is), and he fell asleep in my arms, and as he snored gently like he used to, i pushed the wet strands of hair out of his eyes, looked at his face, kissed his mouth (he responded in his sleep, just like he used to), and wondered what would become of this boy whom i'd once thought was so focused, so grounded, so together for his age and so immune to this shit.

oh, joaquin is 25 years old.

stay tuned for part 2, and lorenzo


Will said...

If you talk turkey to him, do you think he will listen?

noblesavage said...

So, Joaquin @ 25 is a junky and you are:

1. Refusing to participate in something that you find morally problematic at best and ruinous both spiritually and physically at worst;

2. Engaging in harm reduction where you talk frankly and suggest practically ways of minimizing the harm that injection drug use can provide and gently suggesting that it might be a good idea to reduce and then eliminate this from the repertoire -- with the average life span of meth IV users is something like 2 years;


3. Enabling him, at least for a night.

As you have suggested, it is a dark and scary place that is not about a human connection and not about sex...and, if I may, not terribly appealing.

So, what are you going to do about it?

Anonymous said...

Wow ... this one really fucked with my head. Too damn close to home.

They say first you snort, then you smoke and then you slam.

I was smoking the shit by time I landed in rehab, which is where I learned about slamming, the word we use for shooting up. It's supposed to be better than an orgasm ... but once you start, you sort of cross over and can't stop.

I hate to say it, but if this guy has already found the needle, then it's just a matter of time ... he will function until he can't function and when the shit stops working hopefully he'll find himself in some form of recovery.

I had a similar experience towards the very end. He was a school teacher. He kind of looked like Matthew Broderick from his Ferris Buller dayz, only high ... very high. He had already gotten into trouble with drugs, so he could not have any needle marks on his body, not even between his toes, so he would slam the shit into his eyeballs. NO LIE!!! I thought he was a freak. I didn't know slamming was all he rage. I told him to do it in the bathroom; he was killing my high.

And I loved, loved, LOVED what you wrote about it not being sex. No one has spelled out the truth in that way before.

And there's really nothing you can do about it. You can't cure, can't cause, can't control. He'll be done when he's done.

Excellent read.