Losing myself in weird sex and methamphetamines has been a seductive and, frankly, highly reliable escape from life’s troubles throughout my entire adult life. It’s taken me to the further reaches of my sexual horizon in the process: In the sling at gay bathhouses, wrapped rectum-first around the gargantuan members of trans escorts, dressed in fanciful lingerie trying to shove anything resembling a phallus inside myself. The list goes on. It’s uncovered so many sides to my sexual identity that I’ve effectively excluded myself from our entrenched categorizations and communities—gay, bi straight, male, non-binary, female—by trying to live them all out at once. I have greedily niche’d myself into the other, which I suppose is a privilege unto itself. Mostly, I just scroll Grindr and load endless tabs of straight anal Pornhub videos for a later viewing that never materializes. It’s a vortex from which it takes me days to return, and even then, I’m a laggard comedown zombie, detached from the world and liable to fall into all kinds of mental ruts. Under normal circumstances, it’s a problematic habit, to say the least. But as these are problematic times, sometimes your problems become solutions..
I’ve developed a process for surviving this whole global lockdown: losing whole weeks in amphetamine smoke between the longing legs of off-duty Colombian trans working girls from Grindr, followed by another week of slumber and inertia. It got me through the first two months of ‘quarantina’ with remarkable efficiency. I tell people I’m surprised how easily I’ve taken to isolation, but it’s less because of some zen-like state of metaphysical stability, and more about spending consecutive days and nights obsessed with nothing but sex and then sleeping it off unbothered by things like work and friends and family. As I am intent on not finding out the hard way, there’s a limit to this kind of thing before you find yourself itching the spiders off of your skin as you sleep in the gutter, and here’s how I found that I may have reached as close as I’d like to get.
With no tourists in town, most girls who would usually be on the job as sex workers are bored, lonely, and more than happy to escape from their bare rooms to spend time together with me just for the joy of my company, or maybe just my drugs. There was Ana, a beautiful Colombian with full lips, a thick cock, a cold sore, and no apparent reason to eventually go home, got comfortable and stayed with me for days in between our truly passionate fuck sessions. We really got along, even though she barely spoke any English, and I barely any Spanish. Then there was Steffany, an even more beautiful Peruvian, who taught me the real meaning of garganto profundo as she had her way with my face orifice for hours on end. It was a throat workout. All in all, I couldn’t believe my luck. All this sexual joy, and I hadn’t even left the house! Technically, I was abiding the lockdown, so save your moral hand-wringing…
Then came El Amigo. When I saw his monumental frame, humongous member, and penchant for BDSM online, it all suggested he may be a fitting climax to my endeavor. My tweaker logic somehow decided it was a good idea to pay for his time, despite the deluge of phallus available on the apps, even considering the boner-killing moralists warning everyone else to #stayathome. Whatever, I was high, this was the end of the run, and I wanted it a spectacular finish. By this point, I had been up for days, had a solid case of the jitters, a streak of growing paranoia, and every part of my body except my genitals and nervous system telling me I should have been in bed a long time ago.
When the buzzer finally rang, I doubled down on the moment and told the voice on the other end to come upstairs….
Flying at the end of an intermittent weeklong speed bender, I decided to surprise EL Amigo, and answered the door in nothing but a black g-string donated from one of the girls. I pulled the door back slowly from behind. Nobody entered. As I peeked my head and nude frame around the door, I saw that it was not the muscle-bound Amigo as ordered, but a very confused looking delivery man holding a package. It was my AKAI keyboard, weeks late, but finally here. The look of surprise on his face was only bettered by my own, I’m sure, as I took the package from him and closed the door with a mix of alarm, amusement, and shame. What the fuck, dude. I should have taken that as a clear sign that I was not reading the world right.
When Amigo finally did arrive, he was a physical specimen, indeed, but a salesman above all, hustler extraordinaire. Within 20 minutes, I had Paypalled him more money, a dealer was on the way with the drugs he promised he’d have anyway, and he was shuffling around the apartment smiling through his braces like an idiot, dancing to music, and asking me for everything from weed to whiskey, taking stock of all the valuables in the place like he was casing the joint. He knew I was a sucker. I knew I had made a mistake. Adonis indeed, but I did not like him. He put on a condom for me to blow him. If that doesn’t show a state of mutual distrust, what does?! Perhaps the paranoiacs were getting the best of me, but I couldn’t settle. It makes sense, that late in the game, fight-or-flight melds into one perpetual state of alarm that can’t be assuaged. I didn’t know if I trusted him alone in the room, let alone all up in my ass.
Then I got a call from the landlord that the man to fix the washing machine was finally arriving, in a matter of minutes at that. It was then that my waning vibe died entirely. I wanted it to be over, to be alone and safe so my frazzled self could begin decompressing. Amigo kept telling me through his braces that it would all be fine, that we were gonna have a great time. When the technician arrived, Amigo and I sat there in a state of awkward semi-dress as the old man shuffled about on the terrace fiddling with the machine. I tried to hide Amigo in my room, before realizing that I did not trust him in my room by himself. I paced back and forth in a state of disarray.
Turns out the old man couldn’t fix the machine anyway. I felt trapped, my sexual state long since evaporated. As the machine man left, I immediately told Amigo to leave, but not before he pilfered another 20 euros and a taxi ride home out of me. What a waste of money. There were flashes of something far more sinister going down as his voice raised in volume as we negotiated the terms of his departure. A couple hours pay in half an hour for him, during the inevitable lull a plague brings to the industry no doubt. I’m sure he was satisfied, but I got him outta there and counted my blessings along with my lost cash. Nice one. Time to call it a day. Could have been much worse. Lesson learned. Wash your hands. Go to sleep.
I awoke the next morning drenched in my own sweat and disoriented, like i’d just had my bell rung right as consciousness hit. I raced to clean the place as I had promised to arrive at the new spot around noon. After a while, I gave up on any semblance of perfection and switched to broad strokes—and the extra charge I just got from Airbnb proves it. As I hauled my suitcase off of the bed, a bunch of stuff fell out, including a glasses case with the meth pipe and poppers in it, another box with a douche and some panties. I chucked them all into one of a few detritus-filled blue plastic trash bags and shuffled onwards.
A rare moment outside, it was a beautiful day. When the taxi arrived, I was glistening with sweat. I was breathing hard, heart racing, comedown still in effect, but relieved to be on time and We set forth.
Somewhere close to my destination, I noticed flashing blue lights. Before I knew it, the taxi was pulled over and there were State Police surrounding the van. The taxi driver stepped out of the car without protest, while one of about 8 policemen opened the sliding door and asked for my passport. Without any further explanation, they took my shoulder bag and all three trash bags of crap onto the pavement and started rifling through them: One had only food, another dirty laundry, and the last an assortment of random and/or guilty items. It was clear that I was in trouble, although it was unclear how I had gotten there all of a sudden. For some reason, I didn’t panic. It almost seemed too surreal to be surreal, and maybe that’s why I didn’t take it seriously. I didn’t have any drugs on me anyway. I had done them all.
Perhaps I should have been concerned, as the contraband glasses case was one of the first items removed. As the main cop removed the meth pipe and examined it closely, the fat one by the door told me not to look. I was fucked. They hauled me out of the car, had me empty my pockets, and stood me against the wall and asked me if I had any narcotics on me. I told them through stuttered, struggling Spanish that I had papers and a pipe, but no actual substances. That was actually true, bar a stray nug in a box in my suitcase, which was in the trunk of the car and somehow remained unexamined. At one point, the cop held the pipe up and asked aloud: “this pipe, it’s for marijuana?” Inside, I laughed. I couldn’t believe it. A glimmer of hope.
After unfurling all of my detritus onto the street, red stockings and the black g-string included. I watched him examine the pipe with a marked curiosity, smelling it, looking up close, and sniffing the shard of plastic I used to scrape material off the sides for a junk hit after the bag had emptied. Satisfied that it was for marijuana— the glorious dumbass—he closed the glasses case and placed it back with my pile of crap. Not worth the effort of prosecution, I guess. The main cop strode up to me as I watched on from the side, my pockets emptied and fate in his hands. He told me that poppers were illegal in Spain and that they were confiscating them. A lady cop took my name and address in the US, and then they told me that I was free to go. They never clocked that they were holding paraphernalia for a much harder and more illegal drug in their hands, but weren’t informed enough to know what it was. They even gave it back to me! I couldn’t believe my luck. First, my bad luck at getting caught up in a lockdown sting operation in the first place, but my good luck that the dumb Police fucks didn’t even know what they had found.
The cab driver was a doll about it all, took it in stride, and explained to me that, according to the Mossos, drug dealers had taken to taxis as their main form of transportation, and the bored police force had taken to occasional busts like the one I’d just endured. Charming.
As I arrived at the new unit, the company man showing me around insisted on explaining all the details of the coffee machine, microwave, air conditioning, but I was in a daze. Worse, there’s almost nobody that I could even share the details of my close call with. Either way, this series of events is the sign that I’ve pushed this lockdown survival method to its logical end. The risk-reward equation has tipped more towards the former. I better find other ways to occupy my time. Clearly it’s time to bake some sourdough and get fat on carbs. Maybe I can get addicted to online gambling. So long as I find ways to destroy myself that are inside the house, I’ll be in line with whatever cosmic moral code is telling me to change my ways.