Making Sex and Drugs into a Big Deal
I ate a space cake one night in Amsterdam a while ago. When it kicked in, I walked around the city watching the clock tower wavering in the mist and the bridges stretching and flexing as the struggled to break free of the roads. I sat down next a canal, and watched the water flicker and send sparks into the windows of the houses lining the canal. My body sent out glistening threads of energy to join the sparks, and then invited them to flow inside my body to shimmer and tingle. It was getting very sensual. I imagined myself as a baby nuzzling into my grandmother’s bosom (an image that had come up a few months before during a psilocybin trip). I thought about how wonderful it would be to feel a woman’s touch right now, her hair drifting across my skin, her nipples soft and resisting between my fingers, our stomachs grazing together. The shimmering, tingling energy spread out from my body, engulfing my skin. I went to a sex club.
It was a relatively downscale club, with a small lounge where the patrons and women could meet each other. I first talked to a short, plump, dark-haired girl from Hungary with a beautiful smile. She had an open expression and easy-going manner that made me feel at ease. Foolishly I figured I should look around first (damn that impulse to be a well-informed consumer!) and she soon went off with another guy. So I approached another woman who was blonde, tall and buxom. I suspected it was a mistake from the beginning. Her expression was haughty and her voice a bit angry. But the rounded curve of her hips did not stop, and her breasts were the breasts of my grandmother. I told myself that I was not particularly articulate tonight, and wasn’t looking for conversation.
I wasn’t exactly thinking with my dick, either. I was not looking for a fuck, but to feel the soft, supple flesh. I was not surprised when I could not get an erection. My whole body was pulsating in a way that made my penis feel irrelevant. But she just kept sucking and sucking over the condom. I asked her to slow down, to rub me a bit. She only kept sucking in frustration. I told her that I didn’t need the sucking, that she didn’t need to do anything. She could just lie down and relax, and I was happy to feel her, smell her, bury my face in her body. She lay on the bed for a bit while I ran my arms and face over her legs and buttocks, felt the flesh of her armpits and smelled the crook of her neck. When I put my cheek on her stomach, she squirmed away and complained that it tickled. Then when I then put my face in her bosom and licked her nipples she said I was hurting her, no matter how softly I did it. Finally she told me to stop kissing her, that she wasn’t my girlfriend (It was the first time my mouth had touched her. Everything else was just cuddling). I looked into up her angry eyes.
“What do you want?” she asked with a strong Eastern European accent. “You want to put the whole thing in your mouth?”
“Yes, that would be great,” I said. I saw her puzzled expression, and realized it was meant to be an insult.
She said I was drunk. I told her I had only drunk Red Bull that evening, but she clearly didn’t believe me.
“What do you want?” she demanded again.
“I just want to touch you.” That was clearly insufficient, and I racked my still-foggy brain for a better answer. I was going far to deep, searching a psychological explanation. I finally explained that I couldn’t really explain what I wanted. But then suddenly it became clear to me. I smiled and said, “Maybe it has something to do with not getting touched enough as a baby.”
She scowled at me. “No, you just like women.” She said it as if it were an accusation.
“Well, yeah, of course. That’s why I’m here.” She laughed and I laughed—the only positive connection we had all night. She asked if I wanted her to suck my cock again. I said no. That made her angry again, and she walked out of the room.
It looked like suck and fuck was all I had paid for. Of course, there was no reason that she had to act as receptacle for my fantasy projections, or even just lie there quietly if that’s not what she wanted. But I was still annoyed because I didn’t think I was asking for much.
I had originally paid 5 Euro too much. She had promised to get change, but I figured that was unlikely and it would be part of the tip. Now, as I put on my clothes, I thought about how to demand my change.
She came back in to clean up. Before I said anything she told me that after she finished washing herself, she would get my change. Disarmed by this, my irritation receded and I told her to keep it.
“No, wait for it,” she insisted.
“No, you keep it. I’m sorry I made you angry.”
She looked in my eyes, “Thanks. It’s OK.”
As I walked back to my hotel I decided the encounter was not so bad. It certainly was not the kind of mechanical encounter that could be so disappointing. I did not get what I wanted, but perhaps what I needed. The mix of ethereal sparks, luxurious sensuality and grandmother’s bosom that I brought to the encounter surely set my expectations way too high. All those sensations and images pointed to something beyond sex. Sex always promises to take us to those places. And perhaps it can point the way, and even bring us a bit closer. And if we cultivate ourselves, and learn how to have sex really well and channel those pulsating energies. It may even take us the edge of the ineffable. But my grandmother’s bosom is still only a dream. In the end I’ll still have to surrender and fall into the ineffable hole.