Narcotica
I'm drinking white wine and blackcurrant, wearing a bra and a pair of ripped jeans which is not unusual despite the fact there's a snowstorm outside and it's minus 10, because this is France and a ski resort and when you're 23 and permanently drunk you forget to react to minor stimuli like extreme cold and nipples about to snap off in the icy whip of a stinging wind, live only for the next fix of pills, palmed in the hand, discreetly slipped to the mouth, swirled around and swallowed before the taste of it, bittersweet halitosis, slaps your taste buds like a menopausal Mother. And then you sit drinking white wine and blackcurrant juice, except the French call it Kir, and you wonder, slightly concerned, if this is one of those nights where you forked out 50 euros for five fucking aspirin, and you look at your friend, who's wearing your red pants and g-string though he's a guy and guys usually desist from those activities outside closed doors but this is France and a ski resort and we're 23, and you whisper for the sixth time in 20 minutes. "It's not working."
He looks serene.
"Give it time."
"I've given it enough time and seriously it's not working I just feel a little bit drunk not even drunk maybe just a little bit happy because it's New Year's Eve and all and that dinner was fun but it's 12.30 an' I really wanna get high before we get to The Underground because you know it fuckin stinks when you're not on anything, and hey, you wanna go skinny dipping in the outside pool later on? Last time was really fun and..."
The scenery's changed - it's not a tiny wooden bar with Fat Tracey serving us Kir and humphing suspiciously at our rapidly dilating pupils, we're on a steep, icy road up to The Underground Bar and I'm still wearing the bra and he's still wearing my red pants but we're not cold at all and...
"I came up didn't I?"
And when you realize it, it's like riding the crest of a wave, like having an orgasm naked in the middle of a snowstorm, exposed to the elements exploding in and around you, and these little bursts of adrenalin and endorphins are blasting up to your brain, and you start to harbor a huge, goofy grin across your face, and there's no music but we manage to find a beat and start dancing in the middle of the road anyhow. Fuck, losing control. Nearing the edge. Maintain. Ah, sod it. Go over. Give in to the little bursts of pleasure sky-rocketing through your body and damn it, when did we take the last two? 45 minutes ago? I think it's time for number three, whatta you think?
We don't think, and I whip out number three, crack it in half with my teeth, pull him toward me and slip my tongue into his mouth on one of those cheesy fucking drug-fuelled moments, because good Ecstasy makes every touch, every quiver of your muscles pure heaven - orgasmic, monstrous intensity frazzling your senses as it pops off those brain cells with indiscriminate efficiency. I gurn like a fucker. He gurns like a fucker. We walk into The Underground and everyone's gurning like a fucker, a vast complicated machinery of jaws pumping rhythmically up and down. Joy of joys! The whole town of Alpe D'Huez is similarly, spectacularly fucked! I turn back to him and eat his face for a brief, tender moment of sublime Class-A fuelled lust, and then launch into the heaving mass of gyrating bodies and turn myself into a human cog in this incredible moment of narcotica bonding. I look across at him, his face emitting small specks of purple and orange flame, the traces of his movements discernible in a clear, spyrographic pattern imprinted across the smoke filled air. The flames get bigger, consume his face. You gotta stop and admire them for a moment, but even when you stop your body goes on, and you find that you can briefly step outside it and admire from afar.
Time for number 4?
In the bathroom I stop and stare at my eyes which are liquid black pools, the pupils entirely obliterating the sharp blue of my cornea, and some girl stops me with a kiss, a tongue snaking from her mouth like a thin, slimy serpent.
"WOAH! Look at her eyes! Guys, check this out! This is so cool! Fuck girl your eyes are amazing!"
I am amazing, that is why. I am pure, untainted power. I stride back onto the dancefloor and punch some guy in the dick for the hell of it, and disappear, my head throbbing from too much, too much, but then this is a good tune, and I have to dance to this, and then I see him and we share a deep, searching, satiated kiss, satiated because we already have too much pleasure ricocheting through our bodies, but still, never enough, always more...
Narcotica. Something happens after a while. You stop, but even years later you'll be on stage, buzzing from a few beers, and the right music will come on and the adrenalin, the endorphins, the ecstasy will flame through your body and you quiver from the sex of the drugs seducing you all over again.
They say you can have more fun off them than on them. In rehab.
Narcotica. I swirl it around in my mouth and the bitter sweet halitosis taste of the pill sears my taste buds, and I'm 23 again, in France, in a ski resort, and Fat Tracey's serving us Kir, and I turn around to him and say for the sixth time in 20 minutes, "It's not working..."
He looks serene.
"Give it time."
"I've given it enough time and seriously it's not working I just feel a little bit drunk not even drunk maybe just a little bit happy because it's New Year's Eve and all and that dinner was fun but it's 12.30 an' I really wanna get high before we get to The Underground because you know it fuckin stinks when you're not on anything, and hey, you wanna go skinny dipping in the outside pool later on? Last time was really fun and..."
The scenery's changed - it's not a tiny wooden bar with Fat Tracey serving us Kir and humphing suspiciously at our rapidly dilating pupils, we're on a steep, icy road up to The Underground Bar and I'm still wearing the bra and he's still wearing my red pants but we're not cold at all and...
"I came up didn't I?"
And when you realize it, it's like riding the crest of a wave, like having an orgasm naked in the middle of a snowstorm, exposed to the elements exploding in and around you, and these little bursts of adrenalin and endorphins are blasting up to your brain, and you start to harbor a huge, goofy grin across your face, and there's no music but we manage to find a beat and start dancing in the middle of the road anyhow. Fuck, losing control. Nearing the edge. Maintain. Ah, sod it. Go over. Give in to the little bursts of pleasure sky-rocketing through your body and damn it, when did we take the last two? 45 minutes ago? I think it's time for number three, whatta you think?
We don't think, and I whip out number three, crack it in half with my teeth, pull him toward me and slip my tongue into his mouth on one of those cheesy fucking drug-fuelled moments, because good Ecstasy makes every touch, every quiver of your muscles pure heaven - orgasmic, monstrous intensity frazzling your senses as it pops off those brain cells with indiscriminate efficiency. I gurn like a fucker. He gurns like a fucker. We walk into The Underground and everyone's gurning like a fucker, a vast complicated machinery of jaws pumping rhythmically up and down. Joy of joys! The whole town of Alpe D'Huez is similarly, spectacularly fucked! I turn back to him and eat his face for a brief, tender moment of sublime Class-A fuelled lust, and then launch into the heaving mass of gyrating bodies and turn myself into a human cog in this incredible moment of narcotica bonding. I look across at him, his face emitting small specks of purple and orange flame, the traces of his movements discernible in a clear, spyrographic pattern imprinted across the smoke filled air. The flames get bigger, consume his face. You gotta stop and admire them for a moment, but even when you stop your body goes on, and you find that you can briefly step outside it and admire from afar.
Time for number 4?
In the bathroom I stop and stare at my eyes which are liquid black pools, the pupils entirely obliterating the sharp blue of my cornea, and some girl stops me with a kiss, a tongue snaking from her mouth like a thin, slimy serpent.
"WOAH! Look at her eyes! Guys, check this out! This is so cool! Fuck girl your eyes are amazing!"
I am amazing, that is why. I am pure, untainted power. I stride back onto the dancefloor and punch some guy in the dick for the hell of it, and disappear, my head throbbing from too much, too much, but then this is a good tune, and I have to dance to this, and then I see him and we share a deep, searching, satiated kiss, satiated because we already have too much pleasure ricocheting through our bodies, but still, never enough, always more...
Narcotica. Something happens after a while. You stop, but even years later you'll be on stage, buzzing from a few beers, and the right music will come on and the adrenalin, the endorphins, the ecstasy will flame through your body and you quiver from the sex of the drugs seducing you all over again.
They say you can have more fun off them than on them. In rehab.
Narcotica. I swirl it around in my mouth and the bitter sweet halitosis taste of the pill sears my taste buds, and I'm 23 again, in France, in a ski resort, and Fat Tracey's serving us Kir, and I turn around to him and say for the sixth time in 20 minutes, "It's not working..."
MIMI IN NY | 1:30 AM |
