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Last week when I posted a couple of notes about my young love of psychedelics and my experiences with datura stramonium you had no idea that I was leading up to telling you about my lover's crack addiction. I sort of wanted to establish my bona fides as it were in the lore and life with drugs. An unusually dry preface to a confession that I've found myself living with a crack addict. My icy side, a part of me that some people have recoiled from when they felt the depth of it, helps me keep going in this uncertain interval.
I sampled many pharmaceutical highs. Reds, Seconal just put me to sleep. As did quaaludes, the gay bar drug of choice in my youth.
Speed, I mentioned earlier, left many young men with attractively scanty waists, though they looked like ambulatory corpses.
Long before rednecks were manufacturing methamphetamines in their outhouses I did speed once. Nothing injectable. I had a junkie pal put a needle's worth of THC in my just to have had a needle in my arm – again this was before AIDS. I took a Black Beauty, the hippie amphetamine of choice.
Whew! I felt so luminous with clarity, a weakness for me that orgasm are for most of you. Potent beyond routine mortal capability I knew I'd be able to understand everything. The universe was so cheery and upbeat. Life could never be more exalted.
So I never took another Black Beauty. The drug was so exhilarating I knew that somewhere between the third and tenth pill I'd be lost. Too long viewing life from such a idiotically lofty vantage and I wouldn't be able to climb down.
My late, unlamented daddy was a drunk. I guess I owe him for providing an object lesson of the danger of a select species of excess.
Really I'd like to do a Black Beauty again. But only one.