I've been re-reading some of my old postings, perhaps trying to find some thread to grab on to, some way to get back into this thing, whatever it is, that I feel compelled to continue.
It struck me that I never talked about shooting up and how sexual it was. I can't tell you how many times I've heard former junkies talk about how heroin recalls that post-orgasmic feeling; the melting of all your muscles, the gradual numbing of all your senses. It accurate, although extremely irritating. It's that last bit of romance that all ex-junkies hold onto. Even though they carry around plenty of shame and regret over what junk does to your life and the lives of everyone that cares about you (assuming there is such a person), every junkie loves to wax and wane about what a great feeling the heroin high is, how it's better than sex, etc.
When I first got addicted I was snorting dope. That particular method is slower in effect, less dangerous, and therefore, less thrilling. Devon started shooting up before I did, but it wasn't long before I asked her to show me how it's done. She shot me up the first time. The act was extremely sexual, extremely intimate. Shit, you have to have some degree of trust to let someone stick a needle in your arm.
Looking back, shooting eachother up (because after all, I got pretty damn proficient at it before too long) replaced sex. When we first met, back when we both were just snorting, we fucked constantly. We were both employed only part-time and would sometimes spend 48 to 72 hours straight in bed. It was simple. Hours just kissing, holding, and fucking eachother every which way; briefly interrupted by cigarettes and bottles of Coca-Cola. Our friends would often chastise us for what, in retrospect, I must admit were extreme displays of public affection that were more often than not, in pretty poor taste. But shit, we we're in our twenties, self-proclaimed artists living in NYC, and didn't really give a shit if we caught a little heat for sticking my hand up her skirt in a bar.
That very physical exchange was displaced as soon as we we're both regulary shooting up. Although the act of shooting up certainly was physicial, and very intimate, we never really returned to that place together. Instead, it was the needle. We would both carefully clean and prepare each other's needles. I would settle back into the couch as Devon would swab my arm with cotton swabs soaked in alcohol. I never needed to tie off to make my veins protrude. I had a unusually robust circulatory system, my veins always looked as they were about to burst from my arm. As Devon described it, I was a natural-born junkie (there were other reasons for this description).
I would actually start to salivate as I watched her dissolve the dope in water, gently heating it to speed the process, but not so much as to evaporate or waste the heroin. She would roll a tiny wad of cotton between her fingertips, then drop it into the spoon (or sometimes bottle cap). I forgot how much of this was about process and preparation. I've never met a junkie that wasn't diligent at least about some part of the preparation.
After she sucked all of the dope into the hypo and gently tapped it to remove all of the air bubbles, she would start to run her fingers up and down my outstretched arm. Her fingers were like a divining rod of sorts; Devon could always find an open and working vein. She never missed, she never jabbed a nerve or muscle by mistake. Only I did those things.
It's hard to describe the anticipation of waiting for that needle to go into the vein. You never sweat the pain. It's just a pin-prick for christ's sake. It's just that moment, when the needle point finds blood and it all shoots back into the chamber. That's when you know it's coming, that's when you know that woman you love is going to fill you up with the good stuff. In a moment, you'll feel better than you felt yesterday, better than you felt a minute before, and maybe better than you've ever felt in your life. You're helpless at that moment, waiting and trusting that she'll bring you through.
After allowing me to enjoy that sensation, I would return the favor before I was too far gone. That's the way it worked. It went that way for several weeks. For a while, we even still had sex afterwards. Then eventually, we stopped having sex. The cleaning and preparation was much better foreplay. The needle finding vein--penetration. The plunge... well, you already see where I'm going. In away it was so much more thrilling than just fucking. We were displacing our bodies with needles, with cotton, with spoons and cigarettes.
Eventually, of course, we stopped shooting each other up. Like any other relationship, that sex got tired. We were too eager too get high, too desparate to stop being dope-sick. What was sex, became too people jerking off in a room together. It wasn't so intimate anymore. It was more like a buddy-booth.
In the end, it was just about getting through the day. It didn't matter if anyone else was there.
Looking back on this entry, I realize not only that it's poorly written and cliche-ridden, but I'm guilty of the same romanticism I was so critical of when I first started writing. What the fuck. I'm entering a new age of honestly (as I frequently tell my wife). I don't need to go back and re-write anymore to paint myself in a more positive light. Of course, if I were a little less drunk right now, I'm sure I could have crafted some better sentences.
12:12:47 AM 
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