I may as well be on meth

The last few nights have been late ones, spent in front of the computer on gay.com in the Phone and College rooms, chatting and setting up phone sex chats, hitting poppers and watching porn. I feel so fucking pathetic as the febrile, pathetic tensing of muscles finally subsides at two, three in the morning, I shower off the sheen and fall into bed on stinky sheets only to wake up a few hours early, still black out, and head to work, headachy, exhausted.

The tender cellular structure of the outer rim of the nose and divet between nostril and upper lip has begun to break down, the flesh red from its acid wash, the friable tissue of the brain is awash in amyl, the heart palpitates, the fume is inhaled, reminding me of sexy childhoods at the public pools and Spanish backrooms where I would fuck backpackers and die in the blackout spaces.

Is it edging or coping? I suppose it could be both. Suspension in the colloidal made by mixing lube and Blue Boy and watching some bareback porn. I feel like Rufus Wainwright during his meth days, no different than an addict pushing the boundaries of his own erotic world to the very event horizon, that petit mort that will allow me to sleep.

Sad thing is, I'm never more alive these days than when I'm slicked up and having nasty phone sex. Reading books puts me to sleep, friends make me yawn, writing is impossible in my brain-dead state, I slack off at work. Maybe I should just become a meth head.

Had to share.