(Author's note: This story in no way condones or advocates for the use of any illegal substances or solicitation of illegal prostitution. Everything following this note is a work of fiction. The views within this story are held only by the fictional characters depicted and serves only to express {Well really... in this instance cover up} a deeper issue and a root cause. These are not actual directions or an actual "how to" and should not be taken as such. Any resemblance to places, people and experiences are completely coincidental and should be taken as such.)
Rough breakup. A flurry from the previous night's debauchery and before I knew it I was holding somebody's hand as I followed her down a dark alleyway that led to a door, completely unmarked. There was no signage of any kind, but beyond the dumpster we passed, the remainder of the alleyway seemed remarkably clean and well kept.
I wish I could tell you how to get there, but frankly, it's all a bit of a haze. I waited in a lobby on a plush, burgundy, velour couch with statues of naked men and women surrounding me. Apart from the receptionist, there was no one else there. I heard a door opening and closing down the hallway and in that space of a few seconds were laughter, moaning and screams.
The receptionist handed me a digital tablet and on it was a menu with descriptions of "experiences" meant to stimulate and titillate. Items such as "Basic Threesome," "The audiophile," "Smoker's Delight," "Sensory Deprivation and Focused Stimulation," and oh so many more. I had never seen anything like it. Even here.
Drunkenly, I read and read, honestly drawn in by it all. And as I was reading the description of what I would ultimately order, I was holding the tablet my finger holding a spot to continue scrolling down... actually, I have no idea what happened, but the screen flashed black and red causing me a moment's panic thinking I had broken the thing. I was about to flag the receptionist when a new menu came up. It read "Secret Menu Items for the Fiend".
This is where there seemed to be some things that made my jaw drop. Sticker prices ranging from five to six figures. A couple of them I was too afraid to click based on the names, and honestly I'm afraid to even name them now considering the possibility it could be searched online by whoever ran the institution I found myself in (and I can't fathom any way a place like this could operate without friends in high places) or it might have me placed on a CIA/FBI watchlist... I'll say this though. As I read many of those menu items, I was scared.
This was one of the cheaper items. One that seemed tame compared to the others. The receptionist had walked down the hallway and I pulled out my phone and took pictures of this:
Cocaine Rodeo: Secret Menu Item: For the fiend $XXXXXXX
An eightball will do, but this really calls for a quarter ounce. This depends on a few things: How good is the blow? Will we have a third joining us? How long do you want to party? What's your tolerance? But if it's high grade, an eightball will do.
If you've done something like this before, you know that blow has a numbing effect. This could be a good thing or it could be bad, but like a lot of things it's all about how you use it. With how much this protocol calls for, getting hard can be hard, but I've found that head works best.
You'll need a place, of course. You host, or I host or an AirBnB is always good. A guesthouse with a private bathroom, a balcony or a patio. Just our own place for those little smoke breaks that happen between sweating and moaning, for before and after. Somewhere no one else will hear the snorting, the hips pounding and the loud moaning. A place with no wandering eyes, unless that's what you like. But the point is you'll want to fuck hard. You'll want to moan loud. To be a little reckless. What's the point, after all, if you can't let loose.
Start slow. Cut the blow into neat little lines, neat and long. Long enough for each line to be split between your two nostrils; for cohesion and symmetry. You'll want a few at the ready. Depending on your party prepare either 10 or 15. We'll cut more at a break. A few drinks to ease the initial stress of your daily life, the monotonous drives to work, the fake smiles you have to give your boss, the way Pamela from the cubicle next door yap yap yaps at you all day long. Just enough that the tension at the back of your neck melts away. Talk a little. Laugh a little. Dance a little. Flirt.
The large bills are the cleanest. Most people like the Benjamin, but the $50 bill is used far less frequently, although it does lack pizzazz. You choose. Look into my eyes a moment before looking away. Don't worry, the liquor covers up the blush. I'll roll it up in my hands after we've sat down. Take the bill from me, lingering in my palm a moment. Bend down. Snort.
Don't pay too much attention to your heart as it quickens. Pay attention to the surge of joy that hits your head like the first time she touched you. He*. Forget him. Tonight doesn't belong to him. Tonight you're here for you, tonight block out those hurtful words and the way she left and let it all melt away. We'll put some porn on the TV. I'll handle that part. Watch.
Sit there feeling the high, sipping your drink as I get it set up. Watch the amateur porn on screen. The way they touch each other shows it's not their first movie, but you can tell they're still in love. Feel the wetness between your legs as you cross them. Squeeze your legs together a bit and revel in it. Listen to the way the camera picks up their breaths and the moans that escape their lips.
You'll be hot and bothered by now but you're still not ready. You shouldn't be. Don't worry. Let the tension build. I'll probably move towards you at this point. I'll probably look at the way you're sitting just as high as I am, just as ensconced in the moment, and just as hot and bothered. I'll probably reach to put an arm around you. Don't let me. Not yet. Stand up and ask for a smoke. You want to cool the jitters after all.
As you sit outside on the patio, don't look at the moon. Don't look and remember that one time you sat on the beach, leaning into his arm as you felt the breeze blowing over your skin, don't think about how this feels so different. Just put the cigarette to your lips. Take a drag. Just inhale and feel the buzz of the nicotine as it blends in with the liquor, the blow. Let me do all the talking. After all, you're not here because you want to talk.
I'll have made a playlist on pornhub. It moves from amateur into PMV's (Porn Music Videos). Something upbeat and clubby with a montage of the things I want to do to you. He's stretching her out, pounding downwards on those lips that grip that dick. Then she's glaring at him with mascara running as he's on top with his hand around her throat. Then she's riding him like a cowgirl at a rodeo, complete with a Stetson.
