brain,my heart and my lungs malfunction and the drug bursts my body apart.
Phil takes my arm and I watch him feel for a strong vein. He punctures the skin, I donât feel any pain, and I watch a few drops of blood enter the syringe. He pushes the liquid through the needle and into my vein and I loosen the belt. He hands me a swab and while Iâm brushing the antiseptic onto the puncture the drug jumps into my brain. My skin, my hair are charged with electricity and I can feel every cell in my body form myriad patterns. My inner body becomes a kaleidoscope. The rush dissipates, I remove the swab and get to my feet.
âFeeling good? asks Phil. Feeling good, I answer and stand still for a moment, trying to regain some balance. I grow conscious of the music on the stereo and concentrate on the discordant electronic notes. I walk into the bathroom and look at my eyes, my face in the mirror. The skin seems to be stretched back, following the contours of my skull. I look thin, and I brush my fingers along my stubble. I can feel every hair. In the bedroom Phil is shooting up and I wait for him to finish, then help him clean up the mess. I stick my two grams worth of drugs in my cigarette packet and wave Phil goodbye. He lies on the bed, playing with his cock. He says ciao and asks me to get him a cigarette. I throw him one of mine and get out of the place quick. Outside the sun is white hot, reflecting off the car bonnets and making the street shimmer. I jump into the sunshine and light a cigarette. I look down at my vein. A clean hit. You can hardly tell.
Â
Speed is exhilaration. Speed is colours reflecting light with greater intensity. Speed, if itâs good, can take me higher than I can ever go, higher than my natural bodily chemicals can take me. Speed, they say, is cheap shit; putting amphetamines mixed with Ajax up your nose, in your veins. Speed, my friends and the drug handbooks they give you in schoolsay, and the people on heroin say, is cheap, nasty. Good high, terrible low.
I say speed is exhilaration. I walk up Lennox Street to Bridge Road and the Pelaco factory where Mum used to work shines harsh white against a luminous blue sky. Speed is extra pumps for my heart, the drug grabs me by the throat and reaches down for my balls. On speed I like to stand under the shower for half-an-hour, just after the effect has come on, feel the water belting me.
On speed I like to fuck. Fucking with lots of touching. Feel every hair on their body, on my body. On speed I want to enclose myself in folds of warm, vibrating skin. On speed I want to penetrate. On speed, when my dick is soft, it is wrinkled and petite. Erect, on speed, all the blood in my body seems to rush and meet at one point, pulsate at one point. I can push it through my clenched fist, a tight sphincter. No pain, just exhilaration. Speed is exhilaration.
On speed I feel macho but not aggressive. Iâm friendly to everyone. Speed evaporates fear. On speed I dance with my body and my soul. In this white powder theyâve distilled the essence of the Greek word kefi. Kefi is the urge to dance, to be with good friends, to open your arms to life. Straight, I can approximate kefi , but I am always conscious of fighting off boredom. Speed doesnât let you get bored.
Coming down off speed requires preparation. You feel the headache beginning, the jaw hurts. And time stands still. Sitting in the lounge room slowly looking through photo albums, it seems it takes an hour for the cigarette to reach the ashtray, an hour for it to come back to your mouth. I drink lots of water, try to piss, try to enjoy whatâs happening to my body. Experiencing the body as if it is working in slow-mo. Coming down I masturbate, lying in bed, the sheets and blankets at my feet, watching myself wank. In slow motion. Using lots of spit or Vaseline or baby lotion or Mumâs face cream. Take it slowly, my dick feeling raw, sore, and when I blast, the headache, the sore
Phil takes my arm and I watch him feel for a strong vein. He punctures the skin, I donât feel any pain, and I watch a few drops of blood enter the syringe. He pushes the liquid through the needle and into my vein and I loosen the belt. He hands me a swab and while Iâm brushing the antiseptic onto the puncture the drug jumps into my brain. My skin, my hair are charged with electricity and I can feel every cell in my body form myriad patterns. My inner body becomes a kaleidoscope. The rush dissipates, I remove the swab and get to my feet.
âFeeling good? asks Phil. Feeling good, I answer and stand still for a moment, trying to regain some balance. I grow conscious of the music on the stereo and concentrate on the discordant electronic notes. I walk into the bathroom and look at my eyes, my face in the mirror. The skin seems to be stretched back, following the contours of my skull. I look thin, and I brush my fingers along my stubble. I can feel every hair. In the bedroom Phil is shooting up and I wait for him to finish, then help him clean up the mess. I stick my two grams worth of drugs in my cigarette packet and wave Phil goodbye. He lies on the bed, playing with his cock. He says ciao and asks me to get him a cigarette. I throw him one of mine and get out of the place quick. Outside the sun is white hot, reflecting off the car bonnets and making the street shimmer. I jump into the sunshine and light a cigarette. I look down at my vein. A clean hit. You can hardly tell.
Â
Speed is exhilaration. Speed is colours reflecting light with greater intensity. Speed, if itâs good, can take me higher than I can ever go, higher than my natural bodily chemicals can take me. Speed, they say, is cheap shit; putting amphetamines mixed with Ajax up your nose, in your veins. Speed, my friends and the drug handbooks they give you in schoolsay, and the people on heroin say, is cheap, nasty. Good high, terrible low.
I say speed is exhilaration. I walk up Lennox Street to Bridge Road and the Pelaco factory where Mum used to work shines harsh white against a luminous blue sky. Speed is extra pumps for my heart, the drug grabs me by the throat and reaches down for my balls. On speed I like to stand under the shower for half-an-hour, just after the effect has come on, feel the water belting me.
On speed I like to fuck. Fucking with lots of touching. Feel every hair on their body, on my body. On speed I want to enclose myself in folds of warm, vibrating skin. On speed I want to penetrate. On speed, when my dick is soft, it is wrinkled and petite. Erect, on speed, all the blood in my body seems to rush and meet at one point, pulsate at one point. I can push it through my clenched fist, a tight sphincter. No pain, just exhilaration. Speed is exhilaration.
On speed I feel macho but not aggressive. Iâm friendly to everyone. Speed evaporates fear. On speed I dance with my body and my soul. In this white powder theyâve distilled the essence of the Greek word kefi. Kefi is the urge to dance, to be with good friends, to open your arms to life. Straight, I can approximate kefi , but I am always conscious of fighting off boredom. Speed doesnât let you get bored.
Coming down off speed requires preparation. You feel the headache beginning, the jaw hurts. And time stands still. Sitting in the lounge room slowly looking through photo albums, it seems it takes an hour for the cigarette to reach the ashtray, an hour for it to come back to your mouth. I drink lots of water, try to piss, try to enjoy whatâs happening to my body. Experiencing the body as if it is working in slow-mo. Coming down I masturbate, lying in bed, the sheets and blankets at my feet, watching myself wank. In slow motion. Using lots of spit or Vaseline or baby lotion or Mumâs face cream. Take it slowly, my dick feeling raw, sore, and when I blast, the headache, the sore
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