A Meth Induced Psychotic Break is Such a Buzzkill
Slammed: a Memoir — Chapter 3 Part 3
Warning: Graphic descriptions of drug use and sexual situations.
Randy and I rode in the back of a black-car service cab hurtling down the West Side Highway.
Old leather, cigar smoke, and the overpowering tang of an evergreen air freshener masked any number of other aromas that linger in New York City cabs.
Wind rushing in through the open window hissed off my skin like water hitting a hot pan. I was slowly kneading my own thigh, amazed by how even that little movement felt so good.
I looked over at Randy. He was wearing a yellow and white striped tank top and light blue shorts. His thighs and calves had a thickness about them common with dancers, meaty and lean. I wanted to feel those thighs. I wanted to dive face first into his lap and run my tongue up the inside of his thigh feeling the brush of his red-blond leg hair on my face.
“Randy?” I was trying to keep my voice casual, trying to keep the lid on. “What does PNP stand for?”
“No,” he said quickly, nodding toward the driver. “When we get out.”
On the sidewalk as the cab pulled away, I looked at Randy as if I had just asked the question.
