Sex, Drugs, and Drugs

This week I had a startling revelation: coke turns me into a slut. Sadly I wish I’d realised this about a long time ago as I haven’t done coke for almost 2 years. The last time I did it was so boring, uneventful and expensive I just thought to myself “What the fuck did I bother wasting half a week’s paycheque on this for?” and so my abstinence wasn’t brought about so much by a moral high-ground as my cheapness.

In the light of this brainwave I realised that most of the times I woke up in bed next to Cthulhu were directly related to how much blow I’d consumed. Throw a break-up into the mix and I became like some sort of sex-bot, out looking for someone, anyone, as long as they had more coke and a cock. Stopping to read that sentence back it feels a little harsh on myself, but sadly it’s true. Coke didn’t make me aggy or boastful it just made me want to bone someone RIGHT THIS VERY SECOND and then eat a pizza. I’m not sure why it had the second effect but I’m guessing the two almost cancel each other out.

After a particularly messy break-up I found myself drunk, dusted in a fine coating of gak and ready to rub up on anyone in a 4 mile vicinity. As everyone at the party started to crash out I found myself curled up next to a young, single, man and wondering if he’d take the bait. He did and I had four to seven minutes of the least glamourous moments of my life with him in the flat’s less than pristine bathroom. Since the party was notable for it’s lack of pizza I crawled back to a sofa and fell fast asleep.

Less than 3 hours later I woke up and stared at the man with whom I was now entangled. At first I was relieved to notice all my clothes were on and I did not have any love bites but then I looked at him. Not only did he have a chin that would have made Jimmy Hill envious but he was also the exact same person I’d spent all night bickering with. Somehow in my hopped up state I’d forgotten how tedious I’d found him. Just as I was starting to try and unwrap myself he woke up. We both stumbled to opposite sides of the room and began to mutter about how it was late and we ought to go home to our respective beds. Unfortunately one of the flat’s occupants, a wonderful perma-cheerful young man, was already up and raring to go back into Shoreditch, where we both lived. The bus ride the three of us took was one of the worst in my life. My subconscious was slut-shaming me so hard that its a wonder that I actually made it home without topping myself.

On Monday morning I emerged from the haze and sobered up enough to realise we hadn’t used any protection. Doing my maths I realised that if I went to the chemist in the evening I could just qualify for the morning after pill. On the tube home that evening I started imagining what the future held for me: what if the morning after pill didn’t work? What if I didn’t realise it hadn’t worked until it was too late to have an abortion? What if despite it not working it made the baby incredibly ill? What if it had the boy’s enormous chin and mad hair? Since I had told exactly NO-ONE that we’d slept together having a mad looking profoundly ill child meant EVERYONE would know it was his. Of course I’d have to move out of London and live in some provincial town with this reminder of my idiocy shaming me every day with its innocent face. Seeing the baby and sensing my intense shame no-one would ever love me again.

Halfway through what was becoming an enormous panic attack I sat down on the pavement. It was raining and I was in Whitechapel imagining some dystopian Tess of The D’Urbervilles future for myself. As my breathing steadied and my hands stopped shaking I started laughing. A few minutes later I was necking down the pill outside Sainsbury’s and whooping to anyone who could hear.

The moral of this story is that I shouldn’t do coke while in the vicinity of someone with a cock. You might be able to, you might not, I don’t know. However next time you find yourself jabbering mindlessly to someone with a bag of coke and wondering whether he’d give you more if you boned him (and whether you really can have a coke vagina) think about Jimmy Hill, think about my panic attack, think about Tess of The D’Urbevilles, and then think about pizza and I’m sure you’ll know which one sounds like the best option.

Photos by unknown, and Alexis Trice