Sex, drugs and techno music
Now you have to understand that HotAss and I have known each other for a very long time. We're celebrating our 10 year anniversary this year as friends. And because we met each other when we were so young, we had the opportunity to share a lot of "firsts" together -- the first time we dressed in drag, the first time we saw Opryland at Christmas, our first wild New Year's Party, and the first time we dropped ecstasy.
Now, in true Laverne and Shirley fashion, in retrospect, we were complete girls about it. Picture it. Memphis. 2002. Fourth of July weekend. I made a little visit to Memphis for the holiday, and we had made the decision weeks ahead of time that we would roll together. I spent a good part of the day researching MDMA and trying to ascertain exactly what the outcome would be. The evening of the Fourth "rolled" around, and we had been in heavy preparation for hours. Limiting our intake of food, limiting our intake of alcohol (because we were told that we wouldn't want to mix), stopping at the Tigermart for bottles of water and lots of gum.
We stood with some friends in a vacant lot in downtown and watched the fireworks burst in the sky above us. We had our evening planned to the minute. We wanted to arrive at the bar at 11, and we wanted our groove on just in time to walk in the door. Given a 30 minute "feeling it yet?" window, we hunkered together like a couple of schoolgirls smoking a cigarette in the restroom, and threw back the tiny tablets. I had a pink one with a hot air balloon. HotAss took the alligator.
We loaded into the car, and took off for the first stop for a wild evening - the ATM. I got out of the car, picked up my yuppie food stamps, and HotAss swears I skipped back to the car. In that short amount of time, the streetlights exploded into another fireworks show. It was beautiful!
As we were driving, we were fucking nuts, rapidly asking each other "are you ok? Yeah, are you ok?" And for the most part, we were ok except when HotAss calmly requested that we pull over so that he could wretch into a parking lot. After one quick heave, he shut the car door and said "I'm ok. I'm ok."
We were never more beautiful than we were when we entered the bar. We smiled. We chatted. We laughed. We flitted from corner to corner like the magnificent social butterflies we were. And like cracked-out moths to a flame, we were drawn to the dance floor. My feet moved uncontrollably to the beat. I was giving the chewing gum hell and sweat was pouring out of my body. I looked over and HotAss was dancing on the speaker. A lithe beautiful young boy danced over to me and we danced together, grinding together, caressing each other for the next four hours. I never left the floor. HotAss kept me hydrated with bottles of water.
Four hours later, my legs felt like spaghetti, and my partner and I slipped off to the back patio. And as quickly as it began, the roll ended. And I realized my lithe beautiful boy was a skinny, gangly, pimply-faced something. I grabbed HotAss and we disappeared into the early morning hours.
We had such a great time, we dropped again two nights later. The results were less than spectacular. Although I discovered I could feel like I was wearing roller skates, and HotAss swears it was like French doors opening up. At one point during the evening, I roller skated up to HotAss who was sitting on a bench, legs wide, head down, staring intently at the floor.
"Hey, you ok?"
"Yeah. It's like a door. It's like a door. Just opening up. It's like a door."
There were only one or two other weekends like that, maybe drug-induced, maybe not. But they became known as "rock star weekends," a lost 72 hours engaged in dancing and drinking, flirting and flitting.
And now spring has started to spring in Memphis. Daffodils are budding and trees are showing their leaves again, and it makes me want another rock star weekend.
I miss my youth.
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