IN THE EARLY Nineties I was back up in San Francisco having returned from a whirlwind three-year crime spree in L.A. As depraved as that sounds it wasn’t all fun and games. I’d lost my best friend, murdered during a drug deal I should’ve been at, and pretty much burned every bridge I still had in the music industry to the point where I could no longer find work. Reluctantly I’d waved goodbye to the sleaze of Hollywood and my equally strung-out girlfriend that I’d recently lost to the lure of the thriving sex industry.
Desperate to get off heroin I discovered if I shot speed, like a half gram three times a day, I really didn’t crave heroin as much. Plus I didn’t really sleep. I was too busy on the streets at night collecting broken things I was going to repair back to productivity. My living room was a collection of all these machines, engines, and antiques in different states of disrepair. Some just dissected, their parts strewn across the floor soon to be lost. Others carefully deconstructed, each dismantled piece labeled and all the screws and bolts safely stored in baby-food jars.
This was my speed-freak empire. Other tweekers would stare in awe at the ever-growing pile of my many projects. And there unfortunately was the problem. When you do speed, you tend to hang out with speed freaks. And needless to say they’re a strange lot. And if you’re not a “builder” like I was, then you were probably a sex freak. The majority of tweekers love to have sex, for hours on end, sometimes with other people, sometimes with bits of porn clutched in their sweaty little hands. Whatever thrill it was, it wasn’t what anyone would call normal or bland. Usually it entailed some sort of fetish, bondage, contortion, or humiliation. At least half the time there was a uniform involved and more than likely some sort of lube and inanimate object for penetration.
Sherry was a friend of mine. I’d known her from way back. She’d been geezing meth for years and because of that had a pretty good perv going. Slightly overweight, she’d cram herself into something tight made out of latex and we’d fuck until our skin was raw. One of us tied up, the other slathering on the K-Y. Strap-ons. Nipple clamps. Handcuffs. “Piss on my face you filthy bitch!” We tried everything at least once. Some a few more times than that.
And then one night there we were lying in bed and Sherry’s staring up at the giant metal hook I had screwed into the ceiling of my loft.
“Hang me upside down from that!” she yells, pointing up at the hook.
“And do what?” I ask.
“Beat me!” she screams.
Now let me first go on record here as saying I’m not a Dom. I’d rather the woman take on that role. Basically I find there’s something really gross about male Doms. Usually ugly fat-ass guys in some sort of leather or spandex gear that should probably just have stayed at The Pleasure Chest’s backroom on-sale discounted bondage wear emporium. On the other hand for the most part women Dommes are hot. I mean who doesn’t like latex, leather, spiked heels, fishnets, push-up bras, and corsets?
So when Sherry starts yammering on about how she wants me to hang her upside down and beat on her I’m just not that thrilled. And usually when there’s some new degenerate sex act to perform I’ve a woody sticking straight up, hard as steel, but I look down and my dick’s just sort of docile, its usual state when I’m not fucking or pumped full of meth.
“I don’t know, Sherry.”
“You could lower me down, I’ll suck your dick!”
Okay, now you’re talking. Blowjobs are different. And besides, lowering meant getting out the block and tackle and that meant building some kind of rig to hoist her up in and I was beginning to at least like the project aspect of the whole deal.
Two hours later, after a bunch of screwing shit together and tying of knots and inserting in a steel carabiner or two, I had Sherry rigged up and off the floor hanging upside down, her face turning red. But even though she was all squeezed up, her flabby butt and arms bulging out between the ropes, she looked as if she was actually enjoying this.
Then she yells, “Whip my ass, daddy!”
And I get that yucky feeling about male Doms all over again, and can sense I’m losing momentum.
“Hold on babe, losin’ my high. Gotta do a shot.”
“You better do me too,” squeals Sherry.
“After me, babe. After me.”
I shoot a huge hit. The back of my head pouring sweat, my hands shaking. On the table is the spoon with Sherry’s shot. All I need to do is draw it up and find a vein for her. But then I glance up at the rigging and realize it’s not quite right. I’m going to have trouble getting her down. I should’ve used the engine puller I have in my storage space across town on Folsom Street. How could I have been so stupid?
“Be right back,” I mumble.
“Don’t you fuckin’ leave!” she screams. “You’ll tweek out somewhere, forget all about me! Come back, you bastard!”
But I couldn’t hear her anymore. I had the car keys in my hand and I was heading out the door thinking I also need to stop at the dumpster at the electric supply warehouse. They’d been tossing out some really good shit lately and I didn’t want someone else getting it. And then of course I might hit the sweatshop trash-bins south of Market for more black cloth remnants. Shit it was early. I had the whole night in front of me.