June 25, 2004

I coughed like a bastard and blew the smoke through my nose like some sort of mythical creature. My visionary Indian friend laughed, his face beautiful and obscured by clouds. I never smoked before and my body refused to hallucinate.

“What are you feeling now?” I asked, burning with curiosity.

“I’m feeling tingly all over,” he said, decidedly smashed, before accusing me of not inhaling properly.

I was envious of his visions, so I jumped on my bicycle and pedaled into a storm to fetch a bottle of wine. The dark clouds were heaving like a wet animal, and when I came back half-an-hour later, I was soaked to the bone. Setting the bottle on the counter, I stripped down to my underwear and dried off with my shirt, half yearning to go out into the storm again.

The wine had the predictable effect — I became drowsy and talkative and refused to put on my clothes. And in my white cotton underwear I lectured for hours about Pink Floyd and the virtues of cat masturbation until we both felt peculiarly good and agreeable.

We soon started to agree about everything, even though we never agree. He even agreed to let me have his bed, and his sheets felt so warm that I had to use all my restraint not to cum in them during the night. No, it won’t do to stain his bed sheets, not after he offered me visions and hours of intensity despite my coughing.