GuysterRules (guysterrules) wrote,

And I guess that I just don't know.

The Score: You’ve been looking for a while. Your regular source can’t be reached, and now you’re calling friends of friends who might know someone who knows someone and it’s starting to piss you off. You’re not panicked—yet—but you just want the blow and you want it to happen now. When the actual transaction does happen, it’s hurried, sweaty, and that’s just how you like it.

The Bindle: You’ve got the bindle, a fun little piece of origami that keeps everything neatly in place; maybe it’s in your wallet or in the watch pocket of your jeans. No matter—it’s secure and you’re not about to lose it. Serenity seeps in, knowing that it’s there, and your heart skips a beat as if you were in love.

Privacy: Get through traffic, just get through the fucking traffic. The second you get home, you need to find a quiet spot, one where you won’t be disturbed by your partner knocking on the door or someone walking in on you. The toilet is your best bet.

The Prep: Opening the plastic top of the syringe cover, you turn it on its back. Fill up a glass of water—you’ll need it in a minute. Take the bindle from your pocket and tap enough powder into the cap. Your hands are shaking a little as you uncap the needle of the syringe and sink it into the glass. With both hands, you draw back about half of the syringe with water and squirt it slowly onto the powder, watching the mother-of-pearl dissolve into a milky white. You take the orange cap protecting the needle and tamp down the clumps that haven’t spread into the mixture, making certain that no clumps are left and only smooth watery white goodness remains.

The Cotton: A piece of cotton from a Q-Tip or the top of a medicine bottle or the filter of a cigarette—it doesn’t matter as long as you have something to stick the needle in, and pull the liquid into the barrel until the wet cotton is bone dry.

The Slam: Hold the syringe to the light, tap it a few times, and close the plunger until the tiniest little squirt leaks out of the tip. You have to make certain they’re no air bubbles. Panic can make you forget some things, sometimes. Pull the sleeve of your button-down shirt up above your bicep, take the firmness of the cuff and twirl it around tightly. You look down instinctively to the vein, the good one on your left arm that pops so well. You tuck the knotted-up sleeve into the crux of your arm, squeeze your fist, and slide the tiny needle right into the middle of the skin there, on a slant.

The Register: Pull the plunger back just a little, just enough for some of your blood to leak into the snowy mixture in the syringe. You’re in—good to go. And slowly you push the plunger forward as you watch the liquid disappear, and stop just before it’s all gone. Pull back again, and this time there’ll be a lot more red, more blood, and then jam that plunger back down through the syringe, emptying it.

Cleaning up: A wad of toilet paper sops the few drops of blood on your arm. You take the syringe and load it with fresh water from the glass. Push it out quickly, and repeat. Better yet, just let the syringe drop from your hand onto the floor, lean back on the toilet, play with your cock, and smile.

My daily routine, twenty years ago.

I can still taste that explosion in my mouth when the juice hit my heart.

I can still taste it.
Tags: 80s

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