Sex, Drugs, and Spirituality
By: Alex
Tags: Sprituality, Creative Non Fiction, LGBTQ, Gay, Love

At the end of In Another Dimension with Michael, I wrote,

At peace, I moved scarcely an inch from him. In the moment before sleep took me, I thought how it had been with some others, mechanical and shallow. I wondered at the sadness in them. This, though, with him, was a warm mystery, a wondrous, warm mystery.

It was well after midnight when I fell asleep thinking of the mystery making love with him had been. I woke around 2:00 to an urgent erection. I woke him by poking him in the butt with it, achieving insertion to the lip of the glans. He pulled away and turned to face me. Trapping my erection between his thighs, he wriggled closer to me, pressing his chest and belly against mine. I lusted for his matchless, brown body. He stared up into my eyes with those dark pools of midnight. Relaxed and totally at ease, he asked if I would do some cocaine with him.

I was surprised. I hadn’t known he used it. But, he was a doctor. I had absolute trust in him. I knew with certainty that he would do nothing to harm me, physically or mentally. I had no reservations. I nodded.

Still trapping me between his thighs, he rolled me on my back, rolling with me until he was on top of me. His full weight pressed down, and I felt him grow hard against my stomach. I nibbled at his ear and the nape of his neck. He squirmed. My erection flexed as if making a move to get away; laughing, he strengthened his hold on it.

Cocaine Lines | credit: ALFSnaiper | iStock (under license)

He reached into the nightstand drawer and drew out an oval mirror with a small, brown glass vial, a single-edge razor blade, and a miniature spoon on it. Holding the vial in place with his thumb and balancing the mirror, he moved off me and sat up cross-legged on the bed. I sat up, facing him.

Before he opened the baggie, he asked whether I’d done cocaine before. On hearing no, he explained that this was pharmaceutical-grade, free of contaminants. He told me what it did, then asked whether I was sure. “I am,” I said, and he drew up two good-sized lines that we inhaled.

The coke took effect. The high was immediate, gentle, and subtle. My mind seemed clearer and sharper. I felt a total openness with him, a connectedness and intensity I’d never felt before. There was an empathic resonance between us that was impossible to explain and impossible to deny. I felt invincible. I felt the rise of hypersexual energy and the promise of stamina and staying power. I could see in his eyes and on his face that he felt the same.

Containing the immediacy of our desire, we sat a moment more, surveying each other, loving what we saw. We had had a long experience with each other before I went to Fairbanks. We knew each other’s bodies. We each knew what excited the other, what incited a response. We each delighted in doing those things — each his own pleasure heightened in the pleasure of the other.

We knew an immense love impended.

We took that knowledge and that desire to please with us as I put him on his back, slipped between his legs, and slowly moved into him. He moaned involuntarily and gripped my biceps hard. The sensation was intense. Our bodies fused as one. As I slid into him, our very cores slid into one another. We moved in union with each other and with the space that enveloped and warmed us.

Transcendence | credit profomo | iStock (under license)

We left off our concerns for performance and technique. Our perspectives changed. We were lifted out of the everyday. We shared an emotive receptiveness, a communion, and unity that transcended this plane.

The immense love was upon us.

It overflowed its containment. Its transformative power bore us into an altered state — a sacred, spiritual state that melded perfectly with our sexuality. In union, with me engorged inside him, with my stomach stroking his stiff cock in rhythm with the movement of my hips, with his breath pulsing against my shoulder and his heart against my chest, our minds moved from the carnal into oneness with the cosmos.

An hour, a decade, a lifetime later, we exploded in simultaneous orgasms, I in him, he pulsing in my hand as I gripped his cock. He shot over his shoulder — twice. The third spurt made his left nipple. He reached behind me and pulled me even further into him. I leaned over and licked his nipple clean, then kissed him, long and deep.

We found ourselves lying on the bed. He was on his back. I was prone on top of him with my left shoulder at his chin. My arms splayed out in front of me on either side of him. I was partially supporting my weight on my elbows to avoid suffocating him. It was a reflexive action. I hardly realized it.

I turned my head to my left. I smelled the light hibiscus scent of his conditioner. I slowly became aware of his still heavy breathing under me, the rapid rise and fall of the pressure of his pecs against my ribs. He was pulling me at the waist hard against him. I felt the remains of my erection trapped against his six-pack.

I became aware of my own breathing and my slowing pulse. He relaxed his hold on me. I rolled off to my right, landing on my back. Our arms brushed against each other. Our hands found each other, and our fingers intertwined as if by their own volition.

Clamping his fingers down, he said, “Christ, Alex. What did we just do?”

For answer, I slipped my hand out of his and rose on my elbow. I extended my arm under his neck. I balanced his head on my bruised bicep and laid on my side next to him. I blew lightly in his ear. He shivered. I saw the small hairs on his neck stand up. I wrapped my left arm across his chest and my leg across his hips. I let the weight of them fall on him — as if I had the strength to do any differently.

We were back on this earth, spent.

After a while, he turned on his right side and pushed back into me, slipping into the curve of my body as if we were yin and yang, and with as much peace.

The effect of the coke dissipated, but with no roughness in its wake. We lay not worn, not depleted nor tatty, but fulfilled. Entirely fulfilled. Serenity and contentment bathed us in afterglow.

We stayed like that, drifting into and out of a light sleep as if in a trance. We were two bodies lying merged as one. We didn’t speak; it seemed unnecessary.

From the beginning, we had intuitively understood each other. Throughout, each had known what the other thought. Each responded as if to a spoken word. But, there had scarcely been a word spoken. Our understanding of each other had been empathic, almost telepathic.

Some indeterminate time elapsed. He turned on his left side, facing me. Propped on his elbow, he pressed his palm against my chest and leisurely guided it down to my stomach and the childhood scar that ran there. He smiled a wicked smile, his intent glinting off his eyes. He traced the scar and moved his hand further down, rubbing slowly at first then more urgently.

He rolled on top of me and reached for the mirror, taking the opportunity to nip at my ear and explore it with his tongue. I subvocalized an involuntary, low moan. He rolled off and put the mirror on the bed between us.

Silently, he poured some coke from the vial in a small mound. He took my left hand and balled it into a fist. He dipped into the pile with the spoon and poured the content onto my fist at the crease between thumb and forefinger. Putting down the spoon, he guided my hand to a point just under his nose and inhaled. The little pile vanished.

Then, he made a fist of his hand and held it out expectantly. Cocking his head slightly to the left, he looked at me with a question on his face. His eyes said, mimic me. His lips said nothing, only smiled the cutest, crooked little smile. I felt my heart flutter. I mimicked his routine and guided his fist under my nose. The second little pile disappeared.

Rolling onto me again, he replaced the mirror on the nightstand. On his way back, he bit my left nipple just hard enough. It stood to attention. A long, low sigh escaped my throat.

We laid there on our sides, face to face, and eyes locked for several minutes while the high infused our very souls. Then, he wrapped his arm around my waist and pulled himself against me. His chest rubbed mine. His mouth took mine. He undulated his hips, and we began again.

We loved like that until the impassioned night became a throned dawn.

That was the way I found transcendental spirituality — with Michael, sex, and cocaine. At 31, I finally knew another man in the manner, and to the extent, I had only dreamt of.