The Chemsex Monologues

Patrick Cash

• Publisher: Oberon Books
• Year: 2016
• Print ISBN: 9781786820051
• eBook ISBN: 9781786820068
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: British Drama
• Index: Literature

A nameless narrator meets a sexy boy on a Vauxhall night out, who introduces him to G's pleasures; a club night poster boy gets taken to Old Mother Meth's place by a porn star; Fag Hag Cath is finding the chillouts have become more about the sex; Daniel is a sexual health worker who does community outreach in the saunas; and Rob's snorting mephedrone off a framed photograph of his parents' 25th wedding anniversary.

Nameless Part 1

I was twenty-five when I met Nameless. I had travelled back from Paris for the first of my old school friends’ weddings, and stopped over in London. Having been a bar boy in Soho, I popped in for a pint, which became seven pints and three shots of whisky and a hazy recollection of sambuca; and I found myself – or, more accurately, lost myself – exceedingly and rambunctiously drunk.

After having sabotaged a past flame’s new relationship, I proceeded to accidentally destroy the club night he was DJing at by falling down the stairs, smashing a glass and clearing the dance floor. I was unceremoniously kicked out – although it’d probably happened to me enough times in Soho to carry at least a degree of ceremony – and not allowed back in to retrieve my jacket. I wandered the cold November streets of Soho in just a singlet and oblivion until I bumped into the Dealer Adonis.

He dragged me into a cab, and said:

“Come with us to Love Club.”

*

I’ve rarely refused the offer of free drugs in my life, and each time I have has been a deep regret. By the time I was inside the huge bass-pumping Vauxhall club of lasers and House, I’d snorted a bump of meph, whipped off my top and began to prowl through the dance floor advertising my wares. A boy in blue soon took the bait, feeding me coke or mephedrone from his key in a cubicle, as a toilet attendant we’d forgotten to bribe aggressively banged on the door with her broom, screaming: “NO JIGGY-JIGGY!”

At the back of the dancefloor we found a closed-off outside area, where we sneaked out to smoke and kiss further.

Two guys had already beaten us there. The more muscular I recognised as Nameless, a friend of the Dealer Adonis who had added me online. I was wary of him as part of the gay scene A-list. He was the poster boy for Room Service, where the most beautiful and judgemental of the hard-bodied men went; and his eight-pack abs glistened from myriad club photos on Facebook. I pre-formed an opinion of him as over-bathed in others’ lust, and narcissistic. Yet when I told him I performed poetry in Paris, he asked if I might listen to his poem.

We fled away from our companions, to the very back gate. As he began to recite, I thought clearly how, whatever might happen that night, I would always remember how this blue-eyed boy with the tribal tattoo read me his poem as the dawn rose white in the sky, beats dimly pumping through the club walls.

*

It was a good poem; heartfelt and rhythmical. I can only remember in exactitude now the refrain: “his son is a homosexual.” It told the tale of a Latvian Catholic immigrant and the expectations placed upon his firstborn son. I wonder now if this first introduction to Nameless was more illustrative of the demons that lurked in his dark than I could, at the time, perceive.

We lost the other two amongst the high-NRG trance and sweaty, gyrating torsos of the dance floor. When he asked if I wanted to go back to his friend’s, who lived nearby, I said yes.

*

His friend was older, gym-toned and Brazilian, wearing a silver band on his ring finger and harbouring a seemingly endless supply of G. As Nameless stripped off his red and white boxers, revealing his sculpted buttocks, he announced: “I can top, but I’m a fucking good bottom.” I felt my cock kick alive.

Yet, moreover than the energetic sessions of chem-fused sex, what has stayed with me more from that hazy morning was the smoothness of Nameless’ skin as I held him afterward in my arms, and ran my fingers lightly over his shaved chest, slotting them into the subtle grooves of his ribs. I lay my lips gently, like flowers, upon the heat of his back, soft between the twin blades of his shoulders.

*

The Brazilian Friend passed us the crystal pipe, holding a blue flame beneath its glass bulb, instructing us both to suck hard on its white ghost wisps. Nameless beckoned me close for a kiss and blew the exhaled smoke from his lungs deep into mine. I could not adequately distinguish the high from the other substances I had imbibed, but as Nameless and I lay side by side, and the Brazilian Friend told us a meandering boyhood story of stealing bananas from his neighbour’s tree, my penis grew painfully hard. Under the bed covers, as the other still spoke on in a glazed manner, Nameless gently guided me to his asshole, still slick with sweat and lube from before. As I entered him we both made no sound, barely moving. I had never felt so blood-engorged and I knew if I incited fast motion I would climax inside him. I did not want to do this for, as safe I played when sane, I had not been tested for some time. I could not be the one who might mar his beauty and youth. It was an experience of the intensest eroticism as each kick of my cock manifested itself as a tiny kiss on the hairs at the nape of his neck, and the accented words of banana trees and far off places fell in waves upon our ears.

*

Not yet being au fait with chemsex etiquette, I switched the pounding House music to ‘Perfect Day’ by Lou Reed. The Brazilian Friend stared at the Spotify, before announcing he was taking a shower. Nameless stated it was a nice so...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Half-title Page
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Contents
• Nameless Part 1
• Saint Sebastian
• Fag Hag Cath
• Daniel the Sexual Health Worker
• Nameless Part 2