Prostitution and Psilocybin: A Hot Mess In Sin City

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Holy mother of God, I flew to Las Vegas last night to see my john, “The Texan”. It was our very first rendezvous out of town. We had the craziest night, a definite first in my hooking career. He was so excited to hear that I was newly boyfriend-free, he immediately bought me a plane ticket to meet him in Vegas for a night. He texted me the room number as I landed, and when I arrived at the hotel, there were post-it notes all over with messages for me (he knows I’m a post-it note freak): On the elevator ceiling, down the long hallway and all over the room. Things like “Hello” and “Put your bags here”.  Another note told me to head to the bar in the suite.

A note was stuck to a bottle of Crown, “Drink this”

Next to it, another one, “Shower and get gussied up!” It was cute and playful. He arrived to the room while I was showering.  I was grateful he didn’t try to join.  After I got ready, we met his friends for dinner: a nice, local couple. I liked them right off the bat. Good people.

“Let’s eat ‘em!” I cried just before downing my sake.

In the middle of our sushi dinner, Shelly announced that they had mushrooms at the house. “Let’s eat ‘em!” I cried just before downing my sake. No one needed arm-twisting. We finished our meal and drinks (sushi probably wasn’t the smartest pre-mushroom meal, but fuck it), and The Texan paid the tab. We drove to a cigar store and loaded up on random things, which included a T-shirt for moi that said, “Iron Mexican” in the classic Iron Maiden font. At their house we made drinks and shot the shit. Shelly went upstairs and came back with this huge bag of mushrooms.

I had a plan. Having done mushrooms a lot in my life, and wanting only to achieve the giggly state, I said, “Just half a stem for me, please.” My plan was wise and doable…if only I had stuck to it.

Music was played. Drinks were sucked back, diet Dr. Pepper and Crown for The Texan, Crown neat for me. Time was passing but nothing was happening on the mushroom front. I kept thinking that maybe they had some weak-ass mushrooms (I don’t even know if that’s possible). I may have voiced this at some juncture because The Texan kept slicing up stems and caps for us to share. And me, being a fool (and fully knowing better), kept eating them. I don’t know what it is about mushrooms, but I always seem to have acute amnesia about the other times I’ve been on them and how much not to eat.

Cut to an hour and a half later: I’m high as fuck.

Way past the laughing stage. Shelly plays on the soundtrack to The Wall. The Fucking Wall, my most emotionally suicidal album! I used to do most of my cutting when I was fourteen and fifteen to that movie and soundtrack. Four songs in, I was on the ground crying. It was probably the worst/best album she could have played. Fuck it, it felt good to cry. I haven’t listened to that album in so long. It was cathartic, but the poor Texan didn’t know what to do with me. I wanted to be left alone. I’m extremely antisocial when I get to that level. My bad. And of course, as time wore on, the higher I got. The Texan was partially to blame, so I didn’t feel too bad about being antisocial, but I wasn’t pleased with the fact that I was getting further and further away from my plan. So I started watching the clock. This is how I’ve always dealt with being overly high. It helps me keep a handle on reality. Feels like an hour has passed? Nope. Only two minutes.

The Fucking Wall, my most emotionally suicidal album! I used to do most of my cutting when I was fourteen and fifteen to that movie and soundtrack. Four songs in, I was on the ground crying. It was probably the worst/best album she could have played

The Texan tried at one point to have sex with me in front of our guests in the living room. Hilarious, buddy, not gonna happen. I’m not that kind of party (or at least I haven’t been for some time). I kept asking him to leave alone. I wanted space to trip, but he insisted on “checking in” on me, although it felt more like him creeping around corners.
“Go back to the living room! I’m good. Please. I just need to be alone”, I yelled at him. At some point they had all moved to the living room, and I had commandeered the kitchen.
This went on for a while. On his fourth creep-around-the-corner-check-in, I shouted, “You are the worst drug buddy!”

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