Getting high and having extended sex sessions is a common part of the gay party scene. Apparently, It makes the whole experience phenomenal… but can be a very different matter if you find yourself the participant who isn’t lit like the Rockefeller Christmas tree.
In my experience, the Grindr tag HNH is best avoided.
There is a guy in my neighbourhood, who could have been the perfect regular fuck buddy. He is sweet; handsome; has a cute shy smile; beautiful, thick lashed eyes; and, best of all, his own place literally just around the corner. I should be popping to his gaff more regularly than I visit my local store, but disappointingly our liaisons have been marred by High N Horny Hell.
Our first chaste meeting occurred whilst taking my dog around the block on her evening walk.
I was waiting as she relieved herself in the shadows of a wheelie-bin, when two guys approached along the pavement. One was a gangly lad with fabulously flamboyant gestures, who was so busy chatting to his friend he failed to notice my dog, until she finished her business and gleefully popped her head out from behind the bin… just as they passed by. The unexpected appearance of my dog’s grinning snout and lolloping tongue sent this willowy youth into a panicked pirouette and he let out a shrill shriek like a boiling kettle.
I apologised, through my laughter, but the damage was done. The poor lad clutched his breast like a swooning debutante and collapsed onto his companion’s shoulder.
“He’s fine,” the friend assured me, as he led the limp lad away.
It was only then I registered just how handsome this friend was.
I turned to check him out one more time, before continuing the dog walk… just as he cast a glance back in my direction and offered a coy smile.
Weeks later, I received a message from an anonymous profile on Grindr.
Opening with, I THINK WE MET WHEN YOU WERE WALKING YOUR DOG, I quickly establishing that it was the friend from that evening encounter. We exchanged messages and he invited me over to his conveniently located home.
Things started well. He was very welcoming, pleasant company, and affectionate.
Out of the blue, he asked, “Do you mind if I get high?”
While not my thing, I have no qualms about what other people do, so told him I was fine with that. I expected him to roll a joint, but a line of coke was promptly drawn and snorted.
That moment everything changed.
What had been sensitive and sensuous… immediately became tense and passionless. He became rigid and stiff-limbed. Trying to assume any position was like attempting to erect a seafront deckchair. I cut things short.
With the meet initially so promising, we decided to meet again and give things another go. Again, he snorted. Although better this time, there was still a frustrating contrast between his pre and post drugs prowess.
Our third meeting proved to be our last. In his heightened state, he just lay in the centre of the bed, anxiously scanning the room, as though imagined horrors crawled the walls.
We occasionally bump into each other around the neighbourhood. He is always sweet and friendly. We smile, exchange pleasantries, and sometimes stop to chat, but we won’t be hooking up again.
I do occasionally look wistfully at his flat as I pass, lamenting the convenient shag buddy that wasn’t to be.
Another afternoon, I was in Birmingham’s gay village, when I received a Grindr message asking if I wanted to join two guys in their nearby apartment.
I downed my drink and made my way over, cussing their inability to give clear and precise directions. Why do some guys fail to automatically give important details, such as flat number, access codes, pre-warning of any potential obstacles or barriers, which could help a first-time visitor find their location? Sometimes, I feel like Indiana Jones trying to raid a long-sealed tomb: Find the hidden entrance behind the dumpster; go through a series of unmarked doors; negotiate the poorly signed inner courtyard; stumble through a labyrinth of ill-lit hallways; decipher the hieroglyphs; avoid the pit of snakes; and dodge a rolling boulder.
Eventually finding their flat, I was confronted with a floor strewn with food packaging, beer bottles and drugs detritus.
This does not bode well, I thought… and I suspected they weren’t getting their deposit back.
I did consider leaving, but both guys were fit (in a Brit chav/grey sweatpants kind of way).
The three of use began to play around on the bed.
After a while, one of the lads broke off to attend to some business amongst the trash filled floor.
His mate handed me condoms and lube and presented himself on all fours.
No sooner had I penetrated, than he plucked up his phone and began scrolling through apps. Next thing he was sending messages on Grindr. I could read his conversation. He was talking to another guy about joining him and his mate once I was done.
I was balls deep in him and he was setting up the next shag!
That is just bad manners.
I am a firm believer in each to their own, and support anyone’s choice to do whatever they want, but high and horny hook-ups just aren’t for me. I know there are countless people who regularly have satisfying drug fuelled sex sessions, but in my experience lit lovers are like drunk drivers, they think it makes them better, but in reality… it is all a bit of a car crash.
Tales of the Second City 