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I was working at a large club in a large city when my future boyfriend asked if he could have a glass of water. We proceeded to do drugs all day. La, la, la. It turned out that we had a lot in common. We both had degrees and full-time jobs, something rare in the crackhead community. We talked, we kissed and held on to each other all night, and that was it: I was in love. Needless to say, I was devastated when I found out he had a girlfriend. I told him that he could call me if and when he was single. There was no way I would be "the other woman."
That weekend I was working, and he came in. He asked me, "So can I call you now?" He had spent that day moving out of his girlfriend's apartment. And that night, in the middle of a mushroom trip, I turned to him and said, "Wanna go home and have really dirty sex?" And we did. Three times. Five months later, he moved in. All of the drugs, and all the partying, were really just both of us hiding our loneliness and emptiness. And then we found each other and saved ourselves. We laugh when we think about what we are going to tell our kids when they ask how we met. Do we tell them we met at the dirtiest club in the city, on a Sunday morning, cracked-out beyond belief?
P.S. The sex is still dirty!!!
My partner/boyfriend/whatever and I met after he'd been out all the night before, high off his face on coke, and I'd been smoking pot all day. We met at a mutual drag-queen friend's houseboat party on the river Spree in Berlin, Germany. We circled each other for about an hour before attacking. We had sex while his best friend was passed out on the bed next to us. We've been together ever since, and it will be five years this August 19.
Tony (& Dirk)
During my freshman year of college, a friend of mine and I went to a typical Friday night backyard keg party. After a few hours, he suggested we step into the woods out back to smoke some dope. A girl overheard this, and asked to come along. Immediately after smoking, this girl said she had to pee, but instead of going back to the house, she dropped her trousers right there. Drunk and stoned and young as I was, I thought that was the coolest thing ever. We went back to the party, and after an hour or so of drunk talk and groping, we staggered back to campus and her dorm room. Now we're engaged.
Piss Brought Us Together
I was at an underground rave in 1997, popping Ecstasy like it was popcorn. I was hugging anything that moved (including posts and garbage cans, which seemed to be pulsing quite seductively), and wearing an embarrassing pink wig. I ran into a boy I'd met a couple times through a mutual friend. While chatting and eyeing each other through dilated pupils, we compared histories: His mother was a lesbian, mine's bisexual; his father's a college professor, mine used to be; we both grew up in cabins on islands. While these similarities might seem merely novel while sober, to two luvved-up jaw-grinders it was akin to finding a long-lost twin, only sexier. Two and a half years later, I'm in the most grounded, loving, supportive relationship I've ever been in. We often joke that this is by far the longest E trip either of us has ever had.
Eyes Still Dilated
I was at a huge rave outside Toronto a few years back, where I picked up a cute blond boy. I brought him home and we had great, sweaty sex all night. My mother was supposed to arrive at 8:00 a.m. the next morning to take me formal-wear shopping for a family function. I barely managed to hustle him out the door, with no explanation, five minutes before she arrived. I couldn't for the life of me remember the guy's name, but he called the next week and asked me out. So I met him for a few drinks, and we discovered we had a fair bit in common. We've been blissfully married for almost two years.
My husband and I met in college. He turned me on so much, sitting across the table from me in Lit Theory, that I inveigled a date with him and procured him drugs to make him more pliable. But the LSD turned out to contain too many stimulants--he couldn't settle down enough to make it to bed. A couple of nights later I found the perfect chemical combination to bend him to my will: LSD, combined with dope and beer to slow the buzz a little. He was too fucked up to drive home, so he stayed and fucked me twice, once missionary and once doggy-style. That was in 1995, and this August 1 we'll have been mostly happily married for two years. We've even stopped screwing other people.
It was my third day of rehab. I was sitting in the TV room, watching Regis and Kathie Lee, sweating nervously and sucking down my third cigarette (with the filter snapped off), when I heard retching behind me. A young woman with long blond hair was vomiting into a waste basket while everyone (including the clueless attendants) ignored her. Noting that she was puking into her golden locks, I went over and held back her hair so she could finish her purge. "Thank you," she groaned, looking up at me with reddened, watery eyes. "No prob," I said. When she finished, we had a long chat about our addictions (she was a crankhead and I was recovering from a long spell of heroin use), and soon we were inseparable. Although sex was problematic--kicking smack can really affect your willy--we walked out of the hospital three weeks later and have been together (clean and sober) ever since. And the sex just gets better and better! Ain't love funny?
BBoy and BGurl
Next week in Savage Love: How Sleaze Is Lived in America, Part Three. We'll hear from people who met their true loves while exploring their forbidden desires in skanky three-ways, dank leather bars, and on sleazy websites!