(no subject)
The first time I was ever really, legitimately stoned, I struck claim on a patch of carpet and sprawled out to relax and watch the patterns cycling behind my closed eyes. I remember being somewhat apprehensive, laced with a strong dose of eagerness, waiting for whatever-it-was to hit. They don't tell you how it's going to be, when you get high. They just shrug, say "everyone's experience is different" and pass the pipe.
We were at this boy's house, his name was Damien but we called him Snake, and his pipe looked like glass with tiny tendrils of red and black, like the insides of those paperweights you see in antique stores. I remember wanting to fuck him, but having a strong idea that he wouldn't look twice at me. He didn't, but I wasn't left out of the Smoking Circle, and as the first thick, invisible serpent-ropes of warm bliss coiled around my ankles, I figured I could cut my losses.
I distinctly recall seeing an inwardly folding, silhouetted ball of hands spiralling against my eyelids. Looking back on it, it seems strange, and stranger still to type it, but at the time it was fascinating and I just kept, watching it, until it shifted in a very kaleidoscope way, transforming into an endless mess of tangled triangles. They had just started to change colors, the same colors of Snake's pipe, and every bit of skin had started to tingle, pins and needles and a soft buzz, when I guess I fell asleep. Warm and comfortable and curling up.
When I bought my own pipe, it looked very much like Snake's and I still have it, oddly enough. Last night, I brought it out for the first time in a damned long time and relaxed (when I tell people drug-free, I mean drug-severely-limited), until Carrie-Anne showed up with a bottle. I firmly insist she should return, possibly this evening, for Weed & Wine: Part Deux.
The rest of you? Tell me about your first times.
We were at this boy's house, his name was Damien but we called him Snake, and his pipe looked like glass with tiny tendrils of red and black, like the insides of those paperweights you see in antique stores. I remember wanting to fuck him, but having a strong idea that he wouldn't look twice at me. He didn't, but I wasn't left out of the Smoking Circle, and as the first thick, invisible serpent-ropes of warm bliss coiled around my ankles, I figured I could cut my losses.
I distinctly recall seeing an inwardly folding, silhouetted ball of hands spiralling against my eyelids. Looking back on it, it seems strange, and stranger still to type it, but at the time it was fascinating and I just kept, watching it, until it shifted in a very kaleidoscope way, transforming into an endless mess of tangled triangles. They had just started to change colors, the same colors of Snake's pipe, and every bit of skin had started to tingle, pins and needles and a soft buzz, when I guess I fell asleep. Warm and comfortable and curling up.
When I bought my own pipe, it looked very much like Snake's and I still have it, oddly enough. Last night, I brought it out for the first time in a damned long time and relaxed (when I tell people drug-free, I mean drug-severely-limited), until Carrie-Anne showed up with a bottle. I firmly insist she should return, possibly this evening, for Weed & Wine: Part Deux.
The rest of you? Tell me about your first times.