HIGH.


It was Saturday night, why not celebrate? Not like there’s anything else to do.

He opens the drawer, rummages inside. Emerges with the silver box where he kept it –all polished and gleaming, round corners thick with ornamental spirals that always makes him think of fine silverware. For a fraction, almost subconsciously, he admires his own reflection on the silver lid, right before popping it open. With a click. And marveling at its contents.

-----

The music was just funky enough. Pleasant, but not dull. A little quirky maybe -interesting. And it filtered into Joche’s head without the discomfort of those headphones that press against the side of your ear, making it hurt. Or the ones that cover your ear, and warm it up, make it all sweaty. Few things are as bad as sweaty ears.

And that’s why tonight, his ears are dry, and the air conditioning is just cool enough to demand a light layer of clothes over naked skin. Because tonight, of all nights, tonight is about feeling good –and that means having everything in its place. Having everything right.

The microwave beeps. The pastries are ready –Joche lets them stand for about thirty seconds more. That’s supposed to make the crusts firm again, an old trick he learned from the instruction manual when he first bought the micromave. Back when saving time was a big concern. And the crusts must be firm, not limp, crunchy would be great, or flaky if at all possible. The pasteles should be perfect. Since everything else is.

Lying on the couch, homemade food spread out before him, snuggling a large pillow and a remote control in his hand. He’s ready. He can begin.

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Two pills, all that was left. Sitting in the wrinkled blood-red velvet like tiny spaceships, like two tiny, shiny white spaceships, destined to take him away. His breath quickens, almost imperceptibly, with anticipation. Two thick fingers, thumb and index, descend into the small silver box, to pinch one of the pills and retrieve it, delicately, as if they were plucking the winning number at a church raffle.

He holds it against the light, and examines it. Up this close, he can see the small nicks and holes, the rough edges –the apparent smoothness becomes pockmarked in close-up. And off-center, towards the plumper right, he finds the signature, crudely printed with a distinctive stamp, a logo of sorts: a couple of interlaced letters, a capital “N” and a capital “F” drawn together in a tight embrace.

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Menu. There’s an option that skips over the narrative and dialogue, goes straight to the action, slideshows the sex scenes one after the other. There’s even a “repeat” option that keeps the porn on a loop. Joche doesn’t anticipate needing to entire movie, but chooses to loop it anyway. Just in case.

Play.

The music has a good percussion solo; the central air shuts off with an abrupt sigh. A slim, blonde twink reaches for another slim, blond twink’s crotch; they kiss with their mouths wide open. A cold swig of Jupiña, sweet and medicinal-tasting. The twinks undress in an awkwardly choreographed manner. A bite of pastel, the crust just right. A twink kneels before the other, like an invitation. Delicate tendrils of steam waft from the pastel filling. Cocksucking. Thick fingers reach inside the waistband, thumb and index, middle, ring and pinky, slithering into the dark confines. They find their target, and begin stroking it awake. Slurping. The solo recedes into a steady beat, and a woman’s airy voice replaces it. Caressing, just the tip of the fingers on the head. One twink takes it all the way down to the base. Still particles of cool air land gently on Joche’s skin, like falling snow. Slobbering. He moves his hand in a slow upward motion, almost tickling, and a rush of low voltage electricity climbs up his spine. He clutches the pillow tighter. The twink who’s standing leans his head back and moans, in what appears to be a rare moment of truth. Joche’s eyes close shut for a second, and the video, the food, the room disappear into a sort of darkness; light filters through his membranes, making the thin veins visible. The song smoothly fades into the next, with less drumming, more acoustic guitars, choral voices looming in the background. The lights dim imperceptibly, as the air conditioning starts again.

-----

The pills are carried into the kitchen, floating, like precious pearls on pillows. A pestle. A mortar. Up and down. The dry crack of wood on wood. The subtler crack of crumbling, pulverizing. He moves the hand, removes the pestle to reveal a small pond of white powder, resplendent, with tiny crystals in it catching the light and reflecting it like miniature jewels.

-----

The music changes again, the beats are louder, and faster. Pulses travel down Joche’s arm, down to his fingertips. The twinks move on to vigorous fucking. Rub. Lightly, with the tips of the fingers.

The area where fingers meets skin explodes with sensation -bright bursts of pleasure emanating from it.

Feels good.

-----

The powder goes in the water right before it boils. He likes to pour a bit of water in the mortar and wash it out. Make sure every white molecule ends up in the kettle. The bubbles wrestle and blur through the steamed glass. Dissolving, mixing, becoming one. A liquid, a tonic. Elixir.

And as the delicate wisps of steam roll off the spout like airy ribbons, they pick up force, and then eject in a forceful stream that gathers speed and releases energy as the warmer steam comes into contact with the cold air outside. That first collision, that release of energy, resolves itself into a hair-raising, high-pitched whistle.

It’s ready.

-----

It feels better with the nail –the dragging sensation of something blunt moving against the pliable skin. Rub some more. Nirvana comes on, disembodied and stoic. Another twink stumbles onto the scene –he’s limited to voyeuring for the meantime. Scratch. Nerves tingle with the stimulation. And somewhere primitive, in a dark, reptilian part of Joche’s brain, a basic desire is being satisfied.

It feels so right.

Like an easy solution, the right numbers on a combination lock –discomfort soothed and replaced by the exact tool. The most accurate. The only appropriate one.

Nirvana makes that classic grunge transition –from numb lament to rage explosion- in a split second. Guitars wail. A soul-piercing scream. The drums go into accelerated arrhythmia.

The third twink joins the fray, and, in an inelegant jumpcut, they’re all naked, writhing, groaning animalistic sounds.

The pumping, the sucking, the banging, the slamming. And the nail travels across the skin, digging deep, bending the elastic surface inwards towards beating blood cursing through veins and arteries. Towards the flow of life itself. And such a thin delicate barrier separating him, his fingers, from touching the river that transports existence. In the flesh, experiencing it in the flesh, sinking his flesh deep into the thick stream, the vital stream.

And then, they finally surface, the first ones. Like infinitesimal flowers blooming. Not long after Joche’s nail has scratched the inside of his thigh (the part where it meets the groin, that delicate, ticklish, sensitive patch of epidermis) for the seventeenth delirious, delicious time, the skin breaks, and the first spots of dark burgundy blood appear.

-----

The liquid catches the light as it’s poured into a clear crystal mug, turning onto itself in the mini-tsunami familiar to most television viewers from beer commercials. The mixture’s translucent, with a white, milky quality like over-chlorinated water that hasn’t been left to settle long enough. It quickly fogs the mug, and starts exhaling steam molecules onto the air. On top, a delicate layer of slickness refracts the halogen bulbs into an oil slick’s rainbow, before the surface hardens into an incredibly thin membrane, covering the mug’s mouth like a pool in winter.

He leaves it on the counter to cool down, and reaches into the cupboards to start preparations. A small plate for the pastries. Pour some cold Jupiña into a round glass topped off with ice cubes. Plug the Ipod into the dock, set for Party Shuffle. DVDs in the player. Knock the thermostat down.

Get everything ready. Make everything perfect. Put everything right.

And then he can begin.

-----

It feels so good.

Bright bursts of pleasure radiate from the points on Joche’s skin where the blood pools into well-formed drops. His fingers, searching, exploring, spread the droplets into a thin veneer, an abstract painting over the skin. Then they enter it. Nails first, the skin caving in, then puncturing and giving way like a plastic bag. Touching the rush of blood as it streams through the veins, the gelatinous ligaments, the strata of muscle. And wave after wave of blinding pleasure, building to a crescendo.

A red bloom stains the beige couch –radiating from between his legs and devouring the untouched fabric like malignant real estate, sprawling, commuting the life away from his body.

His eyes close, and he mouths an “o” of pleasure. His eyelids flutter, and both his feet begin to strain and tremble.

He pinches something between red-stained thumb and forefinger. He shudders. A strip of skin. He pulls. The excruciatingly beautiful sensation of skin slowly tearing -the minuscule sounds of skin ripping away, and then coming free.

He holds the irregularly shaped strip of flesh against the light, and stares at it. He revels in its translucence, like closing your eyes in daylight and seeing the capillaries and membranes glow through the thin skin. He rubs it with his thumb, enjoying its smooth surface, and its prickly underside. He brings it close to his nose and takes a deep whiff –it smells of grass mixed with iron. He sniffs it more times, with more shallow intakes.

The escalating rumble of orgasmic pleasure storms through his entire body -becomes deafening.

He opens his mouth.

-----

He disperses the tendrils of steam rising above the cup with a quick puff. Reaches with a single finger and pinches the skin forming on the surface of the liquid. With a quick movement, so as not to spill a single drop on the couch, he takes the thin membrane to his waiting mouth and places it on his tongue. It tastes sweet and tart, with an undercurrent of bitter and chalky –like mixing aspirin with sweet-tarts. It also tastes familiar.

He lifts the cooling cup to his lips. Registers the warmth radiating from the smooth porcelain. Inhales the steam deeply. Takes a close-up peek at the milky potion, with its mesmerizing surface of oily rainbows, and catches himself, his own reflection, staring back at him with whitened eyes.

He draws his eyelids closed, and takes the first sip. Then the second, and the third, barely stopping for breath, until the cup is empty. He licks the remnants off his lips, and finally re-opens his eyes. The kitchen looks exactly the same, only cleaner, more radiant.

He notices the funky music. The dry ears.

And then he hears the microwave beep.

-----

He delicately places the strip on his tongue, as if performing an ancient ritual. It tastes almost exactly as it smelled, like grass and iron, like licking the old gate in backyard, the one with the tantalizing brown spots of rust.

Every fiber of his being tingles –like a chaotic bundle of fiber-optic cables lit from miles away.

Joche closes his eyes and savors the flavors, the sensation of the flesh melting back into his own flesh, coming back full circle. He savors the idea of self-sufficiency, of the purest nourishment. Of simultaneously taking and giving life.

He arches his back; his shoulders tense up. For a second, his skin contracts against the cold air, and then expands again. He can feel it coming, rising inside him, until there is nowhere to go, nowhere higher.

Without chewing, and without warning, he swallows.

And the energy inside him explodes –filling every nerve of his body with a sacred luminescence. Making him glow for an instant, then receding.

Breathing. Hard. Heartbeat slows down.

The grunting of the video gives way to a new scene, with new twinks.

The music changes again, a mournful trombone solo fills the room.

And, in a move that marks the beginning of a very long, but very good night, he licks his fingers clean.

And reaches down for more.