And finally: coke
BACKGROUND: It's an enduring irony that the perceived sexiest and most glamorous of all the recreational drugs is also the one most associated with an inability to achieve and/or maintain an erection. Its renown for bedeviling sexy times is the reason I won't go anywhere near the stuff if there's a fair possibility of my having sex within an hour or so. In social settings, however, I enjoy the odd bump as much as the next person.
The friend who gave the coke to me professed that any more than a modest line could become problematic.
"Even with Viagra?" I asked.
"Even then, things could get a little wobbly," he said. "Thing is, women seem to have a grand old time with it."
METHODOLOGY: In order to maximize Alex's enjoyment and minimize the chances of me having to thumb-in a softie, our third and final experiment begins with me taking some Viagra as I await her arrival at my apartment. I chop out a few lines of coke on the nightstand so that it can be in easy reach. Coming fresh from the stage, Alex looks suitably glamorous in full makeup, giant lashes, her bleached blonde hair piled on her head. Within seconds she's otherwise naked aside from specks of glitter. We start to fool around and soon I'm sporting the sort of tool that could come in handy should anyone need to open a manhole cover.
We have sex in the position preferred by most other mammals. At my prompt, she picks up the cut straw I put out for her and vacuums up a line. She catches our reflection in the mirror on the wall.
"It's cliché but I have to admit, this is pretty rock 'n' roll," she says. "Are you gonna do some off my ass?"
"Sure," I say, though I can't really think about set-piece theatrics until we're both high and in the groove.
As Alex confirms that the coke is working its magic, her feelings of well-being, competency, euphoria, and sexiness are further heightened, her glances in the mirror become longer and more frequent. I was with Alex the first and only other time that she did coke, and I remember the aggressively narcissistic streak it brought out in her then and now. She tells me to 'pound me out' and I oblige her.
Alex takes her second line and I snort the rest. We're face to face when I feel the coke begin to work on me. The bitter powder provokes a number of feelings, but the one I'm experiencing most keenly is relief that my methodical drug staggering has meant that I'm high while remaining large and charge. In fact, I'm so aroused that I have to take a pause to prevent myself from going over the edge. Alex is behaving even bossier than usual and isn't having that.
"Come on, come on!" she says then pulses her pelvic-floor muscle with so much vigor and so little warning that the end approaches very rapidly.
There's a 50/50 chance that I can fend it off, but I lose the gamble. The resulting orgasm is particularly low-wattage; slightly less enjoyable than a good sneeze.
Addled with coke, a particularly mean-seeming Alex decides that we're going to spend what will be a longer-than-usual refractory period by tying me up and discerning whether I like my privates tortured. (The jury is still out.) Cocaine-addled me decides that I'm going to have a decent orgasm while high on coke goddammit, and sets about transforming my roughed-up wet noodle into a serviceable erection. I employ every boner-salvaging trick that ordinarily works for me, but despite these tactics, I feel like I'm trying to pump up a blown-out bike tire. This display of bloody-minded futility goes on for some 10 minutes.
"It's OK," says Alex. "I don't think it's going to happen."
"No!" I say. "I've got this."
After another five minutes of what must be frightening-looking self-flagellation, I finally manage to scare up something I can use. I waste no time re-coupling with a surprisingly patient Alex, and some minutes later I have a mediocre orgasm.
"If it makes you feel any better, it didn't do much for me either," says Alex. "But you did get there two more times than me so..."
"Oh, yeah," I say. "Sorry. Would you like me to… ?"
"No," she says. "I'm tired. Get me back in the morning."
Final conclusion: meh!
Sober sex in the cold light of day had never sounded quite so appealing. While these three drugs augmented our experience of sex in different, mostly positive ways, they robbed us of the underlying stimulus to have it at all. The drive to ravage each other -- a central and enduring component of our seven-month relationship -- was dialed way down. It was clear that what we'd added to sex had taken something much more important away.
Call me old-fashioned but I haven't found anything that makes sex any better than atmospheric lighting, virgin coconut oil, and a playlist chosen for me by a Spotify algorithm. I guess I'll take that cardigan in beige.
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