Insatiable. Asa Akira
did this for the entire session.
After he left, I was embarrassed at how my mind had failed me when I tried to think of more dentist things to say. To everyone’s surprise, he came in for me again the next night. He had never booked anyone more than once. I don’t know what I did right. I repeated the same exact session for the second night in a row.
Around that time, I also met Eli. Eli was a trust fund kid. He technically owned a dance company, but fundamentally, he didn’t work. Almost every night, he would come in and book double, triple, sometimes quadruple sessions, back to back. To be honest, I don’t really even think Eli is a sub. He liked his nipples pinched hard; as far as I knew, that was about the freakiest thing about him, sexually.
The thing about Eli that made him so special was that he smoked crack.
Growing up in New York City, I discovered drugs at a young age. I dropped Ecstasy for the first time at thirteen. By fourteen, I had tried every drug there was available to me, except crack and heroin. Acid, mushrooms, pharmaceuticals, angel dust, salvia, coke, speed . . . But Special K was my favorite. My best friend Dee and I would regularly buy a liq each day after school, cook it up at night, and snort the powder in the morning before leaving the house to make the subway ride to school enjoyable. That’s how much I loved it. Somehow I never got physically addicted to anything, and I was fully sober (including alcohol!) by the time I was twenty-two. Starting drugs at such a young age, I think, was a blessing in my case. By the time I was an adult, I was over the whole partying scene, and ready to join reality.
Crack was something my circle had always looked down upon. We smoked weed every day and did harder drugs on a weekly basis, but crack and heroin were out of the question. Those drugs were for losers. We were above it.
I had never actually met a crackhead in real life. Nor did I have any desire to. In my mind, crackhead was somewhat synonymous to homeless.
When the girls told me about Eli, I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I didn’t understand how Clint could let some disgusting lowlife, a crackhead, come under our roof. To think he let him smoke crack during the sessions—I just didn’t get it.
Until I met him.
My first session with Eli I did as a favor to Clint. I walked into the torture room half expecting to meet a guy wearing a blanket and pushing a shopping cart. How could Clint let this guy book me? I went to a Manhattan private school, for crying out loud.
Eli took me by surprise. He was nothing how I had imagined—he was in sweats, but they were from Zegna. He wore a black carbon fiber Hublot watch I had never even seen before, that I knew cost at least $250,000. Definitely not handsome, but he didn’t have the face of someone who was broke. Or broken.
This guy smokes crack?
The first few sessions I did with Eli, I just pinched his nipples and listened to him ramble for however long he had booked me. His stories bored me half to death. I dreaded his sessions.
His ideas were grandiose and unrealistic, and I never knew which of the things that he said were true, and which were lies or exaggerations. He offered me a hit at the beginning of every session and, most of the time, again halfway through. I always turned him down. I had no interest in smoking something that would make me act like that. Besides, I had my Oxy, and that was enough for me.
Then one night, I caved. I could sit here and endlessly list excuses. I was bored. My Oxy was wearing off. I got curious. He pressured me.
The truth is that I just did it, without any thought. He made his obligatory offer at the beginning of a session, and where I usually answered No, I blankly nodded Yes.
Describing the first time I smoked crack feels like describing the moment I discovered true happiness.
I smoked through a glass pipe and felt the thick smoke enter my chest. It’s not like weed or tobacco smoke. More chemical-ish, the vapor is almost cold as it fills you. The moment you inhale it, you feel your reality shift instantaneously. As you hold the smoke in, you get higher and higher—it’s as if you can literally feel the crack spreading to the rest of your body, starting at your lungs. One cell at a time, your body becomes a whole other being—a happier, lighter, more energized being. It’s like waking up from a coma and your life is a whimsical musical number in a Disney movie.
“This is amazing,” I heard myself telling Eli. “I can’t stop smiling.”
Eli was smiling back at me. “I told you.”
In that moment, I loved him. I loved crack.
Just as those thoughts formed in my mind, I felt a little less high. Or was I imagining it? No, it was definitely happening. I was coming down. Every two seconds that passed, I felt my high slip away from me a little bit more. I held my breath in a panic, as if that would keep the crack from escaping my body. No. No. This wasn’t fucking happening. It felt so good such a short amount of time ago. I looked to Eli. He knew what was happening. I needed another hit.
I saw why crack was considered the most dangerously addictive drug. The high is too good. Losing it is too painful.
Eli came in for sessions for the next two nights, and we got high together. It was miserable. I didn’t sleep when I went home, my mouth was full of canker sores from nervously chewing my lips, and I never felt like I did that first time, no matter how many hits I took.
At the end of the third night of my crack binge, I lost it.
I didn’t act out in any way—in fact, I did just the opposite. It was hard to speak or move. I could walk from one end of the room to the other, but walking felt uncomfortable. Sitting down felt uncomfortable. Everything felt disgusting.
I managed to text Eddie, who was my ex-husband by that time. “911. Come get me. At Nutcracker. Please.”
Eddie picked me up in a cab. We weren’t getting along at the time; we had separated only a few months ago after what seemed like an eternity of sucking the life and light out of each other’s souls. The days of him calling me Peanut were long gone, and we rode in silence. I didn’t tell him what was going on. It was dawn already; the sun was coming up. Something about that hour when night turns to day makes everything so much worse when you’re on drugs. He took me back to the condo we had lived in together, and all I wanted to do was close all the curtains and crawl into bed, under the covers, with a Xanax. Alone.
I ran upstairs to the bedroom. The blackout curtains were closed. Thank God. I looked in Eddie’s underwear drawer and found a bottle of Xanax. Double thank God. I dived into the bed.
Something felt wrong. What the fuck? Are the sheets wet? I couldn’t decide if I was imagining things. The sheets felt damp and cold. Had I fucking pissed myself?
I got up, turned on the light, and pulled my panties down. Bone dry. I put my hand on the sheet. It definitely felt wet.
I yelled downstairs. “Am I crazy, or are the fucking sheets wet??” Communicating took so much effort. There was no room for me to use my manners.
“I washed them earlier; when I took them out of the dryer they were still wet—I thought I’d let them dry on the bed.”
Are you. Fucking. Kidding me. Right there I started to cry. Shit like this only happens when you’re high as fuck.
Men are such morons, the Xanax hasn’t kicked in yet, and all I want is a bed. “Get the fuck up here!” I screamed down to Eddie, who was already heading upstairs to me.
“What the fuck is your problem? Yo, what are you even doing here?” Eddie’s New York Puerto Rican accent always came out more when he was mad.
“I fucking smoked crack, you asshole! All I want is a fucking bed and some peace and quiet, and you had to be so fucking stupid and put WET SHEETS on the bed! Now the mattress is wet and there’s nowhere to fucking sleep! And I’m fucking coming down from crack!” I could hear myself yelling like a legitimate crazy person, but I didn’t care. “Just GET THE FUCK OUT!”
Eddie was