"Let's party," Shay* said to me, smiling like a wicked Cheshire Cat. She pulled a plastic baggy of pink pills out of her pocket and waved it around my face, attempting to hypnotize me into getting high with her.
She shrugged and popped a pill in her mouth. It had a little heart on it.
The innocent heart engraved into the pill creeped me out. I love dramatic juxtaposition, but it just felt a like a gross old man luring an innocent kid into a car with candy.
I popped a pill into my mouth anyway. A few hours later, I was rolling.
Shay was the 24-year-old girl I was currently sleeping with. Shay told me right off the bat that she didn't want to get into a relationship with me because I was "too young." (I was 20.)
That particular Thursday night, I had been innocently cuddled up on the couch of my tiny Santa Monica apartment, resigning myself to a dreamy, book-filled introvert's night in when my bubblegum pink Nokia flip phone lit up. I watched it flicker in the darkness of my living room, but something told me to check my text.
"Hey kid. Want to come to this party downtown LA with me? Meet us there. XO, Shay."
And the next thing I knew, I was wearing a black velvet choker and a willowy, sheer baby doll dress — braless in boots — meeting this girl on a Thursday night in a scary warehouse with shattered windows on a unmarked street in downtown Los Angeles.
Two cigarettes later, I'm stuck in a mob of skinny, pale hipsters with black, plastic-framed glasses and expensive vintage shirts and dyed black blunt hairstyles and short thick bangs, wondering what the hell I was doing there in my stupid vintage dress and long hair.
At the party, Shay aggressively grabbed my hand and led me down a long, narrow stairwell into a windowless room where there was a load of cool lesbians sitting on the floor. They were passing around massively huge blunts, all starry-eyed, rubbing each others backs with big, dumb smiles plastered across their beaming faces.
I was hardly 20, but this wasn't my first rodeo. I knew they were all they're all high on ecstasy.
At that point, I had played with ecstasy probably half a dozen times in high school, and while it was fun, the aftermath was brutal. But I wasn't thinking about the comedown. I wanted to feel so good my eyes rolled in the back of my head, like all these other euphoric-looking lesbians.
Hence why I took the goddamn pill.
And pretty soon, Shay was rubbing my leg, and it felt ah-mazing.
It wasn't like the other times I'd rolled and my whole body cringed when gross teenage boys with acne scars and body oder touched me. This was different.
Shay's touch was pure, like a million angels gracefully brushing their wings up against my bare thigh. Almost too pure.
The next thing I knew, she was softly blowing hot air straight into my eyeballs with her pillow lips, and I was melting into the plastic chair, which was the most comfortable chair in the world. It felt like acupuncture on heroin.
"Let's have, like, really slow, amazing sex," Shay said. "We haven't done that yet."
I was so overwhelmed by her blowing hot air into my eyeballs that I couldn't even imagine what sex would feel like. But then, we were doing it, on an air mattress in a tiny room. And it felt incredible.
It felt so sensual, like a warm bubble bath. It was like when the bubbles come right up to your chin and feel like little light pretty kisses. Each touch felt like I was becoming one with a massage chair. Each hot breath felt like a tropical, oxygen-rich wind again my skin.
I was thinking of blooming, pale blue flowers. I was thinking of thick eyelashes tickling cheekbones. I was thinking of silky hair falling onto my unusually soft face.
I became distracted by how soft my own skin was. It felt softer than the cashmere Balenciaga sweater I gooed over at Saks.
It was pure ecstasy.
But after that night, I never did it again.
Because babe, having sex on ecstasy was pure heaven, but I don't want to feel heaven when I'm fucking. I want to feel sexual.
I don't want sex to feel like the way a warm, fuzzy blanket feels after a long day outside in freezing cold conditions. I don't want it to feel like lying in the sun basking in the rays beating against my skin.
I want sex to feel dangerous. Visceral, even. I want sex to look me in the eye and make me feel conflicting things: rage, lust and torture.
I want sex to be animalistic.
When we're high on ecstasy, we're all serotonin and nothing else. We're robbed of our primal instincts. And to me, sex is all about tapping into our primal instincts.
So if you wish to feel like a delicate little feather is tickling the inside of your vagina, you might like sex on ecstasy. (Although I don't condone taking pills. You don't know what kind of dirt and rat poison they throw into those pills, hun.)
But if you'd rather keep it ~visceral~ and ~animalistic~ like I do, sober sex will always be the best.
* Name has been changed.