Chapter 52

Hell, it isn’t even sane.

But none of that makes any difference once I’ve got the little bag of coke in my hand as I hurry back to my apartment, already tasting the bitter little drip in the back of my throat that’s on its way.

The first thing I do once I get back upstairs is to grab a dollar bill from my wallet, a pen from the desk, and do my little rolling technique to grind up the chunks of coke. It’s only a minute before a little mound of white appears on my coffee table, less than a minute before two fat lines are snorted up my nose.

And then a flurry of activity. A cigarette is lit. Clothes are whipped off and thrown onto the rocking chair next to the couch. In the bedroom, a can of Crisco is brought out from a drawer in my bedside table and a snappable leather cock ring encircles my balls and dick as tight as it will go. A stained white hand towel and a bottle of poppers are snatched up from another drawer.