Insatiable: Porn — a Love Story (17 page)

From that year on, we were inseparable. We were always the two girls in a group of boys. Wherever I went, she went. Whatever boy she was dating, I was dating his best friend. Sometimes we’d switch. When highschool came around, we were sent to different schools, but we remained as close as ever.

“Where do you wanna spend the night?” Dee asked, ashing the blunt on one of the steps. “Devon is getting some acid tonight if we want. We could drop it at his place and walk fifty blocks back to my house if you want.”

So it was decided. We would spend the night at Dee’s.

Across the street we saw a man wearing our favorite outfit—baseball hat, North Face jacket, and some Air Force Ones on his feet. Dee and I looked at each other.

“He’s cute.”

“I was thinking the same thing.”

“Let’s get a closer look.”

We put out the blunt, got up off the stoop, and crossed the street. As we got closer and closer, something seemed off about the man—he seemed to be talking to himself. Closer still, and we saw under his North Face jacket was a ratty sweatshirt and jeans. His shoes, which were once a drawing point, were old and filthy. And what was that scent? The nearer we got to him, the more it smelt like piss.

As we passed by him and caught a glimpse of his face, covered in dirt, and a mouth without teeth, we both looked down at the ground as we realized he was a homeless crackhead. Not even a hot one.

We kept walking, ashamed of our poor judgment. Neither of us admitting to the situation, we continued to another stoop in silence.

That night we dropped a tab of acid each in Devon’s bed. We watched cartoons and laughed our asses off, before deciding on taking our much-anticipated walk.

Walking back to Dee’s house was everything we had hoped for. I felt like I was in a winter wonderland. My legs shook like Jell-O; my eyes played tricks on me. It’s kind of frightening, how much a drug can really alter your reality. Although I was aware I was tripping, everything around me was just
different
, in the most pleasant way. The cold didn’t bother us; we both glided down the fifty blocks, a little over two miles, with our jackets open.

Getting into her building, the fluorescent lights hit us—and the lighting/temperature/atmosphere adjustment got me feeling weird. We awkwardly stumbled into Dee’s apartment, even more awkwardly said hi to her parents, and jetted for her bedroom. Laughing over nothing, Dee pulled out a Baggie from her purse with another tab in it. “Should we split it?”

We should have looked at the clock right then, because then we would have known it was already midnight, far too late to be dropping anything. We also should have known that we were tripping pretty hard already, and taking more would only work against us. The thing about acid is that it’s such a huge commitment. You will absolutely not sleep for the next eight hours, and you will definitely, 100 percent, utter the words “When am I gonna stop tripping?” by the end. Sure, it’s fun to see the world through a kaleidoscope.
For the first five hours
. Those last three tick by in slow motion.

So we didn’t look at the clock, we didn’t use our better judgment, and because of our impaired vision, it took us probably another hour to split the tab with a razor Dee found in her makeup drawer. As soon as we dropped it, we started tripping harder. We went from giggling schoolgirls to autistic zombies.

“Why did we do that?” Dee looked at me in horror. As the words came out of her mouth, her face turned into a leopard. The next eight hours would be shitty.

We tried to watch cartoons. It was unavoidable, though—we were each descending further into our own internal hell.

“Let’s just try to go to sleep,” I suggested, wanting to be alone. I knew she felt the same.

We got into our respective beds, both of us in the fetal position, facing away from each other. I closed my eyes tightly so that I wouldn’t have any more visuals. The acid didn’t let me escape so easily—I saw patterns on the insides of my eyelids.

“My room is so fucking dirty,” Dee would periodically say through her tight jaw. “I can’t stand it.”

I had to pee. But my body was so uncomfortable—my own skin was so foreign-feeling, I didn’t have it in me to get up to go to the bathroom. My back ached from every muscle in my body clenching, my skin felt itchy, and my mouth tasted weird. Besides, what if her parents were still awake? I wasn’t presentable.

Then my underwear started to feel wet.

No. No. This isn’t happening. Did I just piss myself?

Too embarrassed to say anything to Dee, I got up to go to the bathroom. Her parents were asleep already, to my relief, because halfway to the bathroom I had to get on my knees to crawl. I opened the bathroom door and climbed onto the toilet as I pulled my pants down.

What the fuck. Dry.

Not only had I not pissed in the bed, but once I did sit down, I didn’t have to go anymore. I flushed the toilet, to keep up what I thought was a façade, and crawled back to the room.

I repeated this eleven more times throughout the night.

A few hours into cradling ourselves to silence, Dee got up to turn the computer on. “I’m playing music,” she whispered.

She put on 50 Cent’s “Many Men,” and I thanked her almost immediately. I had never heard the song before; it was right when 50 Cent was really starting to blow up.

The song ended, and came on again. Dee had put it on repeat. It must have repeated a hundred times that night. The mellow beat, the almost lullaby-like chorus, put me into a trance, where I wasn’t convincing myself I had wet the bed every ten minutes. Eventually, it rocked us to sleep.

The next morning we woke up and walked over to Chelsea’s house to smoke weed.

“Last night was weird,” I told her.

“I think that was the last time I’ll ever do acid,” Dee added.

I agreed.

“The weirdest fucking part,” I added after a few minutes, “was that fucking guy we saw. We saw a bum and thought he was a hot guy!”

Chelsea laughed.

Diary, 2012–2013

January 30

It’s a little late but it’s a new fucking year. I’m quitting cigarettes tomorrow. Also, no more pizza. I’ve been ordering two large thin crust pies for myself everyday at 11 a.m. since I got back from Vegas seven days ago (was there for the AVN Awards and convention, so naturally, I was starving the whole time), and it’s time to get back to the routine. It’s nothing but smoothies and salads from here on out.

I’m also committing to keeping a journal.

The last time I had anything like this was when I was in highschool. In the back of my diary, on the blank sheet between the last lined page and the back cover, I wrote down the names of all the boys I had hooked up with. If I hooked up with them multiple times, they would have a tally next to their name, a scratch for every time we messed around.

David

Perry

Josh W

Zach

Tyler

Etc.

On the lined sheets I wrote about my sexual escapades, starting from my very first French kiss on the school bus in fourth grade, to losing my virginity when I was thirteen, to getting fucked spread eagle by highschool seniors on rooftops alongside my girlfriends. I wrote about trying Ecstasy when I was twelve, but how it had failed to work because we split the one pill we had five ways. I wrote about shoplifting sprees, huffing Dust-Off in the school bathroom, and tagging along with boys on graffiti missions in the middle of the night.

My mom found my diary and read it one weekend when I had told her I was going to stay with Dee. The truth was that I had gone up to New Jersey with a boy to a three-day outdoor rave. I stopped taking her calls, and when she called Dee’s mom, she knew I was up to no good. I came home to her sitting at the dining table crying, asking me where she’d gone wrong as a mother.

“Are you using condoms at least?” she sobbed in Japanese.

“Obviously!” I screamed back in English.

I was lying.

That was the day I stopped documenting my life.

Sorry, Mom.

January 31

Already smoked again. But so far so good on the no pizza thing.

February 3

Woke up with pizza crumbs in my bra. I disgust myself. Anorexia starts tomorrow, since there is still some left.

I guess I may as well smoke a cigarette now and start everything fresh tomorrow.

February 5

I’ve decided it’s unhealthy to just stop smoking cold turkey. I’m cutting down to three a day, and then eventually two a day, then one . . .

It’s Super Bowl Sunday. I hate football. Almost as much as I hate commercials.

February 6

It’s hard to hate on Mondays when it entails having sex for money.

February 7

Shot a scene with Jordan today. He talks too much. He kept saying “I don’t
want
to be a big star. I don’t
want
to be doing this when I’m fifty years old.”

It was kind of a buzzkill. But his dick felt good.

P.S. Three-cigarettes-a-day thing is working out! Think I’ll cut down to two soon.

February 9

Holy fuck. I was getting my makeup done at Nichole’s today when her roommate Krissy came out of her room to chat.

I’m pretty sure my life has changed.

She was telling me about a cleanse she’s been doing. It’s basically anorexia; she ingests nothing but water for seven days. During the cleanse, every morning she gives herself a coffee enema.