Creaming Spires TT15 Week 1

It is a truth moderately well acknowledged that drugs and sex make good
bedfellows. This is coming from my personal experience of dabbling in several
categories of mind-altering substances and I am here to tell you in my personal experience at least, the most remarkable drug and sex combo mega-deal is not ket or coke but plain old weed.

Yes, my friends, when it comes to sex, bud is your buddy. In the interest of full disclosure, I should say that weed is far from my drug of choice. In fact I sometimes experience crippling paranoia if I inhale more than one drag of
the stuff; what I like to call ‘sensory-hyperawareness’. I am certain that humans just aren’t meant to think so much. It leads to an influx of irrational, paranoid thoughts, ranging from wondering whether the way I’m holding my head looks weird to imagining crowds of people watching me whilst I pee (in the securely locked bathroom of a house). Another scary thing is the slowing down of time. I was convinced that I had been sitting on the toilet peeing for at least half an hour, only to discover that the cigarette my friend was holding for me was still lit upon my return.

The only, and I mean only, redeeming feature of this whole thing is having sex whilst stoned. These negative effects don’t always have to stay so negative. Stoned sex is a whole different ball game. My most recent experience of stoned sex happened a couple of months ago. I was in the living room of my then new-ish boyfriend’s house, a ‘phat doob’ was beginning to make its way around those assembled. This was back when the paranoia for me was more hit and miss. Before long, however, I began to feel the symptoms of paranoia and the intense self-consciousness and hyper-awareness set in. I became irrationally convinced that all my lovely boyfriend’s lovely friends hated
me and thought I was ridiculous.

Related  Feminism, history and Suzannah Lipscomb

After stewing there for about an hour (that was really probably only about ten minutes), I quietly suggested that we go to bed. After having negotiated the stairs (Am I walking too slowly? Will it look weird if I hold the bannister? Will they think I’ve forgotten how to walk properly, like I’m a giant toddler?!
Oh God what are they laughing about? They’re laughing at me aren’t they? I know they are!), we finally reached the sanctuary of his room.

Physical intimacy came as a welcome distraction from all the horrible thoughts. But it was more than merely that. I existed no longer just inside my own head, but in my fingertips, my thighs, my nipples. It turned out the hyper-awareness was not just a negative. It applied to my sense of touch as well and all of a sudden the paranoia dissipated and I was having really, really great sex. It was like the nerve-endings all over my skin had multiplied tenfold and were all tingling at once. And the elongation of time thing is really much more welcome when you happen to be having an orgasm.