So let’s continue where we left off, I think I ended off with me lying in the bed I made.
I got involved with an “exception to my rule” kind of guy, one who treated me with the greatest admiration, looked at me, in a room full of females, as if I was the only female there. He loved and respected me like he did his mother, that says a lot about a guy.
It eventually grew boring, tedious, unadventurous and too safe for me. I seeked the thrill, the “bad boy” and the absolute unknown. Adventures that would have my nerves pinched and my stomach in knots. That is exactly where I ended up, drugged and drunk on the back of a motorcycle, seeking the next “unknown.”
My drug back then was ecstasy and a man with some edge to him. Little did I know, this kind of man would practically stamp me with an expiry dated barcode.
I ended up at a party, somewhere up in the mountain in Gordon’s Bay. Some guy, with rich parents, who at that time, went on holiday to Switzerland. He threw I big drug bash, so big, the tables were laced with different kinds of drugs, cocaine, lsd, heroine, rocks(cracked cocaine), ecstasy, methanphetamine, you name, he had it. My thing was, at that time, only ecstasy. I took more than was required, I actually think I almost overdosed that night/morning, as I remember the guy I was with, shoving his finger down my throat so I could puke, bringing up all the tablets I took……I lost count after 5.
I got on the back of his motorbike, after the successful attempt of ridding myself of my unintentional suicide. I was half lethargic and half lucid, the icy cold wind helped me to keep my head. He tried riding at a reasonable speed to ensure I remain on the back of the motorbike and not become some drugged drunk roadkill; and all I wanted was him to go faster, fast enough so I could feel my arms cramping as I gripped tighter, tight enough so I could feel the air leaves his lungs, like a boa constrictor. Waiting for that complete and blissful moment of speed, when that inertia pushes you to a stagnant position and puts you on another level of heights, without the intense labor; and before I reached home, I was sober, cold, scared, heart racing like horses galloping, nervous, anxious, I dismounted myself from his motorbike, took my helmet from my head; and asked him, “when can we do this again?” He turned, looking at me, with a smug look on his face; and said, “you are one hell of a chic!”
I thrived on men thinking of me in that way, pushing me to do crazier and more unthinkable things, things that made me realize my drug in actual fact, was “Suicidal Tendencies.”