Crackhead Confession

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I have a crack addiction. That’s all.

OK so I was 16 when this happen. So I'm a guy and during the summer I would visit my hometown Michigan. When I got there the first I did was go to my old crush's house to say hi. I just she liked me because as soon as I got there she told me her parents wasn't home and pulled me inside. Right away she pushed me on the couch and got on top and started kissing me. We was kissing for about 20mins and my dick was rock hard. She notice because she started grinding on me. It felt amazing, it was like the best thing ever. After she was grinding she pulled me up and started unzipping my pants. When my pants came off my dick was sticking up. She took her pants off and her shirt and started bouncing on my dick while I was wear my underwear. After 10 mins of that she took mine and here's underwear off. When I saw her big amazing round ass I got soooooo hard. To get to the point a little bit faster I started dry humping her or crack fucking whatever you wanna call it. My dick disappeared between her ass cheek . She started bouncing up and down and grinding on me. I told her I was ready to cum. So she laid down and I stook my dick between her big boobs and began tity fucking her for 5 mins. After I blew my load all over her boobs and on her face. After that I wasn't down I wanted more and so did she. So I lift her up her legs wrapped around my waist and started fucking her til I came. It was the best time of my life.
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I LOVE the smell of desinfectant spray. It smells so nice and clean, simply irresistible!
That's why I clean my apartment with that spray once a week. Especially my telefon, or door knobs, my computer and stuff I touch often. In the morning, I clean my hands with it because it smells so good.
My skin already cracks and it hurts, but I don't care, as long as I'm able to smell the desinfectant spray!
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I was homeless exactly one year, from March 2001 to March 2002. I'd known it was coming, and I even sort of welcomed the impending challenge(s), but I had no idea how long it would last, and how ill-prepared I was.
It had taken most of the previous year to chart my descent. I started New Year's Day 2000 debt free, owner of a thriving publishing company (Re-Visionary Press), in demand as a comic book creator, and with plenty of writing and art gigs from the Reader and elsewhere. My comic strip "Overheard in San Diego" had run weekly for around four years, I was renting a nice La Mesa house, driving a Le Baron convertible, and even found time for the occasional date.
Sure, I was about to turn 40, and I'd been working six to seven days a week nonstop for nearly 20 years, but I enjoyed what I was doing and didn't really feel like I was missing out on anything.
Except maybe getting stoned. Sometimes, it seemed, the whole world was tripping the tab fantastic without me. Everyone was doing all these wild and exotic new drugs, and I was about the only guy I knew not going into or just getting out of rehab.
I had pretty well given up drugs and booze, other than periods of casual pot smoking, just before my 20th birthday. On February 7, 1980, wasted on massive doses of LSD and mescaline, I saw Pink Floyd debut their stage show for The Wall at the L.A. Sports Arena.
If you can imagine what that was like, to be that epically wasted, at that tripped-out show, of all shows, you can probably understand why I came away thinking (once I could think clearly, maybe two days later), "No way am I ever gonna top that!"
My ensuing sobriety surely contributed to my relative success at getting things done over the next two decades, but meanwhile, most of my friends went in entirely different directions, including -- especially -- the guy who gave me all those drugs at Pink Floyd, my childhood buddy, whom we'll call "Timmy." I'd known him since junior high.
Five years older than me, Timmy had introduced me to pretty much every drug I did in my teens. Mescaline, hash, coke, quaaludes, black beauties, Thai sticks, LSD, THC, PCP, even laughing gas (wheee!), Timmy was always the guy bringing it, and I was always the guy perfectly willing to smoke it, pop it, cook it, snort it, chew it, or rub it into my freakin' belly.
I had nowhere important to go and nothing important to do, so I got just as messed up as anyone else back in those hazy dayz of Cheech and Chong, of Freakies and Pong.
After that night at the L.A. Sports Arena, I got busy. Timmy got stoned. He couldn't hold anything other than menial jobs, and then he got busted at his apartment near 40th and University for selling meth. He was sentenced to five years of federal prison time, upstate in Boron.
I visited the prison a few times, but we'd already grown far apart. I hadn't even been to his apartment in a year or more; I was scared that his dealing, his druggie associates, or the piles of stolen property all over his place would result in a police raid. I tried to warn him about this, but he always insisted, "I only sell to friends." Famous last words.
Fast forward to New Year's Day, 2000, and I'm thinking, "My life is pretty good. This'll do."
As if to teach me a lesson for being so smug and self-satisfied, a few months into the new year, I became very ill, with multiple ailments. A routine checkup turned into a "surprise" colonoscope procedure. Doc Tapscott didn't like what he found just inside the old back door, and next thing I knew his assistant (disconcertingly, female) was giving me a towel to bite down on while the Doc boldly went where no man had gone before.
Those rectal issues were growing more problematic when I woke up one morning to find my left testicle distended down to what seemed like my kneecap. I drove to the emergency room and walked in (leaning a bit to the left), thinking, "Great, I'll lose half a night's work sitting here."
It was almost a week before I got back to my La Mesa home.
The testicular troubles -- unrelated to my earlier problems -- weren't resolved over my hospital stay, though I was out of immediate danger. Several follow-up medical procedures were required, but I was in too much pain to consider letting doctors tear at my body anymore, at least not for a while.
Just sitting hurt my groin like hell, and lying down in any position set off waves of sciatic nerve pain, the result of a botched operation that had nonetheless cost me $5000. I had let them cut me open after doctors told me I was hemorrhaging internally -- an all-new health problem -- and could die within hours. The true cause of the bleeding turned out to be a tear in my colon, non-life-threatening, and I now had a damaged nerve that caused shooting pains up and down one side of my body.
I rarely got much sleep, and I didn't want to take pain meds. My '70s spree notwithstanding, I hated pills. Even mild painkillers made me vomit and left my head feeling as if Timothy Leary was sticking his hands into my skull and finger painting on my brain.
I wasn't naïve about post-'70s street drugs. Just inexperienced.
A girl I was dating, Olivia, smoked rock cocaine (okay, crack, but crack smokers never call it that; it's "rock," which somehow seems to carry less stigma...and guilt). I didn't know this at first, but she went to the bathroom an awful lot and would come back glassy-eyed and smelling funny.
I had once dated a heroin-addict porn star, so Olivia's particular problem wasn't hard to figure out.
Nor was it necessarily a date-killer. I was sober, but I wasn't Wally Cleaver.
She was very open when I finally asked her about it, but I guess my reaction surprised her. I was in constant pain at that point and had heard coke was quite the painkiller.
She was really reluctant, but I eventually wore her down. I watched with fascination as she melted an off-white Pez-sized rock into the Chore Boy scouring-pad copper stuffed into her stem-shaped glass pipe, which she kept caked inside with visible brown residue (it was a while before I found out why).
When I took that first hit and heard that crackling sizzle whence rock cocaine derives its nickname, all the pain that had been wracking the bottom third of my body suddenly -- magically -- vanished! The "buzz," though substantial and momentarily debilitating (double-wheee!), was only a secondary thrill. The instant pain relief was, well, magical. No better word.
At first, I preferred to sprinkle rock on marijuana, which tempered the intensity of coke's effects. Around early 2001, however, I bought my own glass pipe at a liquor store, ostensibly a vial for single-stem roses, very popular among dopers (the vial, not the rose), along with a package of Chore Boys. I smoked every second or third day, mindful of the potential for addiction, which was something I hadn't really experienced, never having even smoked cigarettes.
I was winding down my publishing business, gradually abdicating as managing editor to S.S. Crompton, a creator who'd been working with us since the early '90s. I had far fewer things to do than previously, but money was still coming in, and several months' worth of accounts receivable were due to arrive before my income would drop.
For the first time in my adult life, I had lots of time to myself, plenty of cash coming in, and a growing addiction to feed...you don't need Dionne Warwick's psychic friends to figure out what happens next.
I rarely ran out of money. Especially once I decided to stop paying rent and let my landlord of nine years keep my two months' security deposit in lieu. All my work-at-home deadlines were still being met, and I was paying my other bills, but I consciously decided to strip down my life as much as possible. I figured I'd give up the house and crash with friends for a few weeks, maybe save up for a little studio apartment someplace where I could follow my increasingly smoky muse, wherever it might lead.
Though now managing my pain, I did nothing about the underlying causes, and I was loathe to admit, even to myself, how sick I was. As long as I wasn't feeling it, I wasn't thinking about it.
Besides, if I was to die soon anyways, which seemed entirely possible, why not die with a stoned smile on my face? I'd been sober 20 years...for once, I told myself, convincingly, it was finally my turn to get messed up. I was tired of being the responsible one, the straight guy, the inveterate designated driver and sole voice of sober reason amidst a perpetually mind-altered mob.
I started packing my lifetime collection of debris for deep storage, had lawyers draft my will, and there was even this eulogy that I kept trying -- and failing -- to write for myself. It came as a surprise, though I suppose it shouldn't have, that I couldn't think of a single positive thing to say about myself or my life.
Up until that point, I'd always had my drugs delivered. All those dumbasses who get busted on Cops, they're usually spotted leaving crackhouses or tossing vials out the window when they get pulled over for a broken headlight. I was having $25-$50 worth of deliveries a day, sometimes more but rarely less, plus an extra $10 each time to cover cab fare, gas, and/or risk assessment.
Then, my main supplier's car broke down, and he asked me to come to him. The first time I found myself sitting in an actual crackhouse and "waiting for the man," as Lou Reed so aptly sang, I was in a Rolando apartment barren of furniture other than milk crates. Sheets and blankets were tacked over the windows, and an old TV set played hard-core porn with the sound off (or broken). I'd driven past the place a thousand times without ever once thinking "crackhouse."
My guy wasn't there yet, though his name had gotten me in the door. I was by far the smallest and whitest guy among seven or eight disturbingly twitchy dudes.
They had a bit of rock and were passing the pipe around; when it got to me, I declined. I'd never smoked in front of anyone besides Olivia, and I frankly wasn't jonesing. I could still go days without smoking and not miss it -- much -- other than having to deal with the pain and spending an inordinate amount of time sleeping.
I learned that when you're in a crackhouse, and you turn down crack, you're automatically assumed to be a narc.
Later that day, several of the same guys jumped me alongside the 7-Eleven at 70th and El Cajon Boulevard, a block from my house on Amherst, dragging me behind a Dumpster. I still have a missing back tooth from that beating. They stomped me so bad that I passed out through part of it. It hurt like hell, but not for long, because once I limped home, my elusive supplier finally arrived by cab. No hospital; I was so sick of doctors that nothing short of a severed limb could get me to see one.
Soon after the beating, I taped cardboard over several windows of my house, something my heroin-addict ex had also done, probably for much the same reason. Daylight, like everything else about the world outside, was scary, even painful, and definitely to be avoided.
Not a good frame of mind for someone days away from becoming homeless. I found a more mobile supplier willing to make (now daily) deliveries to the house I was still packing up.
More and more, I dreaded venturing out. Ed McMahon could have been standing on my porch with the American Family Publishers contest camera crew, and I still wouldn't have opened my damn door -- not unless he had something to smoke and/or the correct lighter to smoke it with (durable torch style was preferred over fragile Bics, which Olivia claimed could explode).
The home deliveries were especially appreciated after my car got stolen.
I woke up one morning to find it gone. I just stood there in the driveway, dangling the keys and scratching my head for a few minutes, trying to remember if I'd driven it to the corner store and forgotten.
When it hit me that my beloved convertible was indeed missing in action and that I was sure to be evicted sometime over the next week or so, my loosely knit "plan" for temporary homelessness began to unravel.
It took two 24-foot rental trucks to get all my stuff into storage out in Spring Valley, at a gated place recommended by my old pal Timmy and a guy he occasionally worked with, buying and selling the contents of abandoned storage units. I paid two extra days for one truck, because I had no other way to get around. A few friends helped me empty the house, as marshals with eviction papers stood at my doorstep and my livid ex-landlord looked on from a nearby property.
Later that night, after midnight, I drove the truck back to the house to sneak inside and look around one final time. I had nowhere else to go.
After a long while of wandering aimlessly from room to empty room, in darkness for fear of alerting neighbors, I called my supplier to make one last house call. We did the deal in the rental truck, which I then parked in a nearby motel lot.
I smoked away the rest of my first homeless night in the back of the empty truck, out of sight and, almost certainly, out of (my) mind.
I spent the first couple of weeks crashing in a garage behind a house just off Morena Boulevard. This had been converted by my longtime friend Duane into a kind of guest house. Duane (well-known as a leading authority on collectible cereal boxes) was one of the few people in my life who rarely drank or did drugs.
He knew the same could no longer be said of me; then again, he saw that I was still working at my 'puter every night, completing multiple freelance gigs and drawing weekly paychecks. I must've appeared, on the surface at least, still in control.
My mobile supplier met me once a day at a nearby KFC. And then, miracle of miracles, my Le Baron was found.
A friend drove me up near Oceanside to pick up the car at an impound lot, though she had to leave before the paperwork was finished. Other than a cracked steering column, the car was in about the same shape as before, though the battery was dead. A couple of impound guys volunteered a jumpstart. They hooked my battery to a charging machine and signaled me to crank it up.
Unexpectedly, all the dashboard indicators started going crazy, and there was a horrible noise, between a grind and a fizzle, and then a loud thump before the car stopped turning over altogether.
The impound guys laughed as they pulled the clamps off the battery and attached them to the opposite posts as before. They'd hooked it up backwards and apparently thought frying my car's operating systems was pretty damned funny.
Once the car started, everything was going wonky before I even got it past the impound sentry booth. About four miles away, the Le Baron came to a smoking, shuddering halt. I found a phone and ordered a tow to the nearest repair shop, and then called Duane for a ride back to his guest garage.
Repairs weren't cheap, and I found myself borrowing money from Duane a few times to tide me over until paydays. This made me as uncomfortable as it seemed to make him, especially since, after I'd taken his cash, he was usually within earshot of the calls made to arrange another delivery at KFC. The computer I brought with me to work on was tying up his phone lines, and his wife seemed uneasy about the grubby, wild-eyed guy hiding out in their guest garage, tippity-tapping on a keyboard all night long.
At this point, I was also occasionally smoking heroin, usually with tin foil and toilet-paper tubes. Seemed to have the same painkilling effect as rock, but with physical and emotional aftereffects that I preferred to avoid unless there was absolutely no way to get ahold of my preferred smokables, all rocked and ready to roll me.
As soon as my car was running again, I determined to get away from Duane's. I wanted to protect our much-cherished friendship and avoid placing him and his wife in any dangerous predicaments resulting from my actions or those of my shady "associates."
The only other friend I could think of who might provide a crash spot for me and my computer was Timmy, who was out of prison and living in a Normal Heights cottage. I knew he was still smoking and snorting meth, but my life and circumstances ha
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