The Weekly Mindfuck: High Sex

There are a lot of things I like about being high, but there's one that strikes me as the most poetic in retrospect. It's not necessarily the way it calms me—though that's fun—and it's not about the blissfully hedonistic ritual of it all—though yes, once we pull out a blunt or start passing around the bong, I know nothing but immediate gratification matters for the rest of the night. 

It's a little like this: Weed has a way of not just slowing down time, but deconstructing it. While each moment is happening, even if it's nothing more than a hand on your thigh, it's the only moment that exists, just one piece of a much larger puzzle that we're unequivocally unconcerned with. There's no anticipation of what happens next, no reflection of what happened five minutes ago, no anxiety about how or why or when this piece will fit in with the rest.

When your high, each moment demands your full, unhurried attention. You observe and unfold it in a way that doesn't demand you categorize and analyze it but to merely experience it. That's why I like having high sex so much. Sometimes it feels like it lasts forever and it sometimes feels like it lasts five seconds, but all of my senses absorb me so fully that time seems hardly relevant. 

See, in our normal lives at our normal paces in our normal mindsets, we're on autopilot, sometimes even when we're fucking. We don't fully tune into the frequency of here and now, always mentally preparing to switch positions or turn off the lights or dwell on the persistent insecurities that can pull us from god-that-feels-so-good to shit-I-wonder-if-he-likes-this. During our daily lives, foresight and hindsight and even anxiety can be assets that helps us see the bigger puzzle and help put together a life that is cohesive—but during sex, sometimes I don't want that order. Sometimes I just want to scatter the pieces and let them rain down in whatever haphazard, incongruous pattern they'd like. 

That's the thing about sex—we are so worried about having and giving orgasms, so focused on how our bodies look and feel and smell, that even when we're enjoying it, really enjoying it, we don't stop to soak in the small things. Like how salty his skin is on his on the left side of his collarbone, or the way his hair slips from under my fingers when I pull on a tuft right at the base of his neck. When every moment is the only moment and we have nowhere to go and nothing to do, I can see the colors his cheeks turn when he's close to coming, feel his fingertips trace my spine, and consciously follow the pattern of his tongue when he's going down on me.

I notice how the tip of his cock feels more like velvet than skin, and I can feel the subtle gradations of pleasure at every different stage of penetration, relishing in how abundantly amazing fullness is. I'll notice the taste of saliva and I'll relish those small pauses of appreciation that punctuate the action for no other reason than mutual appreciation of each other's bodies and sink completely into the experience of one another. 

Compared to a number of other, more fantastical drugs and stimulants, sex after smoking weed might not seem like much, but it's this wholly present, highly sensitized, stream-of-consciousness approach to sex that makes me remember something important when all is said and done and I've come down:

This moment—right now, right this very millisecond—is the only one that matters, and losing yourself in it is everything.

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