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Feb. 8, 2021

Smoke

Smoke

Drugs: Just say maybe. Stories of why it's not great to mix the funparts and funny stuff.


Drugs: Just say maybe. Stories of why it's not great to mix the funparts and funny stuff. All the filth you've come to expect, this week with a side order of Devil's Letteuce. Grab some snacks, put on some ambient music, and let's make an evening of it.

Stories of queer life and even queer-er sex. 

Probably True - the repeatedly-award-winning, slightly filthy storytelling project tackling LGBTQ issues in a fun and engaging way. 

Much like its creator, it’s a smutty-but-charming collection of personal misadventures working to make the world a better place, one silly, sexy story at a time.  

Support the show on Patreon: Patreon.com/ProbablyTrue 

Transcripts, submit a story, and all things Probably True:  ProbablyTruePodcast.com   

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Transcript

Well, it’s still lockdown time here on Plague Island. It will probably always be lockdown time. Perhaps it always has been lockdown time, There was never anything else - the outside world exists only in the fevered dreams of madmen. 

Nightclubs? Who wants to pay to be surrounded by sweaty dickheads and music that’s far too loud?

Concerts? Why would anyone want to listen to a potentially-crap live show when the properly-mastered digital download is available at your fingertips?

Sex? Who’d want to feel the touch of another human being and experience any level of physical intimacy when there’s so much porn out there, waiting to be impatiently skipped through with one hand? 

Actually, that last one seems to be untrue - I’m certainly getting texts from gentlemen callers. Not many. I'm not inundated. I'm not beating them off with both hands. Sadly, I miss that guy. 

Anyway. 

There’s this one strumpet that I occasionally have a go on. He’s been messaging me and wants to do it again, despite the whole lockdown thing. I’m a bit hesitant. And not just because the joyless husk of a Home Secretary might turn up and fine us both, but also because the last time was a bit. 

Well, it was a little bit bizarre. Not in the ‘stick a fish up my bum and call me Brenda’ sort of way, but because he's quite a fan of the Devil’s lettuce. Personally, I’m not that bothered about the herb itself, but there is something incredibly sexy about stoners. It takes me straight back to the nights of fumbling with greasy teenagers in the back of parked cars, and the unique scent that comes from mixing lynx Africa, cheap tobacco smoke and a boy who thinks ‘once every three days’ is a good amount of time between showers. I don’t know why it drives me wild, but christ, it really does.

Anyway,

This dude who’s messaging me will regularly roll and smoke two or three Jazz cigarettes of an evening, which is far too much for me. Just a bit of a breeze from his end of the sofa and I'm getting squiffy, which is great for, you know, general sitting there watching telly and having a cuddle and things, but it gets a bit awkward when you're trying to have sex.

Well, I find myself dissociating almost. It's a bit like I'm having an out of body experience. Everything's going on down there and yet my mind is wandering off, completely oblivious. I don't like that. 

Partly because you lose track of time. 

It seems rude to ask if we’ve been at it for 20 seconds or a couple of hours because I wasn’t paying enough attention.

Oh, we hadn’t even started? Oh! Yeah, it’s not even in yet, is it? All right. Off we go then! Bounceybouncey.

 

I remember once, when this was particularly a problem. I was dating another young gentleman, I was quite into him. He was lovely. He booked this romantic weekend away. It was autumn, and we went somewhere in the countryside. It was gorgeous, all the leaves were changing colour, so we’d have a little waft of the Gigglebush and go for a lovely walk in the countryside. There was mist everywhere, and rolling hills and we were staying in this old hotel that had a huge log fire and it was generally just very romantic and lovely. 

Very Bridget Jones, mini-break in the country, super romantic, blah blah wanky vomit.

So anyway, we had a lovely dinner in this amazing hotel and it was all going great, and afterwards we went out for a quick helping of the naughty smoke and then had a lovely time staring at the fire, all cuddled up and cosy and ufff Jesus. Even talking about it is giving me diabetes. I’m honestly starting to wonder if this actually happened or if I just saw some smug couple’s instagram and somehow created a whole fake memory based on their post. 

Anyway, after dinner we went up to our room for dessert. Eyebrows eyebrows. 

Buuuut it didn’t go great. It was so awkward. Cause I wasn’t really there. I was too stoned and couldn’t focus on what was happening, or what I was doing at all. He was having a great time by the sound of things. I remember thinking, in a distracted kind of way that it sounded like the neighbours were shagging, then remembering that, in fact, that was us and we were doing it as I was thinking this. Which is a very weird state to be in.

But honestly, I couldn't tell you what happened. And I feel really bad about that. Cause the rest of that weekend was absolutely the most romantic thing I've ever been a part of, including that time I accidentally walked through someone’s marriage proposal in the park, but IN MY DEFENCE, they were right on the path and it was busy and I had my headphones on so I didn’t notice until I almost tripped over the guy on one knee and anyway

Romantic night, getting sext, but my mind was pretty much anywhere else. It feels a bit like the fade to black just before a sex scene on the tell. You know the kind where it’s on at teatime and everything has to be PG13, because parents don’t want to have to answer awkward questions about what those two men are doing so soon after Countdown has finished.

What I’m saying is, I was not paying the right amount of attention to the sex I was having with this lovely young man whose company I was very much enjoying and was seriously considering thinking about perhaps maybe one day calling him my boyfriend if nothing better came along. And not paying attention to the sex you’re having is pretty bad. This is the thing I don’t really get about doing anything stronger and having sex, to be honest. Because if you’re not going to feel it and experience it, and be there enjoying the sex you’re having, why bother at all?

Of course, I should have known from experience, really. Once, while with the teenage stoner I mentioned earlier, I remember we were naked, he was doing his thing, and without looking up from what he was doing, he passed me the Magic flute and y’know, it seemed rude not to. Also, it felt very rock and roll to have a boy with his head in my lap, doing nice things to me while leaning back and enjoying some Wacky baccy. 

The problem came when it was time to swap and he laid back to smoke while I shuffled around to make him feel like a rock star for a few minutes. Except, having partaken of consaiderably more than I was used to, I struggled a bit. Well, that’s putting it mildly. What actually happened was I fell asleep with his cock in my mouth.

Not for a long time, it wasn’t like a solid hour-long nap or anything. He wasn’t stuck there like a pet that’s just dozed off and you don’t want to move in case you wake it. It was just a few seconds. I think. Very much just a nomnom. Nom.  SNORK ohyeah nomnomnom moment. At least, I think it was just a few seconds. Although, it being longer does explain why he blocked me as soon as I left his flat...

Not that all sex has to be a beautiful, intimate moment between you and one other person, whose very souls are entwined in the loving dance of giving each other one. Occasionally random hookups or a sweaty 20 minutes in a dark room can be fun, but why bother if you’re barely going to notice, is m’point.

Sex is best when you’re both present, enjoying yourselves and each other. It should be an interaction with the other person, not just a wank that involves a walking, talking sex toy. And you can tell when it’s that kind of sex, because it’s all a bit grim and you’re pretty much just trying to race each other to cum first so that you don’t have to finish yourself off afterwards, and that’s not fun.

I like to think I’m more than just a handsome face, an enormous penis and a fantastic arse. I have a personality, and interests… At least I did, I think. Nowadays it tends to be just Star Trek and the Golden Girls. Christ. I’m actually struggling to remember what I used to do back in the Before Times.

Anyway. When it comes to drugs and sex, you’re better off not mixing them. If you’re going to be so off your tits that you can’t enjoy it, then you’re probably better off not having sex. Or just do the sex first and THEN do the drugs. That way you’re much less likely to get woken up by someone’s pubes tickling your nose.