I’m sprawled out on my bed, butt fucking naked, rubbing my genitals with a red rock which she just handed me. We’re both tripping face on acid. It’s a Sunday morning…

That rock or crystal is supposed to revitalize my dick chakra, and under ordinary circumstances, I’d think this is retarded, but now it makes logical sense. The more I focus on the act, the more energy I sense swirling around my junk, feeling it plump up and hang lower. 

This reminds me that I have to mail Eric a letter later today, and include a Viagra with it (a wedding present, naturally). I wonder what ordinary married couples do on Sunday mornings…Church? Friggin blueberry picking? Certainly not this.

I’ve already written the letter but can’t find the dick pills. Otherwise I wouldn’t be caressing my flaccid member with a crystal, desperately hoping this hippie voodoo works. Meanwhile, she’s playing with my iPad, queuing up playlists, as Hippie Sabotage’s “Your Soul” reverberates thru the room. She seems totally unfazed by the odd scenario, while I’m increasingly self-conscious because I’m literally trippin’. I’m all up in my head, dwelling on my limpness, which is like mainlining the anti-viagra.

My thoughts race: she’s not the problem. we’ve been together plenty of times before, and I really like her. Is it the drugs? But I haven’t done coke or been drinking . What if I’m secretly a faggot? Something so repressed that I never even suspected it before? Then my eyes wander around the room, and alight upon some long-forgotten graffiti in the back of my closet. In big blue&orange letters, it reads, “Diet: Eat Pussy.” Yeah, nothing gay in my closet…literally.

But my mind keeps returning to my living situation. Both the acid and the presence of a girl I like make me cognizant that I live into what amounts to a dirty crack house, inhabited by college students, and I even contributed some to that condition initially, but it’s since spiraled out of control. It’s unnerving.

“Let’s go smoke some weed,” she suggests, snapping me outta my boner-crushing reverie. We’re both still naked so she asks to borrow a shirt and I tell her she can pick out any one of mine, so without much deliberation, she chooses a salmon colored button-up. As I’m sliding on my sweat pants, she squeals and brandishes two whip-it cartridges.

“I found them in the front pocket,” she explains. “Oh my god did you plan this?”

I shake my head. I haven’t bought whip-its in months, and I forget why I ever tucked two in a shirt in my closet. sheer, stupid serendipity…so we each do one, blasting off into more intense visuals, anteing up on the trip. I savor the feeling of my feet tingling pleasurably with the womp-womps.

We head upstairs to the computer room, where the bong resides. I take a hit while she rips it a few times. I’m honestly a lightweight when it comes to weed. She plays music from her phone and, horrified by the garbage everywhere, I tidy up the room quickly.

One of my roommates enters the room soon after, clearly startled by the sight of us: she’s only wearing my button-up, no pants, with her legs crossed to hide her beef curtains, and I’m shirtless in blue sweats. We’re both wearing sunglasses. He fumbles with the bowl as he sociably asks what we’ve been up to. I casually tell him that we’re tripping, and lean back in my chair nonchalantly, as if there’s nothing uncommon about a half-naked chick sitting in their video game room.

He rips the bong and begins to ramble about his own acid experiences. Turning him out, I smirk at my gypsy girl and she smiles back brightly.

Another roommate joins us, then another. I’m poised, composed like there is nothing unusual with her being pantless, which they’re all ignoring politely. Finally, she cracks, shattering our collective coolness.

“Okay, I’m going downstairs,” she declares, as she scurries into the hallway and onto the stairs. I follow her downstairs, cracking up.
“That was a game, wasn’t it?” she asks when we’re back in my room.
“Whaddya mean a game?” The acid is peaking, though, so it was like I read her mind and instantly understood.
“Yeah, well you won…both.”
The “game” consisted of the social interactions we just had upstairs, which, like every social interaction, was a subtle status game. Whoever remained calm and collected typically controls the situation, and direct it towards a desired end. Since she freaked out first, I won there. Since I was the only roommate with a half-naked chick hanging out, I won again. She told me all of this with a single knowing look. God, I love LSD.

It was approaching noon, but we still had most of our trip remaining. I texted Steve to see what he was doing, having recently become an indispensable addition to our hijinks, and inquired about the dick pills, needing two. He responded that he had work for the rest of the day, so, without any discussion but simply silent consensus, we decided to spend our afternoon at the University of Michigan Museum of Art on State St., only a few block walk.

Once inside the museum, I instantly recognized two things in opposition. Firstly, this was a formal place where people walked slowly and spoke in hushed tones, so would require our best behavior. Secondly, I was really, really fucked up. 

I removed my coat and folded it over my arms in front of me like I had watched old men do. My mindset was set on comporting myself like a real gentleman; however, at the moment of that resolution, Kasey was hurrying away from a guard in pursuit of her, who loudly admonished that drinks were prohibited, so she decided to chug the rest of her Monster before loudly disposing of it, the can rattling around the metal garbage cover. After briefly losing my composure in a fit of laughter, I took her arm and guided us upstairs.


We strolled into the modern art section first, the acid rendering each piece undeniably alive, iridescent, beautiful. I wondered aloud how many people at a museum were on acid right now.

“All of them,” she answered, which was patently false but resonated, on a deeper level, truthfully, as if art were acid without the drug and vice versa. The sensation of encountering the sublime–meaningful beauty–that was evoked by art was mirrored by the feeling LSD constantly evinced for you in everything ordinary. By no means necessary, the drug allows you to more easily acknowledge and appreciate the art among your quotidian existence. Lost in these thoughts, I suddenly stopped in front of a popular installation piece: a reddish-pink neon heart with the words “Love Is What You Want”. Instead of posing with my hands down my pants in front of it for a cheap masturbatory joke as I had in the past, I was transfixed by its message, mesmerized by its presentation, lost in the sauce, convinced that it was the universe speaking directly to me right then, in an instant of synchronicity, addressing my profound emotional needs.

Kasey silently sidled up next to me, holding my hand and snuggling into my shoulder, and admired the machinations of a loving universe with me. A surge of energy flowed between us wherever we physically touched each other, as if our thoughts and feelings were transferred by contact. When that body-to-body electricity subsided momentarily, we walked forward into the contemporary art gallery. The main room has a railing overlooking the first floor; the central piece hangs out-of-reach, an abstract work of tremendous proportions, like 20×15 ft. It’s comprised of variations of a similar shade of orange, with a streak of red “bleeding” in the bottom right, violently splitting the work up. I had had a professor who published a poem about standing right where me and Kasey are now, its immensity overwhelming, compelling her on reflections on art and life and the relationship between the two. In a different class, another professor had us write 500-600 words of analysis and personal reflection on the same painting. I relate all of this to her, pointing out the how the red line signifies a rupture, and the light “watermarks” that discolor the upper and center sections of the enormous canvas.

Her mouth slightly ajar, fascinated by my impromptu lecture, my hand grazes hers, and she jumps as if I had shocked her, like she could feel the power I wielded over words in my fingertips.

Grabbing her hand again, I lead her to the bench directly behind us, facing the opposing wall. She rests her head on my shoulder and sighs, our exchange of energy restarting. I can feel a warm glow enveloping us with our…(well, the most appropriate term is) love for each other, ensconcing us from onlookers and passersby in our own private universe.

We watched as the painting on the wall before us shifted and transformed fluidly. A decent sized landscape painting with little black dots arrayed across the background, the dots first vibrated and arranged themselves in a resemblance of paratroopers in the sky, then they shook and danced around to form the outline of a giant bullet. The vision was briefly stable before the black dots were reanimated, scrambling and then reorganizing themselves in the shape of an airplane (I could almost hear its engine) and then finally revealing its inner self, the black dots changed into large birds flying off into the horizon. The sequence of depictions compelled deep thoughts on reincarnation, on fate and free will, on the transmigration of souls.

As this vision dwindled, I noticed a security guard scrutinizing us in my peripherals. Did he know we were tripping? Or worse, did he realize I just had an epiphany and wished to suppress it for some nefarious organization or cause? Okay, I was officially tripping out on my own train of thoughts.

I abruptly stood up, told her we have to leave, and rushed us towards the exit. Once outside, I explained the malevolent security guard looking down on us from a floor above, freaking me out, and, basically, made me unable to maintain the charade of a gentlemanly old man visiting the museum with his wife. It became obvious that I was deluded as I listened to myself and that we were on some really good shit. 

“I won that round,” she declared, grinning. “I can’t believe you pussied out so bad.”

Yep, she was amusing in many ways and on different levels, I thought fondly as we headed back to my cribbo.

A few hours later, we’re still laying in my bed. I’ve the dick pills but I no longer need em personally, just need to mail the one. I’m wearing the purple amethyst wire-wrapped ring she gave me a few days prior.

“I can make a potion with that amethyst,” she boasts, like a complete dork, while fingering the rock. I’m skeptical but intrigued so I press for details. “Yeah, all I got to do is put it in a bowl of water and say the incantation but I don’t have my book.”

I’ll partly blame the psychedelics, but the fucked up thing is that not only do I believe her, but I seriously believe the potion would actually be efficacious.

Then it dawns on me…

“You’re not a gypsy,” I accuse her. “Or at least, you’ve evolved into a witch…or maybe you’ve been a witch this whole time.”

I’m trying to figure her out; all I know for certain is that she has ‘powers’.

She giggles irrepressibly, and my mind races, increasingly convinced I’m under a spell. Perhaps the ring? I remove it. No difference. But a spell could explain our deep and effortless connection, could illuminate why I cared for her so much so quickly. It’s as if were cocooned together by a familiar ethereal force, both timeless and resilient, the same one we had experienced in the museum.

I kiss her deeply. When I pull away, she asks ingenuously, “When did you learn you could read minds?” I lean back, surprised that she knows my secret, and that I’ve only now realized it it has been my power all along. I’m lucidly aware that I’m under no spell; if it’s the psychydelic, then it’s unveiling truths in nature heretofore hidden from me. I perceive a force field erecting around us, spinning rapidly. 

As much as our relationship is new and exciting, I can’t shake the feeling that it’s also old and familiar. 

We’re sitting across from each other, cross-legged, naked, lost in each other’s eyes. We’ve transcended the need for words to communicate.

“How long have we known each other?” she asks silently…I receive a vision of or souls or essences or whatever colliding, embracing, and entwining over and over, again and again.

Despite loud protests from my rational mind, my intuition forcefully agrees with a lingering notion throughout this trip that we’ve been together before, in our previous 8 or 9 lives, even if it wasn’t permanently. As bewildering its reasons are, I can only acknowledge that the universe wants me to be with this purple haired witch for the present moment.

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