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on ecstasy
The first time you take ecstasy is a bit like losing your
virginity. You tread the same tightrope. How early in life should you do it? Too
soon, you're considered a skank: too late: you're called a loser.
I'd had a bad experience with drugs when I was 17 - a man had
fed me booze and cocaine and had fooled around with me when I was too messed up
to know what he was doing - and I had pretty much gone off the idea of them altogether.
I hadn't enjoyed the loss of control. No more bizarro fourth-dimension experiences
for me for a while, thank you.
But on Saturday night, at Electric Stew in Shoreditch, I let Donna
put half a pill in my mouth. It tasted bitter and I swilled it down with champagne.
I'd always thought ecstasy was something you had to be really
serious about, and only ever drink water with, and only take at clubs where men
in white gloves carry bicycle lights in their mouths and listen to horrible trance.
But Donna said it was no big deal, and not really any different to going out and
getting pissed. She said it wasn't important. She said it was normal to mix stuff
up, get a bit messy.
So that's what we did.
You've probably read hundreds of What-It's-Like-To-Take-Ecstasy
reports by now, so I won't bore you with another one, except to say that whatever
you've read - (unless you read some Leah Betts-esque horror story) - it was exactly
like that. It was textbook: all smiles and laughter because it felt so good to
be happy; my body caressed to a state of ultra-aliveness by the sheer pleasure
of moving my limbs.
That's when the stroking thing started
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