Previously: Our narrator looks back on the strange events that took place on the early morning hours of March 20, 2016 at Yorkshire Grey Place to reveal some early clues into their meaning.
In this chapter, we return to Yorkshire Grey Place looking at the events taking place immediately prior to the Almighty's visit that fateful morning on March 20, 2016. Our narrator provides a tutorial on gay "chemsex" and paints a portrait of the idyllic setting of the surrounding area, “where the infinite beauty of Hampstead Heath abuts the brokenness of Yorkshire Grey Place.”
[WARNING: sexually explicit content and graphic description of illicit drug use]
March 19, 2016 at 1:30 PM; Yorkshire Grey Place
He’s on his third day of another chemsex binge (or is it the fourth? I can never keep up!).
What is chemsex, you ask? It must sound like such an odd term to the uninitiated, sounding like what the Pfizer marketing team should have come up with as their code name for Viagra. No, I’m afraid it’s much weirder than that. “Chemsex”—also known as PnP (“party and play”) on the other side of the pond—is the use of chemical substances in which drugs like methamphetamine fuel uninhibited sex that lasts for hours, and sometimes days.
Let’s start with the “chem” part of chemsex: the most common substances used by gay partiers are the “G&T” (not to be confused with the Queen Mum’s favorite libation). Methamphetamine is the “T,” and is also known as “tina,” “crystal,” or, my favorite, “gay crack.” T is typically smoked through a pipe or bong or, as my friend does quite anachronistically, by snorting.
The “G” (short for the alphabet soup chemicals known as “GHB,” “GBL,” or “BDO”—I can’t recall all the varieties) is taken hourly, done in a meticulous ritual involving iPhone timers, measurements on the milliliter scale, and double authentication of the dosage by the measurer and the person imbibing. The cocktail is a combination of the carefully measured drops of G added to some excessively sweet or sour beverage needed to mask the vile taste of what is essentially a precursor of industrial paint thinner.
The T keeps you going for hours (or days, as is the present case for my friend), while the G is the intoxicant with an effect more similar to alcohol that helps keep the edge of the powerful stimulant at bay. For those experienced in the use of chemical substances, G&T is somewhat similar to the combination of champagne and cocaine (his previous cocktail of choice). The primary difference is that G&T has a more pronounced effect on libido and overall horniness.
G is responsible for the phenomenon known as “swirling” that I describe happening prior to our visit from the Almighty. I assure you—as casual or flippant as my descriptions here may seem—these are very dangerous substances. Meth is among the most addictive substances known to man and is often described by those trapped in its grips as the closest glimpse into hell you’ll get this side of Hades. G is among the most common causes of overdose deaths in gay bathhouses the world over. It is extremely easy to overdose on this vile substance, and my friend has a reputation well established in this city for overdosing frequently at “parties.”
The party currently underway is taking place here in our flat, in the expansive master bedroom where the window through which God will soon be entering stage right is now wide open to vent the clouds of crystal meth filling up the room.
These parties he often hosts are not the kind of parties with which you, (nor we, prior to a year ago), would likely be familiar. There are no canapés being served and eaten (nor any food, for that matter), no beer or liquor, nor balloons or other decorations festooning the flat. Instead, you will only find naked bodies entangled in a mass of flesh, sweat, and other bodily fluids, with porn and deep house music thumping in the background.
Four naked men, at this moment, are piled on the bed and engaged in various acts, while two others are doing something else NSFW on the sofa. Oswaldo is one of several visitors who is being generously compensated by my friend for his attendance.
At 38, Oswaldo is nearing the sell-by date for people in his profession. However, his unique skills, stamina, and endowment have made him extremely popular. He hails from Spain and still speaks in a deep and incredibly sexy Castilian accent. Oswaldo often reminds us that he has earned a PhD in fucking through his many years of experience.
If God makes house calls to places like these, He is a merciful god indeed.
Our flat has become a popular destination for partiers—both professional and amateur—in the further reaches of northwest London. Our flat is conveniently located across the street from the Northern Line underground. Although a bit of a hike from central London or other gayborhoods like Clapham and Vauxhall, one could not live in a more idyllic setting.
Hampstead is a village known mostly for its iconic park, Hampstead Heath—where we are now headed to get some fresh air and a break from the mass of bodies piled on the bed. As we walk through our alley onto Hampstead High Street, the scene in front of us never fails to amaze. Known as the village of billionaires and the home of artists—especially the most famous among them—this is not a place where common folk and their northern accents live. Within a short hop, skip, and a jump are the homes of Ridley Scott, Chris Martin (and, formerly, Gwyneth, whose separation from Chris through their “conscious uncoupling” gave new life to my friend’s everlasting hope of betrothal to the Coldplay frontman), and, of course, The Legend, George Michael (further up the street in Highgate). Right around the corner is our favorite neighbor, Helena Bonham Carter—possibly the most fabulous human being on earth. Yes, we know… we are hopeless starfuckers.
Walking up the hill toward the Heath, the eyes are treated to a delight of ivy-covered cottages with shutters and doors painted in a sea of pastels. The powerful scent of early spring lilacs and hyacinth almost assaults the senses. Everyone always complains about the weather in London, and yet we both rather like its mildness. Sweaters and jackets are worn almost year-round, but the air—especially here far from the city proper in the forest heath—is pure and comfortable against the skin. As is typical for this time of year, the clouds are dense, and yet the sun never fails to prove that hope springs eternal as it periodically peeks out from behind its veil, providing the most perfect warmth upon your face. The day is rapidly growing longer until it reaches a glorious peak in mid-June when darkness doesn’t fully take hold until nearly 10 PM.
It is late in the afternoon, getting chilly, and the light mist is promising to turn into a proper shower very soon. We pick up the pace and head from the green at the top of the hill back toward Yorkshire Grey Place. I’m feeling rejuvenated by the air and the exercise. He, however, is unusually silent and unsteady on his feet.
Upon returning to the flat, he loudly announces to the empty room that the party at Yorkshire Grey Place has reached its finale. All should collect their clothes and other belongings to leave, and that he has other places and other people to attend. In his attempt at edgy humor, he also reminds the guests (who have already left) to collect their used condoms. Of course, with “treatment as prevention” and the recent formulation of PrEP, no condoms are ever used anymore. HIV/AIDS is something the old gays had to worry about and won’t be allowed to scare us anymore. How far we’ve come!
I shouldn’t be surprised at his sudden decision to keep partying elsewhere without me, but I still convey my worry and remind him that at some point he will need to stop and sleep. Of course, he ignores those entreaties without comment or second thought. Before I know it, he’s already out the door and on his way toward either ecstasy or oblivion—or both.
The next time I see him, we’ll be face-to-face with the Creator of this beautiful garden where the infinite beauty of Hampstead Heath abuts the brokenness of Yorkshire Grey Place.
Bingeing Toward Bethlehem