coke + a can o' coke

i was at the Rat in the early 80's watching some hot band get hot. the kid next to me was bobbing his head arhythmically. he looked like a young Ric Ocasek but not as string bean long and drawn out. he said he was from Peru or some west coast South American country. he had black hair, shiny black eyes and a bright smile. i asked him back to the house (my boyfriend was away doing god knows what with god knows whom. we both played that game.). 'sure,' he said. 'you wanna do some kawcaine?' he explained in broken english that he ran a profitable connection with a drug cartel in his country and that he was dealing the stuff to 'all de beeg bahnds in town'. 'would i like to try some?' i'd never done a single line, but hey, why not give it a shot. he seemed to like me and who knew where it would lead? back at the apartment he broke out a stamp-sized packet of powder, cut it with a credit card, rolled a 100 dollar bill, snorted 2 fat lines and gave me the tube (all the right cliches). i watched him do it and followed suit. it shot up my nose like a dental drill and i got instantly horney. we were in the guest room (a nod to false propriety). he lay on his back, sneakers off, chain smoking. we had a couple of cokes in cans on a side table. he was tapping ashes into the tin key hole and squeezing stubs into the brine. he was coke-stoked for sure, but i wasn't hip to all the signs. he had a sweet oblivion in his eyes that erased any walls he might have had about who i was or what i might be up to with him. i touched his leg, his knee and he didn't budge. he closed his eyes, opened his mouth a little and stopped talking. i unbuckled his belt, pulled his zipper, brought it out like a fish and went down. he was right-away hard, beautiful there, but i had dry mouth. it felt like i was sucking bark. i needed to get slippery, to drink. i held him with my left hand and took an frantic swig of coke from what i thought was my set-aside can. it wasn't. it was his. it was filled with tobacco. sloshing down the hopper were 2 cigarette butts and globs of ash. it went down and back like a zip gun and i puked all over the kid's belly in a gusher. if this was his 'first time with a guy' it was probably going to be the last. he grabbed the pillow, swiped the vomit, yanked up his tight black jeans, click-locked the belt, collected his coke gear and hurtled down the stairs. i saw him off, but didn't get him off and never saw him again. maybe he located some non-projectile head from one of boys from one of 'da beeg bahnds in town'. who cares? i'm flipping out. what had i done? why was this drug pounding my heart like a gatling gun. hmm...i thought. why not run it off? that ought to do the trick. i sprinted back upstairs, dragged on some filthy running shorts and took off, thomping the pavement like a super hero just as the sun came up. sweat pimpled my face and my fists pumped like pistons. of course the symptoms intensified. i was scared. i called my boyfriend who, unbeknownst to me was doing the same thing with some colt in Jersey, but i knew that he knew about coke. knew all about it. he told me to stop running. to take a shower and to wait til the dark fear passed. (in a few short months he'd be dealing the shit himself and terminating our dead-in-the-water relationship. coke is good for that. 'instant asshole' a friend calls it. no shit, Tonto.