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   It's very hard to put your life in writing like this.  If you liked what
you read, can identify with it, or simply didn't understand it or found a
typo, drop me a line.  All thought and input are appreciated.

   #######

   I was in a public park sitting at an old rickety picnic table.  It was a
midweek morning and the park was pretty deserted, but I was in a spot with
a lot of bushes around just in case.  I had decided to light up and
leisurely rolled myself one, then sparked up, sat and watched nothing while
the weed did its deed.

   It was a relaxing moment.  That is rare feeling when you live on the
streets.  I sat and daydreamed and smoked my joint with not a care in the
world.  At some point I saw the small movement out of the corner of my eye
which brought me to quick attention.  I was shocked when I turned my head
and saw the young woman standing watching me.

   She was perhaps mid-20's and blonde with a bun-backed hairstyle that
might have been at home on a woman twice her age.  Her cheeks and nose were
bright red from the cold and she was wearing a long wool overcoat against
the freezing winds.  She wore sensible flat shoes over exposed white
calves- no socks or stockings.  Behind her she pulled a small cart of the
kind my grandmother had used when she was alive more than a decade ago, and
it was filled with bagged groceries.  Celery and carrot stalks attempting
to escape from the bag like the cover shot from a grocery store flyer

   She looked like a church lady come to save my soul.  The whole town was
filled with boring, nosey and vanilla people like this and always had been.
I expected nothing more than the cold look of disapproval that these people
majored in.  Here I was with my "slept in her clothes again" look and
carrying a bundle with bedding, doing drugs on a park bench at a time when
I should have been in school.

   Remarkably though, she had a smile on her face- shy but warm as if she
was reliving an old pleasant memory.  When she realized I had seen her, she
was embarrassed and actually apologized for intruding.

   She abandoned her cart and took a few tentative steps toward me and I
hurriedly worked to roll up my small baggy of weed and hide it.  Internally
I debated whether to toss the joint or try to save it - but either way I
intended to flee.

   She sensed this and said simply "Please don't leave.' in a sweet voice.
She took few more steps toward me.  The smile was still there and she was
no threat - I could have dropped her with one punch - so I resigned myself
to a few minutes of the "God has a plan for you" sales pitch while I
gathered up my things in a less hectic manner.

   I was surprised when instead she said "I was wondering - can I have a
few hits of that?" and then with a bigger smile added "Please?  I can pay
you."

   Well, that was a surprise.

   A small part of me sensed entrapment.  The idea of getting paid for pot
was a prison term then.  (You can get awfully paranoid living on the
streets.) A bigger part of me, though, was intrigued.  So I waved her over
and used my lighter to re-fire the spliff, taking a slow deep hit as I
examined my new doobie mate.  I passed it to her and she hit it like and
old pro, not choking as I expected (it was winter weed and pretty harsh)
but blowing it out slow and easy and then going for two.

   I watched her calmly smoking, as natural as if she did it all the time.
It looked so totally outside of what I expected that I just had to ask "You
aren't from around here are you?"

   The question caught her off guard and she laughed, and the laughter
cause her to cough, my little quip making her choke in a way that the
pungent smoke had failed to do.  She giggled a no and explained she had
grown up in Southern California and has recently moved her with her
husband.

   That was crazy.  No one moved *to* Charles City - especially not from
SoCal which most of us Iowans viewed as a fantasy place we would never see
outside of television.  I thought that was so cool and said so.  "I hear
they have the best weed there."

   "I wouldn't know" she retorted.  "I'm a good little Mormon girl and I
never was around such things." She said it in a teasing manner like I was
supposed to understand the humor in it.

   I really didn't.  We had a few Mormons out in the rural areas and some
in the rich part of town but I'd never actually met one.  I was never much
on admitting my ignorance so I let the joke slide and we just smoked for
another minute.  We had only started with a half a joint anyway and it was
quickly cashed out.

   She asked me if I had any more and re-iterated that she could pay me.  I
looked over at her unattended groceries and asked if she didn't need to get
them home so everything would stay cold.  It was a joke really and we both
knew it.  It was so cold outside that the groceries would likely freeze
solid if left much longer.  She laughed and I sensed she was cool, so I
took a shot.

   "I don't really need your money....  Well, I mean I need it - but I need
a shower more.  Do you live somewhere close where I could take one?  I'll
trade you.  Would that be cool?"

   I looked up at her.  Usually when I ask this question I either see
distrust and revulsion (when I asked women) or lust (when I asked men.)
With her I saw confusion, so I pressed her, promising I would just take
just a few minutes and then go.  Then I promised not to touch or steal
anything.

   Her look went from confusion to amusement - I could tell she wasn't even
thinking I might steal something - and then to resolve.  As an answer she
got up from the table and motioned me to follow her.  She grabbed her cart
and we headed down the street.

   Her home was a small single-story clapboard house indistinguishable from
others on the street other than the telltale coat of paint that said this
was a house either up for sale or recently sold.  (Charles wasn't a boom
town so no one bought paint otherwise.)

   Inside the décor was a work in progress.  You could tell they were
recent move ins.  The living room was small and cheaply furnished.  The
small kitchen table practically blocked the view of the tv from the sofa in
the living room.

   I sat down at the kitchen table and went to work on the ritual of
rolling another joint.  Her housewife tendencies kicked in and she
efficiently put away the groceries.  We made a real study in contrasts - me
removing stems and seeds while she checked a sell-by date then
unceremoniously dumped last weeks bad milk down the drain.  She finished
her task a bit after me and took a minute to turn on the exhaust fan above
the cook top before sitting down to smoke with me.

   We made small talk at first, and I was first with the "what the hell"
question.  "What the hell is someone from California doing living in Iowa?"


   She explained that her husband was fresh from college and that the
shipping company put him in Charles for experience.  It was a good
opportunity that would help his career and he wouldn't be there more than a
few years.  She said she would make the best of it or at least cope. 
Charles "wasn't that bad.

   Her question was just as obvious.  "What the hell are you doing living
like a hobo?" My answer back was that my parents were hell to live with.  I
had been getting by alright and had friends when I needed them.  I was
okay. The streets weren't that bad.

   We both knew we were engaging in mutual lies - but if there was one
thing living in this town taught early, it was that complaining about your
lot in life was tedious.  We all knew where we lived and that there was
something better out there.

   I knew Mormons were religious people and kind of strict.  (Full
disclosure - I had them kind of mixed up with Amish people - I just wasn't
very worldly.) So I asked how a Mormon girl had learned to suck down the
pot like she had.

   She laughed at my nosy and probably vaguely insensitive question -
probably excusing the rudeness because we were both really high.  She
started telling me a story about going to high school and meeting a "bad
boy" in her class.  He became her total crush as soon as she saw him.

   I still remember the way she said it - it was a voice full of nostalgia
and longing.  "He was all I wanted in high school - I was totally
infatuated with him.  If he had told me to jump of a bridge I probably
would have jumped off a bridge, but luckily he had other ideas...  I did a
lot of things to be around him that I shouldn't have."

   Then there was a pause and a bit of self reflection.  "It was really all
quite shameful" she said with a smile and a bit of shyness.  I felt close
to her.  I think to a certain point every woman has been there at least
once.

   We sat for a little while and just experienced being stoned, looking at
each other across the table and from the viewpoint of whole different
worlds.  We lived totally different lives and here we were getting high in
her kitchen.  It was a moment between us.  Such things are hard to
describe.

   The joint was completely out so she got up to turn off the amazingly
noisy exhaust fan.  The moment broken, I remembered why I was there and got
up to get a change of clothes for the shower.  When I opened my pack I
realized nothing I had was any cleaner than what I already had on.

   She had introduced herself as Roxanne - a small detail I've forgotten to
mention until now but a memorable one due to the old song - and Roxanne saw
my predicament and offered to do a load of laundry.  It was a sweet gesture
- laundry is incredibly hard when you don't have a home and when you have
so little clothing anyway.

   She didn't even wait for me to say yes before she grabbed a small
laundry basket and stood in front of me to collect my soiled clothing.  She
patiently waited until I went through the pockets of my jeans.  and I think
she was surprised when I produced so few pieces of clothing from my pack.
(I didn't own much.)

   When I was finished, she raised and eyebrow and commanded "those too
dear.  You are carrying a scent." It was a pleasant way of saying that I
and my clothes were stinky.

   I hesitated a moment so she said "Come on, nothing I haven't seen
before" and with her stern look I commenced to strip to my skin in the
living room of her home.  Dropping items into her laundry bin until there
was no more laundry left to give.

   A bit embarrassed by my nakedness, I bent to grab my razor and some soap
from my pack, but he let me know she had all of that stuff and led me to
the small bathroom in the hall across from her laundry closet.  I didn't
shut the door to the bathroom - my way of letting her know I wasn't going
to raid her medicine cabinet - and stood naked while the water warmed up.

   I always felt a bit awkward using someone else's shower, but when the
hot water hit me all concern washed away.  (Hot showers are a simple
pleasure, but one you miss when you don't have them.)

   At some point, I heard the small wash machine kick on and prepared
myself for the blast of cold water than would come when the machine filled,
and was shocked when one didn't come.  (Good water heater - something we
had never had at home.) Since the door was still open and she was stoned
and wanted to talk, she wondered in and sat on the closed toilet seat.

   She asked me very bluntly if I had engaged in prostitution while I had
been on the streets.  (I had been nosy - I guess she felt entitled.) When I
assured her I had not, she sounded relieved.

   She asked other similar questions.  Where did I sleep?  Did I use other
drugs?  She seemed intrigued with my life, which was not unusual.  People
often asked me questions like this about what life was like without
boundaries.  I answered as truthfully as I could, and to her credit she was
non-judgmental and listened without prejudice.

   When the question came up about my chastity or lack thereof, I let her
know that I wasn't a virgin and even that there has been more than a few
men.  This seemed to please her in some odd way.  It made me feel for just
a moment that she might be looking down on me - and I had a chip on my
shoulder about a mile wide back then - so I countered "Well, from the
sounds of things, I'm guessing you didn't go to the alter a virgin either
right?"

   This triggered a memory I guess, and she was talkative with her high, so
she told me the story of her high school boy while she sat and I bathed.

   He had been older than her and had transferred into her school when she
was a Junior.  She really only new him for a few months before he graduated
and the summer began.  He was a committed stoner.  She had never even
considered smoking pot, but had started smoking the first time he passed
her a pipe.

   They never dated really - she just showed up places where he was and
they left together.  He had a car - a ratty old Nissan - and they would
park in the orange groves and fumble around.

   When it came to "giving up the goods" she defended valiantly but he was
persistent.  He finally got his hand under her blouse about two months in
and was confused when he found his path under her bra blocked by her
"garment." (I learned then for the first time that Mormons wear special
underwear.)

   Her explanation of the garment and her faith changed their relationship
in a bad way.  His understanding of her limits on sex before marriage
dampened his enthusiasm not just that night, but for the next week.  After
that night he was cordial to her, but the invitations to ride along with
him into the orchards stopped.  She was crushed.

   She decided that she needed to get him back, so when her parents left
town and allowed her to stay alone (she was almost 18) she told him and
made sure he understood there might be implications.

   When the big night came, he picked her up about 7:30 and by 8PM they
were at the front door of a seedy motel a few miles off the ocean.

   At first she was sure and confident about her decision to go all the
way, and so when things started getting heavy she went with it.  She was
almost completely naked - the garment cast aside - when it struck her that
she wouldn't be able to fuck him.  She just couldn't do it.

   But, she added with a laugh, "Mormons have a great way of excusing their
own bad behavior by placing strict limits on themselves, which they bend
but never break." So when the time came and he thought she was going to
give herself to him, she instead set the ground rule that there would be no
intercourse but she was open to "anything else."

   After that, her description was slow and measured, and I remember it
almost word for word.  I could tell the words were designed to shock me in
some way- you could tell they were shocking her even as they came out of
her mouth.

   On the other side of the shower curtain I acted as her confessor.  Here
is the story she told.

   "I wasn't even finished saying that I was open to anything but
intercourse before he had his penis up to my mouth.  He practically pushed
it between my teeth as I was finishing the sentence.  I'm not even kidding.



   It was my first time I'd ever done that and tried to slow him down, but
he wasn't taking no for an answer, and he invaded my mouth and used his
hands on the back of my head before I could object.  I had never had
anything so deep in my throat and he was thick.  It was uncomfortable, but
I soon got the hand of it and felt like I was pleasing him.  He was open to
giving as good as he got, and soon had his head between my legs as well.



   For the next few hours we engaged in mutual oral sex, um, 69 almost
non-stop.  I swallowed ...  him...three different times and he still he
stayed hard.  He kept making me cum with his mouth and his fingers and I
just know his intent was to make me want him so bad that he could have
me...



   at some point he stopped penetrating me with just his tongue and started
putting his fingers in me.  First there and then in my...  backside.  When
he put them there and I didn't stop him he got bolder.  He worked them in
and out and stretched it, even licking and probing me with his tongue which
was disgusting.  But I didn't stop him.



   When he had three fingers there and moving in and out our eyes met and
it was like a bargain was struck.....what he would trade for to let me keep
my virginity.  I was quickly on my side with him behind me...  then in me.
There.  And he was done so fast after that and we just laid there for a
while.  I felt his seed in my bowels and it was like they were full.  It
was the devils bargain, but somehow I felt relieved he had let me stay a
virgin.



   Before the night was out he had me while I lay on my stomach...  and
then again on my hands and knees like an animal.  It wasn't as bad as it
sounds that night.  I admit I even enjoyed it after a fashion -, but the
next morning I cried when he drove me home because I hurt so badly.



   If I had thought I loved him before, after that night I was frightened
and sickened by him.  I avoided him though he tried to get my attention at
every turn.  I couldn't look in the mirror without thinking of what he had
done to me and how he had violated my mouth and my ass and I had almost
been grateful that he stopped there.



   I met Michael a few months later when I was touring a college and 6
months later I walked down the isle with him.  Still a virgin."



   She finished the story and there was silence.  I didn't know what to say
and I didn't know what to do.  I was actually done with my shower - but
didn't want to open that curtain.

   She walked out of the bathroom finally, and came back a few minutes
later with a fresh towel and a small robe that was obviously her husbands.
She didn't leave so I finally stepped out of the shower and was surprised
to feel her begin to wipe me down in the same manner than my mom had
toweled me off as a little girl.

   She helped me into the robe, showed me where I might find an aerosol
deodorant and then slid from the room.

   When I walked out, a can of soup was heating on the stove, and she
served it up with some juice and our discussions turned to the more
mundane, as if here bathroom admission had been a fantasy though something
in her demeanor told me she was deep in the humiliated funk of having done
an over-share.  She seemed almost grateful when the buzzer went off for the
dryer, and returned with a small basket holding almost all of my worldly
possessions.

   While folding the clothes save for the few things I had sat aside to put
on, she realized I had no panties and offered me a few pair from a package
of three she had recently purchased.  She was a lot smaller than me, but
when I slid on one of the gifts it fit- if a little snugly.  The second
pair I tucked into my pack.

   "You know - you could stay here for a while longer if you wanted." I
heard Roxanne say.  "My husband isn't due home until after 6.  You could
sleep or something."

   I was frankly surprised and a little bit suspicious - thinking perhaps
there was a pass coming my way next.  When people offered me their bed,
there were usually strings attached, and I had been approached once or
twice by women as well as men.  But when I lay down, I fell asleep without
any visits.  She finally woke me up about 5:15 when she needed to shoo me
out of the way because her husband would be home soon.

   After our first day together, Roxanne began to seek me out.  I usually
wasn't hard to find.

   The nature of the relationship was clearly established early.  She
supplied me with food, the occasional use of her washer and dryer and some
money here and there and I supplied the pot and a sympathetic ear.  We got
to be friends of sorts - which was quite amazing when you considered it.

   She was more than 10 years older than me, married, and a practicing
Mormon during those times she wasn't with me.  I was an underage runaway
with no home, no religion and no future.  You wouldn't think we had a lot
to talk about.

   Mostly, she talked and I listened.  I learned about here childhood
growing up as a middle child amongst seven children, the oppressive
expectations of her religious upbringing and the freedom that came when she
went off to high school and her parents finally let her begin to have a
life that was more than cleaning house and taking care of her younger
siblings.  I heard more about the selfish abusive boyfriend that drove her
to abandoning her morals and the internal backlash that led her to seek out
her very conservative and devoutly religious husband.

   Just about none of these things had meaning in my own life.  The child
of parents who didn't seem to particularly care about anyone but
themselves, I grew up in a religion free home with a single sibling who
didn't seem to know or care or if I lived or died.  Yet with as few things
as we seemed to have in common, we got along fabulously.

   It was easy to see that in her vanilla and conservative life I was the
glimpse of a different life she could have had, and I think as badly as my
life seemed to be going, she would gladly have traded with me.  When she
was stoned enough to be unselfconscious, she sought out details of my life,
and on subjects such as my promiscuity and drug use she would ask many
probing questions, pushing for details so much that it sometimes got a bit
uncomfortable.  She would feign shock at my shenanigans but I could sense
her attraction to them.

   One day while we were sitting at her kitchen table getting high, she
shared that a next door neighbor had entrusted her with the key to their
home.  Her job was to water the plants and feed the cat each day.  She
wondered if we might take the party to their house for a change.  "They
have cable" she explained.

   The neighbors were smokers, so we thankfully could smoke our pot without
the loud rumble of the stove exhaust fan she always ran in her own house,
and we spent the lunch hour and more watching MTV, which was something I
had of course heard about but neither of us had ever seen.  We grew bored
and started switching channels - surveying the movie channels only to find
the "good stuff" was really only shown at night.

   I will note that it was Roxanne's - not my - idea to poke around the
house peeking at how the neighbors lived.  I've always been a nosey type
and had no problem playing along.

   We started with looking at a shelf of video tapes where we quickly found
a stash that were clearly adult in nature, and Roxanne's face turned as red
as it had been the day I met her when the frigid wind had painted her
cheeks a deep crimson.  We read the titles to each other - very crude ones
with names like "Caught from Behind" and "White Chicks, Black Dicks" and
giggled like school girls.  While she was afraid to put one in the VCR for
the tv we had been watching, we together chose a single one to take back to
her home to watch later, figuring she would return it the next day.

   Next we went into the bedroom, where we enjoyed first wondering through
the closets where we made fun of the fairly unfortunate fashion choices of
the lady of the house, then moved on to the bureau where, as expected, we
found dirty magazines and condoms in his drawers and naughty underwear,
lotion and toys in hers.  Neither of us had ever seen a pair of crotchless
panties and for some reason could not stop giggling, and the small vibrator
we found, with its' unfortunate layer of dried gunk that made it as unclean
as it was dirty, had us laughing as only two stoned and embarrassed young
women could.

   Our treasure hunt and feeding & watering complete, we cleaned up after
ourselves as best we could, taking our prize - a video called "Opening of
Misty Beethoven" back to her house.  (We chose it because it seemed to be
one of the few that might actually have a plot.) That Roxanne's VCR spit
out a training tape for LDS priesthood before popping it into her VCR only
underlined exactly how far out of character this all was for her.

   I don't know what we expected when we sat down together.  The movie was
quite old - so much so that we exchanged small talk about the
farrah-faucet-flip hairstyles and the guys with the Mark Spitz mustaches,
which were both fashion trends from another era.  As the movie went on we
got a bit uncomfortable in the way that I'm sure most do when watching
something like this.  These movies are intended to make people horny after
all, and while it did to some extent, this wasn't a comfortable place for
either of us.

   After about a half an hour or so, with little having been said for
perhaps 20 minutes, I found I was actually falling off to sleep.  (I had
slept very little the night before.) Roxanne noticed, suggesting that if I
wanted to rest, I might slip into the bedroom and sleep for a while.

   The suggestion wasn't an attempt at seduction.  I had done this often
during out time together, using the security of her home to supplement
sleep that came hard elsewhere.  I took advantage of this excuse to slide
out of an awkward situation, and wandered down the hall to the bedroom.  I
lay down, attempting to doze for a while, and found myself buzzing in that
uncomfortable way you do when you didn't sleep the night before but have
found a dizzying kind of second wind.

   I figured Roxanne was doing dishes or scrubbing floors.  (Roxanne was
always doing dishes or scrubbing floors).  Instead I turned the corner in
the hall to find her with her dress up around her hips and her hand buried
in her underwear, her full attention glued to the small tv that was still
showing the adult movie we had pilfered.

   I was in shock enough that I didn't immediately turn and retreat from
the room, but she sensed my presence and looked up, first in shock and then
in horror, bursting instantly into a crying fit of humiliation.  The pure
passion of her crying was almost extreme.

   (Later, on news that my father had died while I was on the streets, I
remember flashing on her tears and feeling like such a terrible person that
I could not even muster up a single tear.  How I yearned to have the
passion to express myself as she had, but I was just empty when it came to
his death.)

   Once caught, I stepped out of the room for a moment, but realized that
some things can't be undone.  I turned the corner again to see her standing
straightening her dress while trying without success to control her
emotions.

   At first, I sought to comfort her trite words one might expect about how
we all did it and there was nothing to be ashamed of, but that brought no
solace, so I simply went back into the bedroom and let her cry herself out.

   After what seemed like an hour, she wondered in and sat on the edge of
the bed, and again I became Roxanne's confessional.  This time the subject
was the sex life she experienced as a married woman, or rather the lack of
one.  It almost sounds like a caricature - but for the last year, it has
been infrequent and missionary.

   I would repeat her confession word for word if I could recall it or
anything close to it, but whereas her first confession to me was so
striking and almost shocking, this was one that could be heard,
unfortunately, wherever women talked anywhere.  The unmet needs and lack of
spontaneity that lead to disappointment are a universal problem for so many
of us.

   We looked up and it was close to 4PM, and Roxanne was as close to
depression as a woman could be.  She was shamed and depressed, as an
immature person I had no words and no idea how to make things better, so I
suggested drugs.  (It had always worked for me.)

   We returned to the living room and I took a moment to eject the tape,
worried that in her distracted state she might leave it in the VCR and it
be found by her husband.  Instead, I grabbed my pack and dug through it to
find a small vial full of crank - a recent passion of mine -and used the
tape case as a place to line up small lines using a business card I had
gotten from a local crisis clinic.

   Roxanne was very timid about doing the powder I offered, but finally
took the cut-in-two fast food straw and inhaled the first line.

   For those readers that have never done it, crank starts with a highly
unpleasant chemical taste the hits the back of your throat inducing an
unpleasant nausea that lasts just a few seconds, then you suddenly feel
like you're in a fast rising elevator that soon explodes out of the back of
your skull.  I watched the range of emotions in her eyes as the drug kicked
in, and after her look of euphoria the second tiny line was consumed
quickly.

   Whatever dark place she had been in was instantly behind her and the old
industrious Roxanne emerged from the ashes.  The video tape was stashed on
a high kitchen shelf, air freshener was sprayed and the kitchen table
thoroughly washed down to purge it of ashes, residue and odor.  She didn't
say much, but you could tell all was well in her internal fortress, and
with a quick nod at the clock she made me aware that it was about time to
clear out.  Her husband would be home in an hour.

   I grabbed my stuff and made for the backdoor which led to an alley. 
(This was our pre-agreed to escape route.  The neighborhood was filled with
prying eyes.) Uncharacteristically, after we said our brief goodbyes she
reached over and gave me a peck on the cheek.  It was not something
unexpected from a friend - especially not the kind of friend with which you
shared secrets and adventures such as those we had shared that day - but it
was so uncharacteristic for her I almost swooned a bit.

   It being winter, the cold blast of air as woke me as I made my way out
the door and into the later afternoon which was darkening fast to make an
early nightfall.

   When I next saw Roxanne it was two days later, she arrived at the little
coffee shop where I was breaking fast with a smile on her face like the cat
that ate the canary.  "My husband is going out of town.  Can you meet me
Wednesday night?  Let's have some fun!" I had to ask what day it was so I
could peg her expectations, but agreed that I would meet her.

   Wednesday night came and I arrived at her place.  After small talk, she
asked with a directness that had become her trademark if I had anymore of
the powder she had tried during my last visit.  Unfortunately, I had
finished the bit I had.  She was visibly disappointed and even looked
annoyed, so I volunteered I might be able to get more if she would kick in
some money.  Her attitude brightened and she offered to let me use her
phone to call my connection.

   I had to explain that the drug business didn't work that way - at least
not the people I dealt with - and asked her if she could drive me over to
someone's home.  I was quite surprised when she got up and gave me her keys
and a hundred dollars and asked me to get as much as I could.  Once I had
money and keys in hand, she practically pushed me out the door to find my
connection.

   What happened next I have written about previously and don't feel a need
to rehash it here.  (See my story Dennis the Drug Dealer.) Suffice it to
say I was hours late getting back and when I arrived I was frazzled,
frightened and really not in any shape to driven but had quantity enough to
keep us both awake for days.

   I expected anger that I had been so long and even more because I really
shouldn't have been behind the wheel with the drugs in my system that had
been put there.  Instead I found her expressing relief.  She had been
worried about me - but mostly because of the frozen roads and not because I
had her car and her money.  I guess it had been so long since anyone had
really trusted me with anything that I found this attitude surprising and
it made me really happy.  It didn't erase the drama of the early evening,
but I decided not to disclose it to her as I didn't want to spoil the mood.

   I asked her when the last time was she had eaten, and since neither of
us had had anything to eat in hours.  I made us both a bowl of canned soup,
explaining that we would likely not be hungry once we got into the powder.
(I had already been into it, but recognized hunger even through the haze of
heroin and speed I had in my system.  Again, read the other story for more
background on this.)

   After our meal, the binge began.

   We started out slow - a few small lines and then a joint to take the
edge off.  For a change she did not engage the loud exhaust fan to
dissipate the smoke, which I was thankful for.

   By 11PM, we were both flying high and babbling to each other about
everything, the crank fueling a perfect ladies night filled with mindless
chatter.  The lines kept coming and by 2AM I introduced another vice in the
form of a small pint of tequila I had hidden in my pack.  Unlike earlier
adventures, Roxanne seemed absolutely eager to indulge and we mixed orange
juice with it to add a drunken buzz to the pot and powder.

   Around 6AM we were both feeling a little burned out and by mutual
agreement we decided to put our party favors away, placing them on the same
high kitchen shelf where I noted that the video tape from her neighbors
house still lay hidden.  My hunch was that it had been studied more than
once, but I said not a word.

   I made the move to sack out on her couch - which would have been fine by
me, but she motioned me to join her in the bedroom, leading me to believe
that perhaps her taste for experimentation might take another turn.  I
wasn't sure whether I wanted that or not - sex tends to change
relationships and I liked her for the party girl she was fast becoming -
but while she stripped off her clothes and crawled into bed in just her
panties and barely flinched when I removed by jeans to reveal I was naked
beneath, once the lights went out the action stopped.

   I kept expecting the random rubbing of a leg that might initiate more -
but instead we both dropped into a doze.  I was slightly disappointed and
decided she wasn't looking for sex.  That part I got wrong.

   The next day we woke up late.  I had lost track of time long ago, but
I'm sure it was afternoon.  She had woken up slightly before me - but I was
disappointed to see that she hadn't made coffee or anything.  Given the
evening before, I had trouble getting my mind around the idea that
stimulants such as coffee were not part of her lifestyle.

   By 4 in the afternoon were back in form from the previous night.  There
had been some eggs and hash browns for a very late breakfast, but after
that it had all been pot and powder.  We were lying around twitching with
excess energy and wondering what to do with ourselves when her husband made
his daily phone call and after a few minutes of chitchat she hung up and we
knew our obligations were done for the day.

   We debated something as simple as going for a walk and she had a
paranoia about possibly meeting a neighbor.  She was right on that - we
were so fucked up we couldn't have begun to cope.  We joked for hours about
maybe finding our way into another neighbor's home because we had such a
good time looking through the last one, but we weren't fucked up enough to
do something so stupid, so at least we had balance.

   Finally about 8PM we fixated on the idea of going out to a bar,
something she had never done and I was really too young to do.  (Though in
truth, I had done it many times before anyway.)

   It was too good of a bad idea to pass up, so we decided to get ready and
needed to shower.  (One aspect of meth is that it makes you sweat like a
pig - and we had been flying on it for about 20 hours now.) She jumped in
first, a quick and efficient rinse to match her nature, and by the time I
slid under the water it was approaching 9PM.

   While I showered, Roxanne took her now familiar position on the commode
to sit for confessional, this time naked except for a towel that she used
mostly to cushion herself against the cold of the toilet seat lid.  She
again shared her frustrations with her husband, with her life, and with the
pinball game she had made of it when she used an out-of-control fling with
a high-school crush as a reason to go overboard and marry the dullest man
in the whole of her church.

   By now I had learned that response to Roxanne's rants were not really
necessary, so while she sulked I soaked.  Unlike earlier experiences, I
knew now that the longer I showered the more she would say, so when I was
waterlogged I exited without delay.  I found her once again holding a towel
and my robe.  I couldn't help but wonder if this was what life was like for
her and her husband - Roxanne waiting on him like this.

   Showers complete, next stop was her closet where the challenge was to
find something bar worthy - but her wardrobe selection was more appropriate
for church.  We finally made due with a couple of old summer weight dresses
made instantly shorter with the help of a pair of scissors and a fast hem
done with a sewing machine she had set up in the laundry area.  Shoes were
a problem but tennis shoes worked, and by 10:30 we were in the car and
headed for the interstate.

   The roads were frozen so it was slow going to get where we were headed -
a bar far enough out of town where I guessed that no one would know her, me
or her car should they see it parked in the lot.  Within 15 minutes of
arrival, we had men crowding around and buying us drinks.

   I went non-alcoholic not out of responsibility so much as a fear of
being carded since I wasn't even 18, but Roxanne seemed to be drinking
enough for the both of us.  Twice I pulled her into the bathroom and filled
her nose to keep her from getting sloppy drunk, both times the drug hitting
the back of her throat induced her to vomit up the alcohol she had been
consuming.  Such purging might have saved us from disaster but Roxanne was
also drunk from the attention of the young men - a feeling she hadn't felt
for a very long time.

   I tried my hardest to be the type of woman that the guys at the bars
hate - the friend trying to discourage the girl from engaging in bad
behavior.  It was an odd role for me of all people and not a surprise that
I failed.  At 1AM when the barman shouted last call, we settled up and left
with a big Chevy truck carrying two young horny men tailing close behind
us. I made a half-hearted attempt to shake the tail but had my own concerns
about possibly being pulled over.  I could walk every straight line in the
world and still get dragged into the jailhouse on suspicion of driving
under the influence based on the condition of my traveling companion.

   We arrived at Roxanne's home and the party commenced, the two boys
working hard to turn the situation to one of more intimacy.  When I begged
off, both men began focusing on Roxanne.  I'm embarrassed to say I fell
asleep at some point having refused to keep the party rolling with any more
powder.

   Sometime in the night, I was awoken by what sounded like dying animals
coming from behind the closed door of the bedroom.  I clearly heard three
voices grunting and groaning - and putting two and two together I realized
if she was servicing both men but still had the available vocal cords to
moan like that, she must being getting double teamed the hard way.  I
attempted to put the thought out of my mind, put a pillow over my head and
tried to sleep on the couch.  It didn't help much and thankfully after a
half hour or so everything quieted down.

   Somewhere about 5:30, one of the men padded naked out of the room on the
way to the bathroom and made a half-hearted attempt to convince me to join
the fun, but he found no takers on his offer.  Once back in the bedroom,
some of the sounds of amorous activity resumed, the two men doing their
best to tear off one more piece before skipping out to head to their
jobsite.  By 6:30AM they were gone.

   Not knowing exactly what to do but figuring there might be a mess to
clean up, I entered the bedroom to see how Roxanne was and found her passed
out on the bed.  By the looks of the sheets at least at some point in the
night she had been bleeding, though I doubt her bed partners had noticed or
cared.  The way the smears stained the sheets, it looked as though the
damage had taken place below her belt line or would have had she been
wearing any clothing.

   Also by the look at he sheets, I could guess that the twin lotharios had
not worn condoms.  I did a casual visual inspection - her legs were wide
apart as if one of the men still rode her - and saw that my suspicions
appeared correct.  I attempted to wake her just to see if she was okay, and
she complained of the headache and nausea that would come to anyone who had
drank what she had the night before.  She begged me first for aspirin and
water, then for me to sit with her while it all took affect.

   The sickness came next, and when she was done I had no real choice but
to put her in the shower.  She made the trip to the restroom in time to
spew into the porcelain, but I jerked the sheets off the bed anyway due to
an accumulation of body fluids of an entirely different nature.

   She fell asleep in the shower - a small mercy really - since it allowed
time for the hot water to loosen the muscles of her shoulders and neck. 
(Tenseness here is common with a hangover and one of the main reasons for
the painful head and body aches common to the condition.) The hangover
would still be debilitating, but she would live.  I attempted to wash her
body including to a certain extent her insides, and finally took off my own
clothes and joined her in the shower while I washed her hair and scrubbed
her body with hot water and soap.

   I put her back to bed on the bare mattress and found the blankets on the
floor and pulled them over us both.  In her drunkenness she made the pass
at me that I had always hoped for but I was in no mood for her now.  I
would no more touch her privates with my mouth than I would stick drink
from a sewer, though I did find some small pleasure in her as she slid her
hands across my body.  Her attention was half-hearted and lacking in energy
or passion, and she and I eventually drifted back off to sleep.

   Around 1130AM, the phone rang and she answered, and I sat and listened
as her life fell apart.  The strange truck in her driveway, lights & music
on all night, and strange men leaving the house in the AM had all been duly
noted by some nosy neighbor.  All had been conveyed to her husband as some
point that morning.  The sound on the other end of the phone was shouting
mostly, but it was mixed with some crying too, which broke my heart.

   The call ended with the news her husband was headed home on the next
plane, so Roxanne resolved to be half way back to her parents in California
before he got there.  She packed a suitcase, emptied the shelf of our
accumulated stash of the speed, her video tape and a bowl full of
half-smoked joints we had shared and she was in the car.  At the last
minute she thought to invite me to come along to help drive, and the trip
to California sounded like the best offer in my lifetime.

   I should have thought it through though, because as Roxanne sobered up
and pieced things together the blame game began.  She had been doing okay
before she met me, and now here life was destroyed.  It was all my fault
and she wished she had never met me.

   How could I disagree?

   She dumped me off without ceremony at a travel center about 50 miles
north of Des Moines, which was over 100 miles from home.  I had 16 dollars
in my pocket, my pack with a single change of clean clothes, and not much
else.  Getting back home was going to be an adventure to itself, but that's
a story for another day.

   I never saw Roxanne again and have no idea whether she made it back to
California.  The house was up for sale the one time I dared go into the
neighborhood to look, but that's really all I know.