By Anonymous
If acid is similar to alcohol in one way, it’s that you can’t help but tell the truth when you’re on it. So when James leaned over and asked, “Did you think we were going to hook up tonight?” I couldn’t help but respond with, “Yeah, of course.”
When I took the tab and a half a few hours earlier, I didn’t expect to be sitting on James’ common room couch, talking about how I’d wanted to hook up with him instead of actually fucking, and I’d expected even less to have the discussion that followed our acid-induced bout of honesty.
“So what role do you usually play when you hook up with people? Are you the one that does the chasing or the one that gets approached?” James just kept the questions coming.
“I’m the one that does the chasing. You?”
“Same, I go into a room and think, which of these girls can I get with?”
“So you think of me as a girl?” For the first time that night, I noticed how much of a guy I actually was. My hat was on backwards, I was wearing a white tank top and my shittiest pair of sneakers; I couldn't help but compare them to James’ suede shoes, his corduroy pants and argyle sweater. Despite my sexuality leaning towards gayer side most days, I’d never questioned my gender identity. I was a guy and considered myself one – so why did James see me as a girl?
I asked him.
“All of your suitemates are girls. I look at all of you having a conversation, and I’m looking at six girls, not five girls and one guy. It’s just how I see you.”
The punctuated tiles of the Little Building ceiling might have transformed into an active colony of swirling ants, and the ten-foot walk to his suite’s bathroom might have stretched into an endless tunnel, but I wasn't about to let this one go. The trip had kicked in around midnight for both of us, but it was eight in the morning by the time we finally finished our debate on gender.
James, who grew up in a stereotypical small town where a friend of his was beaten by a group of classmates for coming out as queer, seemed to define gender predominantly around friend groups. The term “bro” came up more than once during his argument, and he directly associated friendship with sexuality. “I could never be friends with someone I wanted to sleep with.” He repeatedly fell back on the fact that most of my friends were girls to legitimize the fact that he viewed me as one.
When I questioned the contradiction of our friendship, how he couldn't be friends with me after having admitted he’d gone into the night with every intention of hooking up, he said it was a new thing for him: being friends with someone that openly identified as queer, whose sexuality was a major part of their outward personality.
As much as I wish the conversation had ended there, the drugs weren't through with us yet. Unaware as I was that first time around, I’ve learned from repeated trips that taking acid with someone sends you each onto the same wavelength. Conversations exclusively make sense to those under the influence, and James’ struggle with gender tropes led me towards the stereotypes I’d formed around sexuality - this means gay, that means straight. At one point during the night, we went through all of James’ Facebook profile pictures, and I relentlessly identified his carefully-planned outfits and constant group of surrounding girls as blatantly homosexual.
I loved to joke that I was hopeful in believing everyone was gay, but where I didn't want anyone assuming my gender, I wasn't giving people much leeway with their sexual identities.
Once the trip finally wore down, both of us laughed about the fact that being Emerson students, we would debate things like gender and sexuality while on drugs. We ended the night with a hug, an ambiguous one that muddled even more the line we’d debated drawing between friendship and attraction, but it was nice to think we’d made some headway in opening ourselves to the potential possess, whether or not that potential came from taking acid.
When I took the tab and a half a few hours earlier, I didn’t expect to be sitting on James’ common room couch, talking about how I’d wanted to hook up with him instead of actually fucking, and I’d expected even less to have the discussion that followed our acid-induced bout of honesty.
“So what role do you usually play when you hook up with people? Are you the one that does the chasing or the one that gets approached?” James just kept the questions coming.
“I’m the one that does the chasing. You?”
“Same, I go into a room and think, which of these girls can I get with?”
“So you think of me as a girl?” For the first time that night, I noticed how much of a guy I actually was. My hat was on backwards, I was wearing a white tank top and my shittiest pair of sneakers; I couldn't help but compare them to James’ suede shoes, his corduroy pants and argyle sweater. Despite my sexuality leaning towards gayer side most days, I’d never questioned my gender identity. I was a guy and considered myself one – so why did James see me as a girl?
I asked him.
“All of your suitemates are girls. I look at all of you having a conversation, and I’m looking at six girls, not five girls and one guy. It’s just how I see you.”
The punctuated tiles of the Little Building ceiling might have transformed into an active colony of swirling ants, and the ten-foot walk to his suite’s bathroom might have stretched into an endless tunnel, but I wasn't about to let this one go. The trip had kicked in around midnight for both of us, but it was eight in the morning by the time we finally finished our debate on gender.
James, who grew up in a stereotypical small town where a friend of his was beaten by a group of classmates for coming out as queer, seemed to define gender predominantly around friend groups. The term “bro” came up more than once during his argument, and he directly associated friendship with sexuality. “I could never be friends with someone I wanted to sleep with.” He repeatedly fell back on the fact that most of my friends were girls to legitimize the fact that he viewed me as one.
When I questioned the contradiction of our friendship, how he couldn't be friends with me after having admitted he’d gone into the night with every intention of hooking up, he said it was a new thing for him: being friends with someone that openly identified as queer, whose sexuality was a major part of their outward personality.
As much as I wish the conversation had ended there, the drugs weren't through with us yet. Unaware as I was that first time around, I’ve learned from repeated trips that taking acid with someone sends you each onto the same wavelength. Conversations exclusively make sense to those under the influence, and James’ struggle with gender tropes led me towards the stereotypes I’d formed around sexuality - this means gay, that means straight. At one point during the night, we went through all of James’ Facebook profile pictures, and I relentlessly identified his carefully-planned outfits and constant group of surrounding girls as blatantly homosexual.
I loved to joke that I was hopeful in believing everyone was gay, but where I didn't want anyone assuming my gender, I wasn't giving people much leeway with their sexual identities.
Once the trip finally wore down, both of us laughed about the fact that being Emerson students, we would debate things like gender and sexuality while on drugs. We ended the night with a hug, an ambiguous one that muddled even more the line we’d debated drawing between friendship and attraction, but it was nice to think we’d made some headway in opening ourselves to the potential possess, whether or not that potential came from taking acid.