Jon Vincent — AUTHOR'S EPILOGUE

 

AUTHOR'S EPILOGUE 

I knew Jeff Vickers for nearly 10 years, all of which were marred by serious problems of chemical dependency. 

The last five were defined by his struggle against heroin addiction. 

During the first half of the new millennium, he and I worked closely on the manuscript which became A Thousand and One Night Stands — a project conceived and begun in the late summer of 1998. 

Jeff intended A Thousand and One Night Stands to be more than merely the story of his life, more than the chronicling of the career of the porn star known as Jon Vincent. 

It was his intention, indeed his dream, that this account of the events of his life — both public and private — would stand as both a powerful anti-drug polemic, and as a warning, particularly to young people of both genders and all sexual orientations, about the intrinsically insidious nature of the porno industry with its "easy" money, spurious glamour and, most of all, what Jeff considered its direct causal connection to hard drugs use and its links to big-city illegal drug-culture. 

Jeff wanted, ultimately, to become a drug counselor, using the often tragic experiences of his lifelong battle against chemical dependency to help others with the same affliction. 

Just as he was able to tell many people the story of his life and career through this book, he hoped to be able to reach out to other troubled individuals on a wider yet more personal level by lecturing to young people about the evils of drugs in general and about the dangers of drugs and alcohol when combined with the pressures of the porno and "escort" businesses in particular. 

 

Tragically, Jeff was fated never to accomplish his ambitions. 

In early April, 2000, he decided — in his typically precipitous fashion — to take a trip to New York to visit his friend, Y. 

It was a hasty decision to say the least. 

I remember going to the gym late one afternoon. 

I returned less than two hours later to find Jeff packing his bags and confirming his plane reservations. 

He said he wanted to return temporarily to escort-work in Manhattan to earn money for a new car. 

Y., now clean and sober, would be a perfect role model. 

Through Y. and his friends, Jeff assured me, he would have a ready-made clean and sober support group. 

He would continue going to meetings in New York, and he would return with an additional month's sobriety under his belt. 

I was to continue working on the book in his absence. 

He would be in daily contact with me and with his recovering friend, G., by phone. 

What could go wrong? 

The answer was, unfortunately, everything. 

I remember an intense feeling of dismay as he waved to me from the window of his taxi bound for L. A. International Airport. 

Dismay coupled with a vague yet unshakable uneasiness. 

It was hardly anything as morbid or as concrete as fearing that I would never see him again. 

Even after almost 10 years of dealing with Jeff and his multiple chemical addictions (the last five of them spent watching him fight his losing battle against heroin), I was as yet incapable of wrapping my consciousness around that horrifically probable possibility. 

Yet, we all felt it. 

All of us who cared about him felt uneasy about that trip. 

It was unnecessary. 

Jeff needed a new car much like the proverbial fish needed a bicycle. 

It was illogical. 

Jeff constantly proclaimed to almost anyone who would listen that escort work exacerbated his drug use. 

The trip to New York was simply more "drug-addict thinking:" the Geographical Theory of Sobriety, denial done up to look like greener pastures 3,000 miles away. 

In New York, earning hundreds of dollars per day through hustling, he would undoubtedly slip — immediately and often. 

To preserve his own sobriety, Y. would be forced to send him packing. 

At best, he would continue his present pattern of slipping, chipping and temporarily "sobering up." 

At worst, he would return to California with a more expensive, even more voracious habit than he had before. 

Either way, he would have to endure the physical pain and psychological torment of detoxing all over again. 

The vicious cycle would continue. 

Only his friend G. dared voice the fear that lurked at the back of all our minds. 

"Jeff can't bullshit me," G. said grimly when he heard of Jeff's departure. 

"I've been a junkie for 32 years. You can't bullshit a bullshitter. He's not going to stay sober in New York. He's going there to use. And he'll keep on using until he dies." 

On May 3, 2000, I got The Call. 

It was The Call I had been expecting for many years, but when it finally came, I could only stammer in disbelief. 

Jeff was dead. 

Poor Y. had returned to his apartment earlier that evening to find his lifeless body on the floor. 

It was apparent to Y. — a physician — that Jeff had been dead for several hours. 

He was 37 years old. 

Thus, what Jeff originally conceived of as a "moral inventory of his life, told to the whole world," turned out to be his epitaph. 

He often joked, grimly and — as it turned out — prophetically that if he failed to sober up, someone else would have to write his story's ending. 

Sadly, he was right. 

And sadly, that task has fallen to me. 

There has been a great deal of speculation about the circumstances of his death. 

Apparently, it struck many people as unlikely that a man who had used drugs intravenously for more than a decade, a man who had survived 18 overdoses, would succumb accidentally to an dose of heroin "inappropriately administered." 

The traces of Valium in his system at the time of his death led many people to assume the worst. 

From internet chatrooms to headlines in the gay press, the question was: "Did Jon Vincent commit suicide?" 

Those of us who knew him knew better. 

Those who read this book can only come to the same, logical conclusion. 

Jeff Vickers a.k.a. Jon Vincent died at a time when he wanted very much to live. 

He died at a time when he was trying not only to break free of his addiction but also to reconnect with the sense of spirituality that he felt he had experienced, albeit all too briefly, in his youth. 

Although he lived what may have seemed in many ways a suicidal life, I do not believe that his death was in any way deliberate. 

The Valium in his bloodstream and the needle in his neck notwithstanding, I believe his death was accidental. 

Jeff ran out of veins; then he ran out of luck; the end. 

His hopes, his regrets, his life speak to readers from the pages of this book just as his work as a gay-porn icon speaks to filmgoers from the screen. 

We can only hope that he is, at last, at peace. 

Goodbye, Jeffie. 

Rest well.

 

 

 

Hope A Carson, age 75, North Las Vegas, NV
 

Locations: Las Vegas NV, Venice CA, Santa Monica CA

Jon Vincent — CHAPTER 16

 

 

CHAPTER XVI 

So, that's it. 

My life so far. 

Like I said, it's not strawberries and cream, but I've tried to tell the truth — to all of you and to myself; and that's about all I can do at this point. 

Tell the truth about the past, and, like my friend Hope says, try not to repeat it. 

There are some discrepancies in the story, I know. 

I apologize for those. 

Most of them are because my memory is just plain fucked up from so much heroin, cocaine and alcohol. 

Others are just plain lies — either deliberate or unconscious on my part. 

Looking back over the manuscript, even I'm not sure sometimes which was which. 

Whatever the reasons were for the lies at the time, I prayed to God. 

And He gave me the strength to set the record straight. 

The main thing I want to set straight is about something The Maggot said about me. 

That when me and him first met, I wanted him to fuck me. 

I called him a liar. 

I want to say here that he was telling the truth. 

I did let him fuck me. 

That shows how bad my drug and alcohol addiction was even back then when I first came to California! 

I was desperate to be loved by anyone, anytime, in any way I could. 

I hate it when people talk about me getting fucked. 

There's a friend of mine from New York who goes around telling people: "Yes. I fucked Jeff." 

How ridiculous! 

Nobody wants to hear about somebody fucking my nasty ass! 

The truth is I loved it when I was younger. 

I was a real little whore. 

 

It's something I It’s something I don’t do anymore; it was a symptom of my sickness.

A dangerous symptom.

But if I really and truly enjoyed it now, I would.

Enough said.

Which brings me and Hope just about back to where we started.

How do we end the book?

We’re not sure of that either.

When I started writing down my life story, I actually expected to be a lot further along in my sobriety at this point.

I expected to be able to end the book by saying I was now four or five months clean and sober, or at least 90 days.

No such luck.

It’s 6:22 a.m., and I haven’t slept for more than an hour a night for the past nine days.

I know what you’re thinking.

He slipped again, and he didn’t tell us about it!

Well, you’re right!

When I slipped, I felt so bad and so depressed, I didn’t want to admit that I’d fucked up again — not even to the fucking tape recorder.

Then, like a typical drug addict, I thought: Fuck it!

If I can’t end the book with me being sober,

I’ll end it with me being stoned.

I’ll end it with me crawling around on the floor with a fucking needle hanging out of my arm, fucked up on black-tar and cocaine.

Shooting speedballs — my old favorite.

I even joked about it with my friend, G. I said: "I’m gonna call the last chapter ‘A Night Like Every Other Night.’ ”

I figured people could find out — later on — that I got clean and sober.

Or, I figured I’d wait and write an article or something after I got a few months of sobriety under my belt.

But I don’t want to do that now.

That’s not the truth either.

And anything that’s not the truth is just more drug-addict bullshit.

The truth is: I can’t remember how many times I’ve slipped since I started working on this book.

It’s been a lot.

But I’m still here.

I may be only nine days sober at this point, but I’m not giving up!

If people out there who are struggling with heroin addiction read this book, maybe they’ll feel better about themselves — even if they have slipped a couple of times, and they’ll know that if I can do even this much, then they can do it, too.

Maybe, with God’s help, they can do even better.

I’m getting a new perspective on life today.

I feel happy.

There are things that bother me, but I’m dealing with them.

I’m actually dealing with them!

Ordinarily, at nine days sober, I wouldn’t even try to deal with whatever upset me.

I’d go get high over it.

But not now.

Lately, I’ve been going to meetings.

I’ve been talking to people.

I’ve been working on the book.

Maybe taking this moral inventory of my life and telling it to all of you has really helped me!

I don’t want to slip anymore.

I don’t want to O.D. anymore.

And I don’t want any more Shiva!

I want to be able to talk to people, and I want people to talk to me and be able to understand me.

I’m tired of being alone and dead inside.

I want to live again.

So, I’m nine days clean and sober!

I’m on my way!

People who think I’m gonna fuck up can just fuck off.

People who have a problem with me for whatever reason and want me to fuck up can go right along with them.

I joined Powerhouse Gym today.

It was hard to work out again — sober, without much sleep, and without any steroids; but I did it.

In fact, I’ve decided not to take any more steroids.

I want a completely drug-free life — all the way.

 

 

I think things are going to get really good from now on.

 

 

 

Jon Vincent — CHAPTER 15

 

CHAPTER XV 

So life went on; or I guess I should say Shiva went on and dragged me along with her. 

By fall, I was shooting five-and-a-half grams of tar heroin day! 

Then, I met a man who tried to help me get clean and sober. 

Of course, he failed just like everybody else in my life who'd ever tried to battle my disease. 

In fact, he became the fifth and last of those people I mentioned whose lives took major nosedives because they cared for me. 

Y. is a wonderful person. 

He's a Latin, a young guy my age; and he's a doctor. 

It's funny, he'd been looking for me for a long time — four or five years, and he never could figure out how to get in touch with me. 

I'd been living with my lady friend in Berkeley on and off forever. 

I wasn't running ads as Jon Vincent any more; I was using different names, so there was no way to find me. 

My lady friend was kind of smart; she wouldn't tell him how to reach me. 

She'd just tell him I wasn't around because, basically, he was just like another trick to her; and she thought I didn't need to be turning tricks. 

Which was true, actually. 

Finally, though, she realized how cool he was, and she gave him my pager number. 

He had to fly out to L.A. on business that October; and he flew me down to meet him. 

Just like my lady friend — that was the unluckiest day of his life! 

The worst thing he could have ever done was meet me. 

If I could do anything in the world now, I would reverse it. 

This poor guy put his life on the line for me, tried to get me clean and sober, loved me. 

He tried so hard to help me kick heroin. 

But he ended up turning into a heroin addict, too, and he lost his medical license. 

And I'm responsible. 

People say: "You're not responsible for that." 

But I am responsible. 

I am responsible for ruining his life. 

Anyway, me and Y. hit it off right away. 

He came back out to visit me a couple more times. 

I flew back to New York with him right after Christmas, 1997; then off to Europe on New Year's Day. 

That turned out to be the vacation from hell. 

Especially London. 

In London, we saw some real hardcore shit. 

I'll never forget my first night in London. 

I wish I could. 

We were in this beautiful hotel suite, and I was lying in the bathtub dying. 

I'd brought 16 balloons of heroin with me when I left New York on Friday morning, and I used them all up in less than 24 hours. 

By Saturday night, I was sick. 

Y. and his friend were at a play, and they didn't get home until after 1 a.m. 

By that time, I was real sick. 

I told Y. I had to get some help. 

He took me to a hospital, but they almost had us arrested. 

So we thought we'd try to get into a Methadone clinic. 

By this time, it was about 4 a.m. 

I remember sitting slumped over in the train station trying not to puke. 

A policeman came over and asked me if I was all right. 

I don't remember what I told him. 

About that time, Y. came running back saying he'd found the clinic. 

After all the effort it took me to crawl in there, they said: "We're sorry. We're not serving right now!" 

It was time to change gears.

 

I saw this couple sitting in a corner. 

They were obvious heroin addicts. 

I went over and introduced myself, and I told them I'd buy them all the heroin they wanted if they'd just show me where I could get some. 

So the four of us took off to someplace north of London, where we scored some brown powder. 

We went back to their apartment, and I remember telling Y. how impressed I was with their place. 

This junkie couple had a gorgeous fucking apartment! 

They even had a nice car! 

Then, I shot up. 

Next thing I knew, I opened my eyes, and I saw everybody crying and hugging each other. 

I was lying on the floor, and I had no idea what was going on. 

Someone knocked on the door. 

It was the social worker who provided this couple with their apartment and car. 

I stood up and shook his hand, and we left. 

Y. told me he'd just saved my life; which he had. 

The brown powder I'd bought was about three times stronger than China White! 

This stuff was so strong that later that night, we gave the dildo we'd brought with us — his name was Phil, I think — just one tenth of a cc; and out he went! 

And there went poor Y. again to bring Phil back to life! 

It was a truly hellish night. 

The next day, we went to Paris which was mercifully uneventful. 

We flew back to New York the night after that, and I checked into Beth Israel for detox the next day. 

Of course, I didn't stay long. 

Y. couldn't believe it. 

He really thought rehab was the answer for me. 

He was new to the game, poor guy. 

The overdose in London was my tenth O.D! 

Y. had known me less than six months, and already, he'd almost seen me die. 

I remember me and him having this terrible fight one night after I walked out of Beth Israel. 

I'd called my connection, and I was on my way downstairs to get my dope, and Y. tried to stop me. 

He actually got behind me and tried to physically hold me back! 

Which was ridiculous. 

There was no way! 

The next day, I decided it was time to get away from New York and Y. for a while. 

I flew back to L. A. 

In A.A., they call it the Geographical Theory of Sobriety. 

That's where an addict believes that going someplace else will help him get sober. 

Sort of like: the grass is always greener. 

It wasn't. 

I wasn't about to get sober in L.A., New York, San Francisco, London, or any place else. 

I put on a good show, though. 

Much more for myself than for the people around me. 

Like I said, I only thought I was fooling them. 

They all knew I was stoned. 

I even signed up at the BAART Clinic. 

I'd been to the on in San Francisco enough times that I had their schedule down. 

I knew exactly how many days in a row I could miss (two) without being thrown out of the program. 

So I'd show up for a couple of days, then I'd get high for a couple of days. 

It was crazy. 

I was on the run. 

It was at this point, that I connected with Dino and Camille, and they became my favorite dealers. 

After a while, I bought heroin only from them. 

They sold good dope (they sold coke too); they'd deliver if I bought a few grams at a time; and when I was desperate, they gave me credit. 

Plus, unlike most dealers, they'd let me hang around and shoot up in their house. 

Most dealers won't do that for anybody! 

The last thing a drug dealer needs is having somebody O.D. and die in their place! 

Funny thing is, I did O.D. on Camille's couch once. 

 

It was my 11th O.D. I think — maybe my 12th. 

She couldn't wake me up, and she sure as hell couldn't call 911! 

She didn't know how to reach D.J; he was at work. 

So she called my lady friend in Berkeley. 

My face had turned blue, but I was still breathing — barely. 

My lady friend talked her through giving me mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, and she finally brought me around. 

In February, I decided I may as well make some money from my Jon Vincent name without turning tricks. 

So I booked myself into a week of dancing at the Fusion Theater in Chicago. 

I figured I could make a couple $1,000 and get myself a car and maybe even my own apartment. 

Of course, that was just me bullshitting myself. 

It was my disease wanting to make a bunch of money for Shiva. 

And, of course, it all turned into a total fiasco. 

Like I said before, if Y. hadn't been there to help me through it, I don't know what would have happened. 

I'd have either got sued for being too sick to dance; or I'd have got busted or killed trying to score heroin on the streets of Chicago by myself. 

Maybe both. 

It's funny; that experience of being sick and stranded in Chicago and having to go onstage was so horrifying, it did something that jail, rehab, homelessness, divorce and 12 (at that point) O.D.s had never been able to do. 

It actually made me want to get sober. 

I'd been a heroin addict for three years straight at this point. 

I just didn't want to do it anymore. 

When I got back from Chicago, I went back to visit my old friends at Rancho L'abri. 

The place hadn't changed much. 

Maybe that was the problem. 

It was my 11th O.D. I think — maybe my 12th. 

She couldn't wake me up, and she sure as hell couldn't call 911! 

She didn't know how to reach D.J; he was at work. 

So she called my lady friend in Berkeley. 

My face had turned blue, but I was still breathing — barely. 

My lady friend talked her through giving me mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, and she finally brought me around. 

In February, I decided I may as well make some money from my Jon Vincent name without turning tricks. 

So I booked myself into a week of dancing at the Fusion Theater in Chicago. 

I figured I could make a couple $1,000 and get myself a car and maybe even my own apartment. 

Of course, that was just me bullshitting myself. 

It was my disease wanting to make a bunch of money for Shiva. 

And, of course, it all turned into a total fiasco. 

Like I said before, if Y. hadn't been there to help me through it, I don't know what would have happened. 

I'd have either got sued for being too sick to dance; or I'd have got busted or killed trying to score heroin on the streets of Chicago by myself. 

Maybe both. 

It's funny; that experience of being sick and stranded in Chicago and having to go onstage was so horrifying, it did something that jail, rehab, homelessness, divorce and 12 (at that point) O.D.s had never been able to do. 

It actually made me want to get sober. 

I'd been a heroin addict for three years straight at this point. 

I just didn't want to do it anymore. 

When I got back from Chicago, I went back to visit my old friends at Rancho L'abri. 

The place hadn't changed much. 

Maybe that was the problem. 

It didn't get me sober the first time. 

No rehab ever had. 

That first time, I was under orders from the Court to complete my program. 

This time, I knew — or rather, my disease knew — that there was nothing to really make me stay there and detox. 

So I didn't. 

I felt bad because both Y. and my mother lost the money they'd put up for my two-week stay. 

Rehab doesn't give refunds. 

It doesn't guarantee results either. 

I'm living proof of that. 

I just couldn't hack it. 

Part of it was because of all the medication they were giving me. 

They wanted me to take large doses of Methadone, which I've never wanted to do. 

Trading one opiate addiction for another has to be the dumbest thing in the world! 

Plus, they were giving me Haldol for some reason. 

It's really strong — sort of like Thorazine. 

It made me feel like a zombie. 

A detoxing zombie. 

In the first week, I busted out of the place a half-a-dozen times. 

The last time turned into a real adventure. 

Sick and spaced out as I was, I made it up to the highway and hitched a ride to what I thought was San Diego. 

I was so out of it, I didn't realize until it was too late that I'd been hitchhiking on the wrong side of the road. 

The trucker who picked me up took me straight into Tecate, Mexico. 

I hadn't planned it that way, but I thought: Cool. I can probably get some strong-ass Shiva on this side of the border! 

I mean, that's why they call it Mexican Tar, right? 

Unfortunately, the federales had other ideas. 

They took one look at me and decided I was an undesirable. 

(You can't say they weren't doing their jobs.) 

 

 

Anyway, they arrested me, confiscated my cash, and made me go right back across the border. 

I called my lady friend to come and get me, but she said she couldn't. 

She was too broke, she said; plus, I guess she'd had enough of my craziness in her life. 

Somehow, I made it back to L.A. 

I called my lady friend and asked her to wire me some cash Western Union. 

She knew I was headed straight downtown to Heroinville, and she begged me to go back to Rancho L'abri and at least try to finish my program. 

I said: "No fucking way!" 

So she reserved a bus ticket for me to come to Berkeley. 

I sold that fucker and headed straight for Alvarado Street. 

Later that night, I O.D.ed at a crystal dealer's house somewhere near UCLA. 

The crystal dealer freaked out and called my lady friend who called D.J., who came and picked me up. 

I stayed at his place for a couple of days, but I could see he had just about reached the end. 

Ejai came by one morning and talked me into going back to Rancho L'abri. 

I let her drive me back there, but I knew I wasn't going to stay.

I also knew something had to be done. 

I was O.D.ing at a rate of about once every three days! 

I was totally out of control at this point. 

I was an airplane going down in flames. 

It was at this point that Y. told me about the seven-hour rapid-detox procedure, which was a new way of getting off Heroin. 

It was supposed to remove the opiates from your blood and organs without any of the suffering you go through in withdrawal. 

Plus, it didn't leave you addicted to Methadone. 

Y. said he'd pay for it. 

I agreed. 

On April 1, 1998, I checked into Cedar Sinai Hospital and did their seven-hour detox. 

I chose the perfect day for it. 

April Fool's Day. 

The people at Cedar Sinai told me it would be painless and pleasant. 

They said I'd be given mild sedatives, which would relax me, and then, I'd be put under general anesthesia for the actual detox. 

They said I'd wake up feeling peaceful, with only mild discomfort — no more than a slight headache — if that. 

They were lying sacks of shit! 

It was pure hell! 

In the three years of doing heroin up to that point, I thought I'd hit bottom a couple of times, but I never knew what bottom was until I did the rapid detox. 

That operation ripped my fucking balls off! 

I had a catheter down my dick. 

I had a windpipe down my throat. 

And I had this big fucking bull-dyke nurse. 

I remember I actually called her a dyke. 

I guess she was offended by that because she kept pulling me up on the operating table. 

That bitch wrestled me all over the fucking bed! 

As if I wasn't uncomfortable enough with all the shit they were doing to me. 

The rapid detox is kind of like what rock stars used to do to get off of heroin. 

They had their blood changed. 

Well, in this procedure, they didn't change my blood. 

They just pumped a lot of nasty fucking drugs into it to cleanse it of all the heroin. 

I remember this white milk coming down the tube into my arm, and when it hit me, I went out. 

Only, I wasn't totally out. 

I could hear stuff in the background. 

I heard someone saying: "Oh my God!" 

I'd shit all over myself! 

They stuck so many chemicals in my veins, all my shit let go! 

It was the most humiliating time of my life. 

Worst of all, it didn't work! 

 

I was released from the hospital the next day but for a week afterwards, I was too sick to travel. 

Y. got us hotel room in Hollywood and took care of me. 

Then I went back to New York — still sick as fucking dog. 

I remember lying there suffering but thanking God that the operation woke me up after being hooked on heroin for three years. 

The truth is, the operation punished me physically more than anything. 

It punished me and scared me, but It didn't detox me one bit. 

I went to sleep for five hours while they shot me up with a lot of powerful anti-opiate drugs. 

Then I laid up in bed in New York for 20 days straight detoxing the regular way anyway — not sleeping and shit. 

I could have just done that on my own without having all that nasty shit done to me. 

For anyone out there who's thinking of doing it, believe me, that one-day detox is one big joke. 

It's the biggest ripoff operation in the world. 

In a way, I was glad I went through with it. 

I thought the procedure brought all the hard part out of me. 

I thought it was God's ass-whipping to me, which is what it was. 

I truly thought in my heart that this time I'd stay sober. 

I'd said I was going to get sober so many times in my life. 

And I'd said I was going to stay that way. 

You'd think that — if nearly dying all those times didn't scare my monkey ass into staying sober — something as horrifying as that fucking rapid-detox would have. 

It should have. 

It probably would have with anybody else, but I had to be the stupid, fucking hard-headed exception to the rule. 

I have been sober many times in my life. 

But, you know, I always slipped. 

My "new life" in New York was no exception. 

And like all the other times in my life, when I fucked up, I fucked up big time. 

Ninety days after the procedure, I was back on heroin. 

I told people I was clean and sober for four months, six months. 

It was all bullshit. 

In fact, the only reason I stayed sober the first 30 of those 90 days was because I was such a wreck physically from the operation that I couldn't get out of bed, let alone go uptown and score. 

To tell the truth, I wasn't even clean and sober for the whole 90 days. 

I wasn't doing heroin. 

That was the truth. 

So I guess — in a way — I was clean. 

But I sure as hell wasn't sober. 

I drank. 

The day me and Y. flew back to New York, I got shit-faced in the airport bar even before I got on the plane. 

Plus I did shit loads of coke. 

Which is how I got back into doing heroin. 

It never fails. 

Once you've been a heroin addict, you cannot do drugs of any kind, because they will cause you to get re-addicted to heroin. 

There are no exceptions to this rule. 

If you think you're the exception, then you're as big a fool as I was. 

Any drugs, all drugs — weed, pills, crystal; booze, coke, even steroids — all drugs will lead you back to Shiva. 

I'm the living proof! 

I stayed in New York for about six months after that. 

I lived most of that time at Y.'s. 

He had a fine apartment in midtown Manhattan; and eventually, I brought al my junkie buddies there just like I'd done at my lady friend's house in Berkeley and at D.J.'s house in L.A. 

My friend, Brian Hart, used to hang out there all the time. 

We tried hard to keep each other sober, but we ended up getting high together. 

About this same time, I met this guy at the gym. 

He was a big bodybuilder named Chad. 

Me and him started training together. 

 

Then, I found out he did cocaine; and we ended up becoming junkie buddies. 

I turned him on to hustling; and for a while, I became his roommate, and we both turned tricks out of his apartment. 

Eventually, Chad made the switch from cocaine to heroin. 

Later, after I went back to California, he got busted and sent to prison. 

It sounds harsh, but that's probably the best place for him. 

He'll have to get sober there at least; and I hope that when he gets out, he'll stay that way. 

Even my old friend C. got into the act. 

C. went back to Louisiana to live with his parents a few months after he got out of jail in Bakersfield. 

He was still there, working for his dad. 

I invited him to New York for a visit, and, of course, he just never left. 

Eventually, he also became a Heroin addict, which kind of surprised me because he never liked heroin. 

He always said it didn't do anything for him. 

I remember him trying it one time even before I got heavy into it. 

We were in a motel in San Francisco with Finesse. 

Poor C! 

Leave it to him to O.D. the first time he shot up heroin. 

He went out like a light. 

He liked it a lot better in New York. 

He never got as addicted as me, but he was addicted. 

Maybe it was just the general atmosphere. 

Or maybe it was because the heroin in New York is so much stronger than in California. 

In New York, there's nothing but the strongest, purest China White. 

Of course, I got into some pretty bad habits myself in New York. 

As if any habit could get any worse than the $300-to-$500-a-day one I'd had for four fucking years. 

Still it was in New York that I learned to dissolve rock in a spoonful of lemon juice so I could cook it up and shoot it. 

It's funny; I've never been much of a crackhead. 

The pipe is something I've always been able to take or leave, but I loved shooting crack with heroin. 

It makes a special kind of speedball. 

The crack takes me up instantly, and then before I have a chance to crash, the Heroin hits me and mellows me right down. 

I learned to cook and shoot up Methadone, too. 

It wasn't much different from shooting K-2s and K-4s. 

I don't know why I never thought of it before. 

Probably because I never liked Methadone much — not as a cure for heroin and definitely not as a high. 

Of course, I liked it a lot better when I shot it. 

That's one thing they say about junkies that's true. 

Heroin addicts are just as addicted to the act of shooting up as we are to heroin. 

It's sick, but true. 

Of course, with all this shooting up going on, I was tricking heavy again. 

I had some intense regulars in New York. 

Some of them were old friends from my Jon Vincent dance-tour days. 

Some of them I met through ads in the major gay papers in New York. 

One who stands out in my mind is this casting director. 

He was an old regular of mine. 

He's a good guy; I've known him for years. 

He wants you to go without taking a bath for about a week before you come over to his house. 

He wants you to be stinky! 

And then he loves to smell your armpits. 

Me and Brian Hart went over there one time, and he told us we weren't stinky enough. 

He told us to go outside and do some pushups. 

We did; and, when we came back, we were rank! 

He said: "Well, that's better!" 

 

Then, he got down on his knees in front of us and started smelling everything: armpits, crotches, assholes. 

He gave us $1,000 a piece. 

This guy loved hair, too. 

He loved to shave it. 

One time, a long time ago, he pulled out his movie camera and offered us a bunch of money to film us shaving each other. 

At the time, Brian and I both needed the money bad. 

So we shaved each other's shit all off. 

We looked like two gross, plucked, skinned chickens when we got done. 

Skinny skinned chickens, too! 

I weighed about 160 pounds at that point, and I think Brian weighed maybe 120. 

We were starving, crazed cocaine addicts. 

Do you believe it? 

We got that strung out and skinny on cocaine! 

He put all our pubic hair in a plastic bag and saved it. 

I don't know what happened t o the "skinless chicken" movie. 

He probably still has it in his collection. 

I'd love to see that movie now. 

Actually, maybe I wouldn't. 

Then, there was the dance queen. 

We used to see him in L.A., too — before his TV show moved back to New York. 

This guy was one sick-fuck. 

The major desert on his diet-plate was shit. 

Seriously. 

He actually ate it! 

We'd have to get up on the bathtub with him and shit in his mouth while he lay there screaming: "Drop it! Drop it!" 

He always used to say: "If you don't hit the roof of my mouth, you don't get paid!" 

One time, I had the runs, and I shit all over his face, and he started screaming: "Eeeee-ew!" 

But he still laid there and lapped it up. 

Ugh. 

It makes me sick now just to remember him. 

He used to get into it heavy with me and Nick Cougar in L.A.

That guy was a hard bargain! 

New York has some raunchy motherfuckers!

One of my old friends in New York that I reconnected with was a woman named Darcie. 

I met her years ago. 

She reminds me a little bit of Sharon Kane. 

She's a real fag hag. 

I don't know what it is that makes a woman a fag hag. 

Loneliness, I guess. 

Or men doing them wrong at some point in their lives. 

Sharon, for example, was pretty enough to get any man she wanted, but for some reason, she liked gay guys. 

I never understood it. 

Anyway, Darcie came to visit me in my apartment in L.A. not too long ago before I moved out. 

She came into town with her friend, Ric — a real nice guy. 

He brought Ejai some roses one time. 

They'd just flown in from Brazil. 

She was expecting me to be clean and sober and, of course, she got a rude awakening. 

She started trying to tell me what to do and shit, and I said: "You've gotta get the fuck outta here now, bitch. Because I gotta do some heroin and you're just getting in my way!! Shiva comes before you!" 

Poor Darcie. 

She's been sober a long time. 

Somehow, she got to the point where she could drink wine and champagne again. 

I don't know how. 

I guess, for her, there really is such a thing as chipping. 

Anyway, I figured since she was gonna sit there drinking wine, I might as well bust out the needle. 

She had no idea. I just got up and went into the bedroom, and when I came back, she freaked. She said: "What the hell happened? You're completely different!" 

I said: "What's the matter, Baby? What are you talking about?"

 

 

"Something happened!" she said. 

"You're not you! All of a sudden!" 

"Oh, Baby, I just took a hit of a joint, that's all." 

But she wasn't buying it. 

She said: "No. That ain't weed. Something happened!" 

Then, she saw the blood running down my arm, and she started screaming. 

"Oh, God! You're doing heroin! Still!" 

I said: "Yep! Five years now! I haven't quit yet!" 

She totally freaked! 

I told her I was leaving, and she said she was staying there. 

I guess she didn't want to be seen in public with me while I was high on heroin. 

I didn't come back the whole night, and she was still there waiting for me in the morning, drinking her coffee and smoking her cigarettes. 

She was really pissed. 

She said: "I'll never come to see you again!!" 

I just said: "O.K. Whatever. I guess I'll see you later." 

And I thought to myself that she was crazy if she thought heroin was going to take a back seat to her. 

I barely let my mother get in the way of heroin. 

That's just the way it is. 

It's like that song by The Velvet Underground: "Heroin — it's my wife! And it's my life!" 

If Darcie really thought she was gonna get in the way of my drug habit, she was out of her fucking mind!

Poor Darcie. 

She was alright. 

She was a good woman, a good person. 

I respect her more than any woman alive. 

She had a hard life. 

She used to work as a make-up artist for practically nothing. 

Now she's a great make-up artist. 

She's really good. 

I don't know what her experiences with men have been. 

Pretty bad, I guess. 

They turned her into a fag hag and all. 

She's always been real leery of me; always bitching at me for drinking and using drugs — which she had no right to do, since I already had a fucking bitch on my back all the time. 

There's no place like New York for hustling. 

I was charging $250 a job and still doing two to seven jobs a day. 

Some weekends, I'd make over $4,000. 

It all went into my arms, of course. 

Or into my friends' arms. 

I can hardly believe, now, how much money I've spent in my life on heroin. 

Of course, I have nothing. 

Not even the clothes on my back. 

My mother bought me those. 

Shiva took it all away from me, even faster than I made it. 

Maybe that was my punishment. 

I did my own nosedive. 

Speaking of nosedives, somewhere in the middle of all this sickness, Y. started sneaking a snort or two of Shiva. 

Just to relax and sleep a little. 

From there, he went to smoking. 

Then to shooting up — just like the rest of us. 

Soon, he was a full-blown, hardcore heroin addict just like the rest of us. 

Maybe it was inevitable. 

I mean, he lived in a house full of junkies. 

I don't know how it happened; but I know what happened afterwards. 

He started fucking up at the hospital, and when they found out why, they took his medical license. 

Then he went into rehab. 

I talk to him on the phone regularly. 

He says he's clean and sober now. 

I pray to God it's true.

 

Me and C. stayed on at his apartment for a while after he went into rehab. 

Then we got into trouble with some scumbag drug dealers, and we had to haul ass back to California. 

We stayed with my lady friend in Berkeley for a while. 

She was busy fixing up her house. 

She'd taken out as many loans on it as she could; and she was fixing it up to rent it out and move to L.A. 

It was the only way she could survive financially. 

Me and C. went to L.A. with her, and we all stayed in a motel in Hollywood for a few weeks while she looked for an apartment. 

But she started to get pissed off because C. wasn't paying her anything toward the rent even though he was doing jobs there. 

That's C. all over. 

When she went back to Berkeley to start moving what was left of her stuff, my friend P. got me my apartment in Hollywood, which I later turned into the nightmare junkie flophouse from hell. 

C. went to live with a crystal addict he met one night on Sunset.

 

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