It was another crazy night at Kevin’s place. Cheyenne and I split the cost of a full sheet of LSD, so I was big pimpin’ as the provider of the fry. It was a nice feeling to not have to worry about actually procuring acid any time I wanted it, and it was really good acid. It was called “Mad Hatter”, and the blotter art was comprised of miniature images of The Mad Hatter across 4 tabs, while the whole sheet was a giant image of the same. Here’s a close-up of what I mean.

As I’ve mentioned before, Kevin’s job at AM/PM put him in good graces with a lot of hot party chicks that would just swing through his apartment and sometimes take drugs with us and stick around for the night. Sure, you may have heard about Glowstick Girl, but another occasional drop-in was what Kevin and I called “Boobs Girl”. So named for two reasons. One, being the obvious, which is that she was this tiny woman with a tiny frame and huge, glorious set of boobs. The other was that she would sit between me and Kevin and ask us to “keep [her] boobs warm” with our hands. Boobs Girl’s boobs were awesome fry toys. We’d all sit on the couch, heads turned mostly towards the TV, hands firmly planted on boobs, and Boobs Girl would fry out and stare at the ceiling and giggle when Kevin and I cracked jokes back and forth.

Not unlike almost every acid trip I took around that summer, Slappy Joe (my 2-foot rubber skeleton, shown in the header photo for this story) was in attendance. Slappy Joe did most of the talking to Boobs Girl. I’m not sure if she was so hot that I was nervous, or if it was just easier to make really perverted remarks as long as it “came from the mouth” of a rubber skeleton in a funny voice. BG liked it, though, and thought “he” was funny. At one point, Kevin got up to pee and check on the other fry-heads scattered throughout his apartment. It was just me, Boobs Girl, and Slappy Joe. Slappy said “ohhh lookie here… all alone on this couch…”. Boobs Girl grabbed Slappy’s head and said “I want your dick”. I turned Slappy’s head towards mine and cocked it sideways, like he was looking at me confused, and I answered as Slappy “….I ain’t got a dick, girl”. She was laughing her ass off, and I sat there confused. Was she hitting on Slappy Joe as a joke? Was she actually just hitting on me, through Slappy Joe? Was she just saying “I want your dick” to hear a funny comeback from Slappy? And was I breaking the fourth wall by talking as myself and asking for clarification, or should I just pull my dick out?

I did not pull my dick out.

When BG stopped laughing, she looked at me — not Slappy — and said “YOUR dick, stupid!”. Oh. I told her to go for it. When Kevin came back and reclaimed her right-most boob, he didn’t even notice that her left hand disappeared into my pants. My dick became a fry toy. At one point she said “dicks are so much fun on acid!” and Kevin kinda snapped out of a daze he was in, about to offer up his own dick but realized I’d been getting a casual handjob for the past 30 minutes. He just went back to tripping out and keeping BG’s right boob warm. Kevin’s place was usually too crowded to actually sneak off anywhere and get your fuck on, so I never ended up hooking up with Boobs Girl. But, man, she loved playing with dicks on acid. I’d probably do the same to myself if it wasn’t socially unacceptable.

As the morning sun shone through the windows near Kevin’s vaulted ceiling, Kevin — who’d been staring at the ceiling for awhile now — said “Mitcz… we are… in the wrong place”. The way he said it, almost monotone, but a little scared, was freaking me out. I asked “what are you talking about?” and he just pointed up. Directly above us on the ceiling was a live, crawling Arizona Desert Scorpion. Bright fucking red. Just Chillin’. Scary as shit. Boobs Girl squealed for a second, and my casual handjob stopped when she pulled her hands towards her face to “hide”.

Kevin’s original plan was just to throw a shoe up there and hope he hit it. I stopped him before he actually made that attempt, so I could explain to him the intricacies of things like gravity, and the trajectory of that scorpion’s fall were he to do literally anything except magically smash and kill it in a single attempt. He was still sure it could work, so I let him practice on the other side of the room and he never once hit the same spot twice, and only once managed to actually get the sole of the shoe to hit the ceiling and make an audible “thump” on the ceiling — but it likely wouldn’t have been forceful enough to kill a scorpion. He asked me to devise a better plan. Lucky for me, Kevin had a weird stockpile of wrapping paper in his closet.

The plan was simple : attach a few cardboard tubes (the kind that wrapping paper is rolled onto) together, end-to-end, put a jar at the bottom of it, reach to the scorpion on the ceiling, place it over the scorpion, and drag it along the ceiling until the scorpion fell down the chute into the jar, then empty it out over the 2nd story balcony.

It worked. On the first try, no less. Boobs Girl congratulated me by way of shoving her tongue in my mouth. Today was a good day.