“Please, I am begging you. DO NOT piss on my leg.”
This is hardly a statement you’d want to hear from a guy on your third date. Let’s go back an hour.
It’s 11:30 p.m. and I’m in the bowels of a dark club. I arrived there with a group of friends for quick drink, and instantly we dispersed over the multi-leveled den. The music is pumping and I’m checking my phone every five minutes; I’m meeting up with the new boy when he finishes work at midnight. It’s our make or break third date.
I don’t want to get drunk, considering we are going to his friend’s party, so I slow down on my beer.
While I wait for his call, I shift between conversations, sitting in a booth and standing by the bar. I’m chatting with a couple I’ve just met and suddenly, their faces started to go funny.
It’s probably worth mentioning that I’d never wanted nor tried a hallucinogen before in my life.
Three of us are chatting and I notice the man’s eyes turn cartoonish and the woman’s mouth giant and gaping as though she is straight off a Roald Dahl story book cover. Frightened, I excuse myself and make for the exit.
The posters on the club’s walls drip with paint and disintegrate before my eyes. I’ve heard enough stories to know -- yep, I am on fucking acid.
Outside, I pull out my phone. Eleven minutes until my date is due to collect me. I try to call him while my buttons are enlarging and flying off the screen. I should alert someone, I figure. I’m very anxious, but my limited knowledge of acid tells me that there are "good" and "bad" trips, depending on how the mind steers it, or something like that.
I know the club owner who is manning the door and tell him what has happened. He replies with a concerned but casual familiarly that says acid spiking is a nightly occurrence at his establishment.
“Don’t worry babe, this is happened to me before. It is OK,” a random girl interjects. The brightly coloured woman who is growing tentacles gives me a comforting hug, while I manage to answer a call from my date.
“You won’t believe what’s happened, dude. I can see everything. I’ve been spiked. ACID. Please get me. Please,” I screech down the phone. My date is there in four minutes flat and herds me in to a cab while I survey my 40 fingers. Iggy Azalea is playing, and I agree -- yes, I’m so fancy.
My date explains that he has done acid before and I’m happy that he knows what my mind is going through.
We bypass the hospital, he says that it is better that I “ride it out” at home. Back at my apartment, he calls an medic friend who confirms the same thing. Give her OJ and put her to bed, he advises.
I spend the next three hours crying, then laughing at my bedroom wall. In full view of my patient but exhausted new man who toilets me and listens to my musings about how wonderful his right ear is -- right in to his ear canal.
My unintentional trip took roughly 10 hours, and a further day doubled over in bed, downing water as though it was just invented. I shudder to think how I would have managed being spiked had my date not been there.
After a weekend of insanity and whole body sickness, I grew incredibly angry. Was acid, like the random girl’s nonchalance suggested, a new weapon to spike people with? I’d never felt so vulnerable and humiliated -- my senses had been completely robbed. A certain benevolence hung over the act: Did someone spike me with acid just to see me screwed up? What if this happened to my best friend who has never touched a drop of liquor in her life?
You hear about people jumping of bridges or getting violent while they are high -– what if that was my outcome? Luckily, the only casualty of my acid experience was my budding relationship. Apparently he saw too much of me.