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I was. Problem was… I wasn't very heavy. Years of a nasty meth addiction had made me a magna cum laude graduate of the Ichabod Crane school of bodybuilding. Back when the drugs and student loans were fresh, I'd had my friend Molly of So Hip It Hurts construct elaborate custom latex outfits for me: appliqued tights, carnival jester garb, a perverted-patch boy scout uniform, evil queen neck cowls for the evil queen I was. I was obsessed with that sick, slick material that I've heard comes from a type of tree in Europe, hence making it so expensive. Some infantile suckling part of me couldn't get enough of it: I wanted to stretch the gummy stuff, slap it, sink my incisors into it. Not to get all Paging-Dr.-Freud and shit, but this likely has something to do with my oral stage of development and the fact that I was bottle instead of breast-fed. Granted, most of my early memories have been obliterated: the cool beige latex nipple, the imprint of my stubby teeth.  But my body recalls what my brain doesn't, translates recognition in familiar tingles. I can trace my affinity for shiny sleek things back to grade school, anyway. Stormy days were fun with all the raincoats that looked like colorful oilslicks I wanted to splash into, my classmates' quick movements in them like a breeze rippling water. Plus rubber just looks really fucking cool; who even needs to intellectualize it?I may have been strung as a Stradivarius, but there was still that inherent will in me to retain the glamour in "junkie glamour." My trackmarks healed more quickly after a full night out in rubber—no lie—plus my gaunt qualities shifted from Auschwitz-esque to dangerous and pretty when I dressed them up in latex, my sunken eyes made up like moonlit graves. Rubber was the perfect outfit for nightclub rounds, all glistening and synthetic and regal, though once I exerted the effort to pour myself into it, it was a challenge to take it off. I kept getting distracted. Back at the apartment, there were new fashion risks to explore, a shellack picture frame project here, chatter about who did what to whom there, tangents snapping off like chemically-damaged hair until I was on the verge of passing out. If I was lucky, I'd push away a clearing I could curl up and sleep in, stretching my cadaverous frame out like an extended attention span. But often the speed coma beat me to the draw. I'd wake on the hardwood floor from my crack-off slumber to find grit and gristle embedded in whichever latex creation I was wearing when I blacked out. I groggily picked at the sleek material pocked with round craters, picked the sleep from my eyes. It was really disgusting. The apartment really was a ruthless place, more a weapon than a craft project, chunks of glass jutting from cracks in the hardwood floor. My roomie Jade and I couldn't have sane outside observers stop in for visits. Clearly, they were the enemy. That is, unless they were getting polluted with us. Drugs are the great equalizer. But just like the speed freak I am, I digress.  Okay, listen up, 'cause I'm only telling you this once. Fags don't like me. Which greatly complicates my angle in the mating game, being as I'm about as queer as they come. Instead, I get the guys who normally don't go for guys—you know, the rough trade, the dipping of toes into fruity water, the dorks who end up married with children, and I'm not talking about a TV show.Solomon wasn't married. Not yet, anyway—though he did have a fiancee. Yes, I know; go ahead and stitch on the Scarlet A. I can't help it. I've always loved what's forbidden: the entire jar not the single cookie, the don'ts so delicious to do, every secret. Anything that I don't tell is mine all mine. And a lot of what people take can change a lot. This night, our molecular structure was altered by Ecstasy. Speed was my day-to-day. The X was just a chaser, kind of like smoking in Los Angeles, sucking on a Camel Light to go with a sky full of smog. By that same token, I guess that's what I was to Solomon: a freaky photographic subject to dull the taste of his stable life. There in my train wreck of a bedroom, business was anything but. He stared at me, smiling, his beautiful high flat cheekbones dark under the overhead light. The MDMA hit, crept on like a sea breeze curling in soft swirls, then a brisk wind that slammed through my lungs. All borders were erased, and I was rushing, sailing across white caps, an icy early morning mist behind my eyes and on my tongue. He flicked the light switch off, and darkness was a spectacle. Gleefully, I crumpled on my mattress and offered myself to it, my eyes adjusting to the dim, consumed by a hurricane lust that stripped me of everything, including my clothing, tossed wherever it fell as if by machete.  Solomon remained robed. It was evident his drugs had hit as well, by the clearly visible pulse hammering the hollow between his collarbones. I watched him watch the spectacular damage of my room with the dedication of the loaded, a glazed stare and possibly a smirk on his face from witnessing the cobwebs, I don't know, melt or quiver or something. For a nanosecond I was embarrassed because of them, but not enough to get up from my bed and swipe them away.His focus suddenly narrowed and settled on me as he leaned forward, slowly unhinging his jaw. "You still have a rubber sheet beneath the bed?" His voice was low, nearly a whisper. Plus his accent was noticeably thicker than usual, really nasal with nonexistent Rs. Oh yeah, Solomon's Asian. His family's from Hong Kong. Ummhmm, I nodded, all dreamy B-movie porn star voice and not giving a shit about it. Inside my skull was the hush of white noise. Let me just tell you, I was high. With those big boxy shoulders on his slight boy frame, he extracted the cobalt blue swath of fabric from beneath my mattress and brought it taut around me, like a big rubber band. The veins in my neck throbbed, and then of course there was that simmering thing between my legs. Solomon burrowed, lapped at me between hallucinations and shadows, my cock between a delicate rubber sheen and his tongue. His head bobbed, bob haircut swinging back and forth, a fringed buoy deep in great rhythmic waves of movement in a shimmering sapphire ocean. My body was ablaze with fierce heat. Every sense I had was focused on my cock and the delicious ache in my balls, my lust and hardness submerged beneath the latex sheath. Through his nostrils came ragged and gaspy breaths that heated the rubber. Solomon had a teepee in his sensible little straight boy pants, but he wouldn't let me touch it. And believe me, I tried, sweating and moaning, struggling to get a handful. He peskily swatted my hand away like a mosquito, pushed me back, and kept on blowing me through the thin material. It was not so much kinky as it was like being trapped in a gigantic dental dam. Don't get me wrong; this was creative as far as foreplay goes, but I was ready to lose the prophylactic and get down to some serious cock snorkeling. Solomon wasn't having it. He just hoovered on, and on, and on.  "Come on," I pleaded. "Let's do it.""No. Like this. I want you like this." His voice was flat and final; his face, shining with sweat. Clearly a luscious round of bum-fucking was out of the question. I thought my cock would burst, groaned at the thought. It's such a terrible feeling, having someone down in your netherparts diligently trying to get you off, when all you want is for them to get off you. Oral sex should be like the Special Olympics, where everyone gets a hug and a ribbon for his efforts. Solomon I wanted to reward with my dick up his butt. But since that was a No-Go, I tried to concentrate on the rubber's seductive grip. Wasn't this the type of fantasy I'd always had, my dreams made flesh? I lay submerged, beyond thought and feeling. Just like life in the womb before you are born. Just like nothing. Then the E broke, and he was gone. How had he exited? There must have been much movement, possibly hurried, probably awkward, though I remember none of it. All I know is that next I was alone and I peeled off the sweaty second skin. It felt like I had wet myself. There was a condom smell enameled to my epidermis. However many licks it takes to get to the center of my Tootsie Roll pop, Solomon didn't put forth enough. I whipped out the KY. Masturbated myself into a frenzy; the world reduced to the orgasm at large, fighting for it to happen. My jaw clamped tightly shut, I fed tattooed punk rock boy porn into the VCR with my left hand and flogged the dolphin with my right until there was a tension around and behind my eyes, blood throbbing in the temples, pounding in my ears. My tongue was thick with thirst and my lips were mounds of sawdust. Cut now to the end of my speed career, when my metabolism skidded from a race track whisk to looking-for-a-parking-space crawl. The term "wasn't very heavy" was reduced to just heavy. Well, not just. Make that full-on double-chin, bloated-corpse heavy. All my sharp features went baby's-butt cush.  Though I outgrew my latex gear and Solomon with a sobering rapidity, Molly and I are still chums, and bless her shining St. Louis heart, she asked me to model one of her designs for the fashion show at the annual El Lay Fetish Ball. I knew it'd save me the steep $45 cover for the event. Plus Molly does amazing work —the best, as a matter of fact. She brought a cowboy suit for me to wear, white trim and appliquéd scallops on shiny black. Somehow I managed to squeeze myself into the costume, though I had to go through something of a contortionist's act to do it.The night was very warm, with a hot, humid breeze blowing. By the time we "hangers" lined up for the stage, my brow was beaded with sweat, my pompadour was wilted. Could I still do this, prance on the stage and strut my stuff, even when I had so much more of it? As with anything, eventually my turn came, and I clomped on the runway, jumped up and down in that GayLord cowboy suit, fully aware of the fact that I was anything but sexy; I looked like a clueless dork. My stomach jiggled like a Jell-O casserole encased in Saran Wrap. At least I had great fun whooping and hollering, slapping my soft belly. It made the sound of a rubber band snapping. What was really hot was watching the rest of the performance unfold from the side-lines, a parade of bustles and ball-gowns, rough-cut pierced and tattooed boys off-set by sleek accoutrements, comedian Margaret Cho—who naturally stole the show, strippers draped in diaphanous minis, and a guy easily twice my size, a size I'd previously dissed and dismissed as "beyond the range of rubber." That simply is not so. You know what? With his sparkling blue eyes matched by a turquoise pearl sheen latex snap-up scenester top—complete with ace and diamond appliqués, a contemporary twist on the rockabilly retro—he was adorable. But the smile on his face as he stalked the runway was stunning. There's nothing sexier than diversity, and stylemeister Molly served it up with Vanity Flair. Her So Hip It Hurts set at the Fetish Ball is when it dawned on me: really now, Kate Moss crash-and-burn diet action is just as passé as the self-destructive yawn of junkie chic. To this day, my weight fluctuates about as frequently as my hair color, but I no longer stress. Pervery is how I get high. And no matter what mass I am, I'll always be heavy into rubber.
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