Favorite drugs you've used in the past?

OK: What’s your favorite recreational drug(s) and why? What were you trying to get out of it, and what did you get out of it? Who did you do it with? What was it like?

RULES STUFF: According to the rules of the SDMB:
When discussing drugs that are illegal in the USA and/or where you are, you must:

  • Discuss only past use, not current use.
  • Include a disclaimer that the drug you are discussing is illegal.
  • Not endorse, condone or recommend illegal activities, including but not limited to illegal drug use, possession or sale.
    (Moderators please add any relevant rules I have left out. Or lock this thread if you feel it’s inappropriate. Or whatever you like, really. I’m not in a position to tell you what to do anyway.)

that neither this post, this thread, or any of the statements made within this thread, indicate an endorsement or recommendation of illegal activities by any parties involved; that neither fetus, nor the other posters in this thread, nor Cecil Adams, nor the Straight Dope, nor the Straight Dope Message Board or its moderators or users, nor the Chicago Reader or its employees, endorse or recommend or condone illegal activities, including but not limited to illegal drug use, possession or sale.

Lipitor works for me! It lowered my LDL cholesterol down below 80, and raised my HDL into the upper 40’s! As a result, I can now recreate on my exercycle, go hiking, etc. and not fear a recurrence of that chest pain!

Or isn’t that what you meant?

Hey, I know you said RECREATIONAL drug, but this drug gave me my life back after my gallbladder was removed. It binds bile/and some people make too much after the surgery. I recommend it if you ever have this surgery or have trouble afterward.

Well, I’ve had chronic pain before and, although I solved that problem with postural-therapy exercises rather than through drugs, I can understand how great it feels to be pain-free after having pain, and how much you love the thing that finally brings you freedom.

Not quite what I meant, but those drugs did make your lives much better, so good on you.

Back to the topic, now.

Fun crowd.

Has anyone mentioned Viagra yet?


Come allergy season, this stuff is more fun than kittens.

…but you wanted something lurid, didn’t you?

The drug in question is illegal, and I do not condone its use, for reasons which will soon become obvious.

It happened a long time ago – somewhere in late '82 or early '83. The seventies were over… the Reagan years had begun… but we didn’t know that yet. Drug abuse was still considered a legitimate means of self-expression, Cheech and Chong were still making movies together, and no one I knew had ever heard of AIDS yet.

Rusty and I, we’d gone to a really wild party in Austin, somewhere up around Spicewood, and by 3 A.M. or so, we were all pretty seriously twisted. The evening seemed very much like one of those old drug movies where somebody jumps off a high place at the end and dies… The front yard was full of bombed UT ROTC guys playing “search and destroy” with the lawn ornaments, and the back yard was full of naked people.

There was a bottle of whiskey going around. I was not aware that someone had dropped a whole blotter of acid in it.

I hadn’t planned on getting as blown out as I did – I’d actually planned on driving home around one or so --but by three, I knew I’d be lucky just to find my car; the interstate would simply equal a sudden, messy suicide if I tried it. I was a mess. Too much booze, too many drugs, too much sensory overload. My stomach felt like it was full of molten lead, and my head was full of furry little metal thoughts all chasing each other around and clanking too loud when they collided, and I was looking for a relatively inexpensive place to throw up.

Eventually, I wandered into a dark bedroom and shut the door, not bothering to turn on the lights (which should have let me know I had ingested LSD; no other drug that I know of lets you see in the dark). Immediately, I felt better; away from the lights and noise and people, I could think and breathe better. Relaxing, I lay down on the bed and found it covered with coats. This was fine by me; all I wanted to do was pass out and wake up sober enough to drive.

Trouble was, I couldn’t. There was enough booze in my system to flatten a bear, but the acid wouldn’t leave me alone. At one point, thinking the cops were raiding the place, I burrowed under the coats; awhile later, hearing the party continue unabated, I decided I’d been wrong about cops. I remained under the coats, though; it was warm and safe under there, and I felt in need of a little soothing.

After awhile, I begain to wonder what the rest of the party was looking like. I didn’t want to go back out just yet, though – one of the things that had driven me away from my fellow human beings was a minor hallucination in which everyone at the party, male and female, began to resemble pro golf player Arnold Palmer. I then began to get nervous – what if a group of these people sneaked in here to toot some coke or something?

Well, no sweat. All they’d see would be a big heap of coats on a bed. Oh – but what if they started digging around for their coats?

Hmm. Well, (my drug-addled mind spat out,) we’d fool them by pretending to BE a coat.

The idea was actually pretty intriguing at the time, which gives you some idea of how far gone I was. How does one impersonate a coat? Well … you cover up your face, for one thing. You lie very still, and loose, and floppy, and … you try to … to think coatlike thoughts.

I had gotten as far as deciding to be a nice Burrberry trench coat, or maybe a London Fog with fur lapels and a belt in the back, and was thinking about how it would feel to be dry-cleaned when the door opened and the couple came into the room.

They didn’t turn on the lights, for which I was profoundly grateful. They moved towards the bed; noticing the pile of coats, they stopped, paused, then sat down beside the bed instead. By now, my eyes were quite well adjusted to the dark, and I could see fine. I even had color vision, despite the lack of light. Hell, with a little effort, I probably could have managed X-Ray vision at the time…

I couldn’t see the guy’s face, though; his back was to me. I could see his girlfriend, though; she was facing him (and me), and I remember thinking she was vaguely unattractive. She had frizzy blonde hair, and an odd-shaped nose, and looked sort of like Harpo Marx in drag. I couldn’t see what the guy looked like, but I was greatly unsettled to hear that his voice sounded uncannily like Arnold Palmer’s. I was glad I didn’t have to look at him.

“I want to hold you, Deedee,” he said. “I want to feel us melt and run together like butter and syrup on a hot, erotic waffle.”

“I can’t, Chad,” she replied. “I’m thinking in stereo, and my liver feels like it’s full of popcorn.”

It occurred to me then that although that bottle of whiskey with the blotter acid in it was certainly no longer with us, it had touched a great many lives in its passing.

They sat and talked. I was able to decipher the gist of it – Chad wanted to make mystic, spiritual mookie-oonoo on the carpet, here and now; Deedee was feeling much too high to be comfortable, and was having trouble maintaining her reality anchor – fumbling with fleshly plumbing in the dark held no appeal at the moment.

He cajoled; she begged off.

I listened for awhile until I remembered that I was supposed to be a coat; I then tuned them out and concentrated on whether or not I should have a zip-out lining, and whether or not having a zipper would itch. This coatish line of thought flew apart some time later when I noticed she seemed to be naked.

He was naked, too; they’d apparently stripped while I’d been thinking about wood vs. wire hangers. He was caressing her shoulders, sides, and breasts, his demeanor somewhere between gentle massage and sneakily copping a feel. Absurdly, I thought again of Harpo Marx and the bicycle horn he always carried around in the movies. At one point, he squeezed one of her breasts, and I fully expected it to go HONK!

The only sound, though, was their breathing. She was beginning to sound aroused. She sounded more aroused as his hands stroked her belly, hips, thighs … and zeroed in on something below her navel.

He shifted position, then, and I couldn’t see exactly what was happening. Something did seem to be happening, though; within minutes, her breathing had become deeper, more rapid, and she occasionally twitched.

Shortly thereafter he stopped, and leaned back against the bed. “Is it my turn, yet?” he asked dolorously.

She responded by leaning forward … towards his crotch … her mouth forming an O … and paused. Her hands dropped limply to the floor. “I’m sorry, Chad,” she whimpered. "I can’t. It … it just looks like a big worm."

Now, for some reason, this sort of struck me funny.

It also kind of took me by surprise.

I burst out laughing.

Well, not laughing, exactly; “extremely loud hideous uncontrollable cackling” might be a better description. Take a deep breath and shout “GLAAAAAAAAAAAAGHAGHAGHA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HAAAAAAA (GURK-glag) GHGAHA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HAAAAA!!!” at the top of your lungs, if you really want the full effect.

The effect on Chad and Deedee was galvanic; they leaped about three feet in the air, screamed, and ripped out of the room like the fiends of hell were after them; I had apparently startled them a little. I didn’t care. I just lay there and laughed until it hurt.

Whereupon Arnold Palmer did come forth into the room, and with a fierce golf cry, he did smite me repeatedly with a flaming nine-iron.

Fortunately, the coats soaked up most of the impact, and I yelled at him to stop. He did, and immediately ceased to be Arnold Palmer; now he was just my friend Rusty (who had accompanied me to this particular party), standing there looking confused and holding a curtain rod. He’d seen the naked people flee screaming from the room; understandably curious, he had peeked in and seen a pile of coats, heaving and snorking. Quite naturally assuming that the clothing had somehow mutated into some sort of mad giggling textile monster, he had quite naturally attacked it.

We barely had time to recognize each other when someone turned on the lights.

The room was full of people.

I didn’t know any of them. For that matter, I didn’t know who the hosts were. We hadn’t even been invited; we’d simply been informed of the party’s existence by some of the other guests en route.

Thinking fast, I grabbed my jacket and struggled into it, grabbed Rusty, shook a few hands, pecked a few cheeks, made a few excuses, and seconds later, left a quarter-inch of rubber in the parking lot. It apparently worked; no lynch mob gathered in the time it took to find an on-ramp.

The conversation lagged on the way home; we were tired and wasted, and it was taking most of my concentration to drive fifty-five in a straight line.

“Awesome f****n’ party,” said Rusty, at one point. He was looking dumbly at the curtain rod, as if he were realizing it didn’t really belong in his hand or my car.

“Yeah,” I replied. My denim jacket was really starting to bug me; it had somehow shrunk during its stay on the bed, and was way too tight in the shoulders.

We were outside the city limits before I realized I hadn’t been wearing a jacket when I arrived at the party…

That’s it. As soon as I get my new credit card in the mail i’m buying your book Wang-Ka.

Damn, I’m still trying to stifle the laughter. That story had me rolling. You need a syndicated column or something, Master Wang-Ka. That stuff is gold!

Twenty-seven years ago, I hitchhiked to Vancouver, BC from Southern Ontario, ostensibly to find a new life. When I got there, I discovered that most of the guys my age from the other side of the country had done the same thing, and there was no new life to be had there. So while I was hanging out in Van, I shared a really crummy hotel room with my road buddy, Pete. We had been going to a bar to get dimes of hash from some guy. One day he didn’t have any hash, but he had mushrooms. I didn’t know what they were, I’d never done any hallucinogens before, but here was this bag the size of a five-finger bag of pot for $15, so I gave it a shot. I had no idea what to expect.

We started eating them in the bar, swallowing pieces whole and washing them down with beer. I gotta say, they tasted abysmally horrible; a sane person could not have chewed them, unless he/she was a masochist. About an hour later we had eaten about half the bag, and I started to get this feeling like I didn’t want to be in the bar listening to a band anymore, I needed to go anywhere else, because the trip was underway, and I didn’t know where it was going. A couple of blocks later, everything became cosmically hilarious. We laughed so hard at god knows what that I remember not being able to stand up, I was rolling on the ground, unable to do anything but laugh. We came to the realization that we had better get out of the area before somebody noticed us and something bad happened.

Back at the hotel room, the laughter continued for hours. As it abated, we split up the rest of the bag and ate all the rest of the mushrooms. In retrospect, this was probably a mistake, as we had eaten enough mushrooms for 20 people to trip their asses off. We were in for the inner voyage of all time, and boy, what a voyage it was! I still have vivid memories of the hallucinations. The air around me looked like a magic, swirling fog, with a 3-D checkerboard of green and yellow squares floating in front of me. We were both seeing tracers and meltdowns and undulating color bars, you name it… The laughter subsided and all we could do was lay on the bed in stunned silence and watch the show.

At one point, we realized it was too bright in the room, so we both went into the walk-in closet and closed the door, and laid down on the floor in the dark to watch the light show. I remember going down the hall to the bathroom on my hands and knees, because I couldn’t walk. Once there, I became aware of the peculiarly beautiful reverberation of the water running in the urinal, and the changing colors in the room from the neon sign outside the window, so I stayed. I began to feel connected to the electrical grid of the universe. I noticed how perfectly my skin covered my body, how amazing it felt to touch it (no, don’t go there - I didn’t!) and it began to dawn on me that nobody that I knew from my old life had ever done this, and there was no way I could explain it to them. As of now, I was a new person. I had seen how plastic the rest of society was, and I couldn’t be a part of it anymore because I had had this revelation that I needed to shun plasticity and be real. Cosmic, eh?

I wish there was a beautiful end to this story, but about 5 AM, somebody broke into a car in the neighborhood, and it set the horn alarm off. We had no sound but the car horn for hours. It’s situations like that for which the term “wreck my buzz” was coined. The trip wouldn’t go away, and neither would the horn. I think we both finally crashed from total exhaustion about noon.

I’ve sat here for minutes, and I can’t think of how to describe the lasting effect of that trip on me. I know it changed me. I never saw the world in quite the same way as I had before. I was a pioneer in mind travel, and I was to revisit that place many times in the coming years, but it was never as dramatic or intense. Mainly because I believe it was a different kind of mushroom available back in Ontario, and I always seemed to get the ones with strychnine in them, which made it unpleasant.

The next time I tripped, I was working at a university radio station, and it was my birthday. One of the guys gave me some mushrooms. I was doing fine on them. Then came the 3:00 news, which I read perfectly well until one sentence I read aloud struck me as the funniest words ever written in the English language. I completely lost it on the air, laughing hysterically, spluttering and gasping for air. I looked up and the board operator was doing the same thing, and I could hear people outside the studio having fits of laughter, falling off the furniture and pounding the desks. I think the board-op managed to start playing some music, and I didn’t go on the air anymore that day.

And then there was LSD. But that’s another bunch of stories. I’ll close now, with a message from George Harrison, who said that you only have to trip once. Any more is just being piggish.

Usually some kind of “cocktail”:

A couple pain killers, a couple lines of coke, a couple joints, and a few beers.
(Adjust according to personal preference.)

The nice thing is you couldn’t blame the hangover on any specific cause. :slight_smile:

Interesting stories, Master Wang-Ka (I knew I could count on you–my non-Doper friends and I are still laughing about Santa and his elves raping and raping and raping before Christmas) and fishbicycle (great Dopername, btw)! I’m laughing my ass off at the coat thing.

ccwaterback, very interesting mixture. What kind of high do you get from that? What do you like about it, besides the ambiguous nature of the hangover?

BTW, I forgot to answer the questions in the OP myself. I’ve eaten a pot brownie and smoked from a bong (once each), and had some very interesting experiences (I loved it, but haven’t done it since–that was about 4-5 months ago). I got a little bit stoned off of a stomach relaxant once recently (think muscle relaxant; prescribed to me for intestinal spasms) and I enjoyed that, although I probably won’t do it again. I’ve smoked a clove cigarette, which left me with a pleasant feeling of contentedness, stimulation and relaxation at the same time for probably about 20-30 minutes. I accidentally double-dosed on some of my ADD medication last year, and that was a really interesting experience that started me on my interest in drugs (academic and otherwise).

But my favorite has been nitrous oxide. I love the feeling of being disconnected from myself, and it’s really trippy to take a big hit and then just walk around for a couple of minutes. I’ve never really had a huge hit or stacked hits (one hit, then another hit, then another hit, without letting them wear off first), and maybe sometime in the future I’ll explore that. I quit the stuff about a week after I started it. I might get back into it again; I just wanted to make sure I didn’t get addicted, because I was doing a lot of it.

Required disclaimer: Tobacco is illegal for people under 18. Marijuana, although decriminalized in my location (California), is illegal. Nitrous oxide is illegal to inhale or use as a drug in some places.

The only thing I have to add is this:

If you get “messed up”, don’t even think about driving or operating anything that moves. If you can make it from your bar stool to the pisser every hour or so, consider that a major accomplishment.

I loved acid.
Assorted prescription pain killers that were not prescribed to me.
Assorted pills that people would put in my hand and tell me take because they would get me fucked up.
I did a lot of coke in various forms, but it wasn’t a favorite. Except for injecting it.
spooje, recovering addict…

I don’t think a “Confess the crimes you’ve committed in the past” type of thread is appropriate for the SDMB, so I’m locking this off.