Tales of a Zany Mystic

Chapter Five

The First Angel

"Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth"

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle


     Toward the end of my dealing career I hooked up with a man who possessed astounding good looks and flawless physique. He pursued me, and I felt at the time it was "too good to be true". When he disrobed, I had to keep from gasping, so "otherworldly" was his build. I wondered again why he'd singled me out, and assumed it was for "party favors". I procured an endless stream of men in that fashion, all of us "consensual whores".

Bartolomeo Cesi (1556-1629) - Men kissing - Drawing - Galeria degli Uffizi, Florence

This was the most obvious "perk" of dealing. In fact, it was really the only reason I continued, other than my own descent into addiction. He was a handful. I soon learned why he pursued me. I had a reputation for doing just about anything sexually. If a person had a fantasy, I discovered what it was and had fun creating it for them. Should someone show me a "new trick", be it fisting, water sports, bondage, discipline or sado-masochism, I was eager to please and tried to please all. Performance pressure was removed from my shoulders, being the supplier of favors. They were there for sex and drugs, and my “reputation” for providing both in great quantities preceded me. My attitude was, "kick back, relax, don't rush and let's have fun". Too much of a good thing is still too much. There were many nights and days when I looked in the mirror, haggard and burnt out only to see "the fairest of them all". I would ask myself, "Don't you ever get enough?"

HIStory of gay sex:  http://www.androphile.org/

Nonetheless, I was addicted to internet sex as much as to the needle. They go arm in arm. I was in a perpetual state of "horniness" from using, with time on my hands night and day, and many partners to cycle through, each more entertaining than the last. In between I had repeats. I was a whore, but I paid in advance without any concern for the price tag arriving later. Not long after getting high, he began suggesting that I slap him around and rough him up.


Shocked, it was apparent he was looking for a particular experience that he thought I'd be able to provide. Abuse of others always rubs me the wrong way. In all the "partying and playing", I never injured anyone, no one died from my hand, and everyone had a safe experience, regardless how "wild" it seemed. Hurting another is a line never crossed, even when asked to do so. While I was exploring his buffed sensuous body, he began barking commands like a drill sergeant. He said, “Hit me" or "Slap me", or "I want you to..." with a long laundry list of desires. It was as if he'd saved them all up and was bursting at the seams to try everything. It doesn't happen like that. Doing the best I could, I went a short way towards satisfying his desires and suggested we take a break.

During conversation, it came out that he was psychic.

Fascinated, I listened to his stories, which included unusual paranormal tales. This kind of "confessional", or exchange of information, occurred routinely while partying. I shared some of mine. As he continued, a distinct change came over him and he began speaking more directly to me. In fact, he seemed to be reading me deeper and deeper. His eyes gazed off, as if he was telling me things about my future dancing before his eyes. Curious, we continued.

As his "reading" evolved a different voice emerged and he said point blank, "I am an angel and I'm here to warn you."

the art of sulamith wulfing - the mighty angel

The hair stood up on the back of my neck.

He indicated that he wasn’t allowed to just “tell me things” and that I was allowed to ask asked questions. Thus began a series of questions and probes to try to obtain information.

Several events were going to occur in my near future, which seemed to be the main focus. I had to ask the right questions in order to get the information out. It was as if he was allowed to tell me only so much and we were rapidly approaching the "too much" border.

Among other things, he said that I would be arrested - not once, but twice. After these two trials were over, I would be in three live-in programs. No specific dates or details were relayed, but I was told "soon". He said that part of the reason why he was "coming through" to speak with me was to tell me not to lose hope, that these things which would come to pass would do precisely that: pass. Time stopped.

We were in a cosmic "bubble", and there is no doubt in my mind, from his presence, the truth of what was being said or that he was an angel. Once he relayed everything he was "allowed" to reveal, his composure returned and he said, "I've probably told you too much already". The personality of my original guest reentered, and he didn't remember what was said, or how long he was "out". Apparently, that had happened to him before. Some people are natural channels who go blank while in trance.

Within a few weeks after the "angel" appeared, I was warned by a friend that my dealer, who was one step removed from the source, had been arrested by the FEDS who confiscated over 19 pounds of "crystal ice". I had been purchasing a pound at a time, twice monthly, which was the smallest amount he dealt with. Of course I was rattled. But it seemed like a dream. I could not extricate myself. All my good advice to others, which included leaving town for vacation and halting activities, vanished. I could give great advice, but not take my own. This is called "learning the hard way". Three days later, there was a loud knock on the door. I was so concerned about the 5 or 6 ounces hidden under my bed, that I failed to notice the "eight ball" sitting right there on my desk. It was the two infamous narcotics officers I dubbed "Mutt and Jeff'. Through their intimidation in the hallway, I broke down and let them in. I had every right to say "No, you can't enter - get a warrant". Their techniques worked as I caved in under pressure. My advice: Never invite the Devil in. Trust me, you'll be sorry.

They asked me if I knew "R", and asked about several others I didn't know. One walked over to my desk, picked up the bag of dope sitting out in plain sight, and asked triumphantly, "What is this?" Of course, you know the rules: once "just cause" is established they have a right to search everywhere. They discovered the large "stash" under the bed, along with some party supplies kept for guests, and I was told that if I gave them information, I could keep from going to jail. I already knew that my supplier was in Federal Prison, and I never knew who or where he bought from, except that it came directly from Mexico. Every move would have been watched prior to his arrest, and the rest of us tumbled into place like dominos, assembled from a tiny coded "black book". I revealed nothing, was handcuffed and placed in a squad car. What followed played like a scene right out of Fellini's Satyricon.

Now I know how cattle feel before they are slaughtered. If every judge, lawyer and law enforcement agent spent one night in jail, crime would grind to a halt.

Nothing can convey the filth, stench or horror of being booked. If anyone tells you it's a "piece of cake" they are lying through their teeth. I'd been arrested once in Los Angeles, and once in Santa Barbara, when I was falling down drunk, but one night is a vastly different than "indefinitely". The booking process in San Francisco is the worst nightmare I've ever experienced. I was eventually made to check my clothes, in exchange for a "smart matching orange outfit" with matching shoes. Imelda, eat your heart out! From there, I was put into one of about 20 holding tanks packed with dirty, filthy and scary people vaguely resembling humans. Race was not the issue, they were all "scum" and I was just another number. This was truly a jury of my peers. Many reeked of unpleasant aromas, some looked like shit with matted "dread locks", puking on the floor; and that was just the other lone white guy, a heroine addict! Swearing and ebonics are the only accepted languages in this school of very hard knocks. It would have been daring to smile: lesson number one. Do not show any humanity and above all, don't look at anyone. Several hours passed in one of these open cells with one toilet in plain view. Heaven help you if you have to take a dump. Besides, there was no paper

The "logic" of this interminable process escapes me, unless designed to create the worst experience imaginable. One is shuffled from one holding tank to another while endless paperwork is filed. Being organizationally adept, I marveled at the incompetence. The gloom of the closed building, a dark drab gray appearance is enhanced by weird lighting, and the noise of caged animals stimulates suicidal thoughts. Too late to say, "I wish I hadn't...". I was literally stuck like a slab of dry peanut butter on white bread. There is no separation possible, you just have to eat it "as is".

This lily livered "white boy" had his eyes opened once again. It took two days to be processed. From that living Hell, I was marched off with a myriad of others to holding tanks deeper than the Vatican basements. They get darker, gloomier and more oppressive. Elevators hold about 15 at a time, with everyone crammed in like sardines. Watch your eyes and hands, folks. New cells, even more degrading than those just left behind, appear on the horizon. Eventually, some were split off to a modem holding area inside "The POD". This was a trip. From antiquated caverns to well lighted open rooms was blinding. By then I was feeling the effects of not having any drugs in my system; from bad to worse to "worser".

The POD is a relatively new concept in prisoner management. It's a good idea, really, to use technology to "keep an eye" on things with minimal personnel. The building is round with a core emerging from the center. A floating electronic island overlooks everything, on which crisply uniformed officers of both sexes rule, looking like something out of "CyberForce3000". Chiseled, handsome and beautiful, and that's just the men, they look as if they stepped off a fashion runway. Their attitude, however, did not originate with "Miss Manners". An endlessly tedious air of superiority and domination, mixed with a blush of sadism is uniform throughout the force. May the force not be with you!


No chairs, you simply stand, sit or attempt sleep on filthy carpeting, replete with dust mites and spots made by who knows what. Hours pass under bright fluorescent lights, never extinguished regardless of hour. Eventually all get herded off, one by one, to get our bedding rations. There are four bunk beds per cubicle, two on each side. From the center "conclave", looking down on all with a 365 degree view, no one is permitted to step outside their cubicle. You must step up to the line, wait until acknowledged and request permission to go to the bathroom. Though I hadn't been eating properly due to speed I was hungry all the time. Enough food is rationed out to feed a small family - of flies. Three days later, a few more dark circles under my eyes, we were on the move. I was handcuffed and the process reversed itself. More elevators going up and down, dirtier darker cells, names yelled out, marching to another place locked tight. Finally, we were each issued a bed to carry. I was so weak and tired at that point and so defeated that I didn't know how I would carry my mattress. A. black man stepped up and offered to carry it for me. He was an angel. This was a true act of kindness, not from "wanting something", but from the heart.


As "chance" would have it, we ended up in the same cell. There were four in this cell. Vicious screaming could be heard elsewhere, so the new cell mates seemed great in comparison. My black friend was nicknamed "Catman". He was a homeless heroin addict who stole to support his habit. I think he killed someone once accidentally. He was a great guy. He got the nickname "Catman" from his style. He would steal from nurseries by walking on the metal scaffolding to find an entrance. Apparently, he missed a step and fell through the glass to the floor, creating a disturbance where he was arrested, reminiscent of a Pink Panther movie. http://www.tonystrading.co.uk/galleries/annuals/pinkpanther.htm

Others included a longhair protester type, a slim Hispanic and a Russian who had murdered his wife. I spoke with each over the next three days, wondering how many months I'd be there. On the third day, Catman and I got into a deep conversation. He was wise and very funny. I liked him intuitively, and something told me to trust him. We both agreed, "We're getting too old for this!" as we laughed about life's oddities. Just as I was wondering if I'd ever get out, there was a golden glow over Catman's head, like an "aura, which rose to the top of the cell like a golden mist. A remarkable peace came over me, an inner knowing that everything would all be alright and I had nothing to worry about. That moment, my name was called: I was being released.

I returned to my little apartment, dazed and confused. No one would buy from me now, as a short jail sentence is the "kiss of death". Everyone assumes you've "spilled the beans" and talk about it as if they know. As it turned out, a high powered lawyer had been engaged on my behalf and one of my clients put $5,000.00 bail on the line for me. He was another shaman, and a good friend. My other close friend at that time was a "psychic nurse". Life had a surreal "sticky" quality. I was in "never never land" and couldn't make a turn. I wasn't in jail long enough to break the cycle of my own addiction, and failed to apply previous skills learned in recovery. Rather than getting support from 12-step programs, I "blew it off' and isolated. Within days I had a needle in my arm, though I'd stopped doing business. My friend in D.C. contacted me and said he needed just one more shipment. I thought, since $20,000.00 had been confiscated, that perhaps just "one more sale" would be okay. How stupid!

In limbo, I went through the motions of life without really living. Like Alice, I was in the boat rowing, and this was the dream. The angelic prophecy was spinning itself out, and nothing I could do - or not do - would alter one iota. That turned out to be true. Having "been there, done that", I want everyone to know that walking a spiritual path precludes sexual obsessions and self-destruction inherent with addictions of any kind. Higher states and magical living is a reality, and so is the earth's present transformation into a higher density. I regretted having missed a more active participation in this process, which began in 1987 with the Harmonic Convergence. Still, we awaken when we awaken and everything happens in the right moment. Nonetheless, it feels as if it was barely in the nick of time. Those who awaken now can help others make coherent choices by sharing experiences openly. It may feel like a "leap of faith", but miracles abound and it is we who place obstacles in our path. The truth is, there are no obstacles and there is no path. Heck, there is no "I" either, only "we".

Anyone serious about stopping addictions must eventually come to terms with "cutting the ties that bind". People you use with, no matter how intimate, are not true friends and can never be there for you. You can't have your cake and eat it too. To get clean, a "clean start" is necessary. Every "tendril" connecting to drugs, no matter how indirect, is a ticket back on the merry-go-round. A day arrives when there are no more tickets. This is what makes 12 step programs valuable. They provide a wonderful place to socialize and make new friends. The first time I got sober from alcohol, I went to meet men. It turned out to be a great motivator to get me to meetings. I did meet many men as friendships sprouted and deeper bonds formed, centered on healthy activities loosely called "recovery".


Meetings are free at all hours of the day and night. Gays and lesbians have an annual "Living Sober Conference", packed with people from all over the world. I'm amazed how loving gay men can be. Meetings last one hour with no contracts to sign. Take what you like and leave the rest. Most speed addicts make scathing remarks about the program, but I discovered the loudest have never been to a meeting. I look at it this way: I can always pick up again, the door is open. Take it in 24 hour "sound bytes" with no "eternal promises". As I continued a repetitive cycle of using and getting clean, it never became easier. It takes about 10 gallons of spring water and 3 solid days of rest to recuperate from a weekend romp. Psychic recovery takes longer. It's astonishing how my empathic and psychic abilities came back full force, given time to heal - an unexpected benefit. Yet remaining clean does get easier each day, until it's second nature and one needs to be literally reminded that there was a problem in the first place. That's why meetings are beneficial in reminding us where we came from, and to add our synergy to those who need inspiration.

Many I partied with admitted addiction. It was naughty to tell the truth and then do it anyway. We discovered denial ruined our good time with guilt, so we admitted we were addicted while doing our drugs. There were few who didn't have stories about someone else going down the tubes. We all saw it. Of course, we were just fine! In the mirror, I looked "svelte". Gaunt was more like it. My skin was a gray color from speed pouring out, draining the life force or chi from my body. I looked like one of the "grays" seen by many, but probably more scary!

After my release, I procured a small bag and needles to "cheer myself up". For a couple of weeks I did as little as possible to get by. My heart was beginning to act up, and palpitations were frequent. Intuitively, I cut way back on "partying". Where I might have done a "quarter" in one shot, I did half or less, enough for maintenance and sex. I hadn't been to the Doctor's office in 3 years, and couldn't leave the apartment due to dealing and paranoia. Had I known how tight the noose was, I would have been petrified. It never occurred to me that my life had been "prophetically arranged" by my own choices. The story which the "angel" relayed to me was coming true, like clockwork. The problem was, like seeing the forest through the trees, I was in it. I could not see my own life outside the limits of what was right in front of me. Only later, in retrospect, could I begin to make connections and see with clarity. His prediction about my second arrest was about to come true. I didn't know at the time, but an angel was assigned to help me in jail. He was the same one I met the first arrest, my friend Catman, the homeless heroine addict, my angelic protector.

In Chapter Six I get busted - AGAIN!  The prophetic warnings from the First Angel were coming true.  An even more horrific time in jail, with many dips, but ultimate triumph... 
I meet my black friend, CATMAN, in jail the second time!


Living Sober
Living Sober is a Conference of Alcoholics Anonymous hosted by gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgendered members of Alcoholics Anonymous with Al-Anon participation.

2007 Conference Dates
June 29 to July 1
Gays and lesbians have a wonderful place to have fun, share experiences and make new friendships, based upon LOVE!
The link above is to Living Sober, a California event.

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