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It's Friday after dinner and time for a crucial basketball game. The winner of tonight's matchup between The College and our cross-campus rival, The Men's College (TMC), advances to the conference title game. A lot is at stake. The venue is The College's gymnasium, less than a block from The Dorm. I have never been on LSD while attending a sporting event. Tonight, I will be.
 "I wish I could, too," Tom says as our group gathers for the traditional pregame ritual in Ambrose and Stu's room. He adds, "But I'm afraid to. What if I lose it?"
Three of my friends are on the team: Tom is tall and strong, Stu is quick with lightning reflexes, and Woody is a dependable defender and team player. The tallest player is Reginald, the center. Black with a huge Afro, Tom and he clash frequently, on and off the court. Two alpha males. Reginald rarely attends pregame parties.
Tom gets worked up in preparation for games. He asks Ambrose to play loud, fast, pulsating, primal rock and roll on his mythic stereo. Waves of Old Spice evaporate from his freshly shaven face as he pounds his fists on his knees, stamps his feet on the floor, closes his eyes, and moves his head back and forth to the music. He nearly vibrates off his chair.
The College lost the first match against its rival several months earlier. Everyone wrathfully blames one particular player on the opponent's team: Zebulun Cohen. He's a fierce competitor who usually scores more points and makes more rebounds than anyone on either team.
We have our opinions about Cohen, opinions focusing on his appearance. His most striking feature, so striking that one might even consider it a disability, is his hairiness. A thick mat of black hair covers his arms, back, neck, and legs down to his ankles. The topic, or the fact, of his hairiness agitates us as we pass along a joint.
"Yeah," drawls Woody. "He's a fucking hairy ape."
Tom joins in. "Ah, come on guys. He can't help it. His mother's a gorilla. And his father a chimpanzee."
Ambrose shakes his head, his eyes barely visible, his grin crooked. "His mother's a gorilla..." I can't tell if he's questioning Tom's insult or confirming it.
Yeah, I think. He's a fucking hairy ape.
The physicality of basketball and that of sex merge at these times for Tom. He similarly prepares for a date. That is, before a basketball game, he grinds his pelvis to and fro, flicks his tongue in and out, squeals in a mimicry of the woman upon whom he is performing oral sex. In either case, if he were feeling especially optimistic, he might take out his penis and swing it.
I have nothing to add when my friends talk about sex. And the conversation before a game usually flows from sports to sex and back again. Everyone is more well-endowed and experienced than I am. Discussions of blood-tinged sheets are both alarming and baffling. Even the mostly alien Ambrose joins in the sexual banter, which confirms my outsider status.
Ambrose and I take a square of Woody's windowpane acid. The Boston Brahmin has a Buddhist negative attitude toward sports. Too aggressive. What does it matter? Vanity. So, as is his custom, he begs off attending the game. As I stand by the door zipping my coat against the late winter chill, I notice the telltale onset of the drug: physical excitement, nervousness, and anticipation. We pile out of the room. The hall and stairs look splotchy, smudged, casting shadows where there had been none before. Pale spots everywhere—in the air and on the surfaces of objects.
I arrive at the arena and look for a good seat, while my friends march into the dressing room. I find a perfect spot, just to the right of midcourt, halfway up the rows of bleachers. I notice two pretty girls twenty feet to my left.
The teams assume their positions. Facing each other midcourt, The College on the right and TMC on the left. Cohen, as usual, stands out, even more so in my acid-modified consciousness. His hairy mantle glows, pulsates, and shines under the gymnasium lights. His name is Jewish, and his looks also strongly suggest membership in my tribe. I consider his Jewishness, which we share. Yes, of course, I conclude. That being so, he's the only apparently Jewish player on the court. I shake my head. A hairy fucking Jewish ape. But I'm Jewish. I might have gotten angry at my Jewish high school friends, but I never hated them. Besides, I've never met Cohen—my reaction to him has no basis in reality.
I look around surreptitiously, wondering if others are similarly staring at the hirsute player. The coeds to my left are shooting me furtive glances. They turn to each other and giggle. I hadn't planned on meeting anyone this evening. Besides, I'm on acid, have never had sex, and my prowess cannot compare with my friends'.
A loud awful searing buzzer announces that the game has begun.
Instantly, it is too much. My nervous system pegs to overload. The thud-thud-thud, like a booming bass drum, of the dribbled basketball. The hoofbeats of stampeding players running from one end of the court to the other. Reflections from the overwaxed parquet floor are pools of swirling and morphing light. The announcer's voice over the public address system is a shrill staccato cacophony. The crowd is modest but loud, especially a pocket of TMC supporters close to the court. They excitedly encourage Cohen, vigorously celebrating every time he handles the ball.
A sweaty gleam appears on the players' bodies. Reginald's shimmering black skin is especially mesmerizing. I've never seen a Black basketball player perform in front of me—his tall muscular lithe body, his awe-inspiring Afro shining in the light, and LSD-induced trails following him. I feel a stirring in my pants.
I focus on my other friends' bodies as they move through space. Not really who they are, but what their shining damp over-breathing bodies are. Running, jumping, throwing, shouting, and barking. They whistle to each other encouragement, reproach, and strategy. Their athletic shirts cling to their bodies, and everyone's tight-fitting nylon shorts are filled to bursting with massive penises. My head swims.
I hear one of the girls nearby speak—the dark-haired one. Is she calling my name—Rick, Rick? How could she? I don't know who she is. She whispers something to her blonde friend, looks back at me, a big grin on her face, she waves, and they both giggle. How can I hear them laughing over the din?
I think: Oh, shit. Am I busted? Do they know I am in a dick-filled acid black hole? Is the brunette mocking me?
They aren't moving toward me, and that's a relief. I'll ignore them by turning away, which I do, looking back toward the basketball court. The College is closing in on the lead. The tempo heats up, more sweat, more yelling, and I can't take my eyes off my friends' crotches.
The question appears in my mind like a rifle shot: Am I gay?
I see the individual penis outlines under the players' shorts. Stu's: broad at the base and small at the head, just like his face. Tom's is long and snaking, thick throughout. Woody's is less clear, although he's bragged about his "thigh holster" holding his large member; the penis-shaped faded blue of his jeans in the right area supports his claim.
I want a giant penis for myself. Does that mean I want my penis to be like one of those giant ones on the basketball court? Or is it because I am gay and want to have sex with my friends with big penises? I don't know what I would do if my own penis were that big, because big and sexually experienced go hand in hand. These are big, experienced penises, and I have never had sex. Thus, how could my own be big? Maybe I am gay, and that's why I haven't succeeded with members of the opposite sex.
I try distracting myself by looking away from the game. Involuntarily, I turn toward the two girls.
I wonder: These girls. Do they want sex? How often must I be reminded that I don't know anything about it? They scare me. And my friends on the court have turned me on, but I don't know why.
I look at the back of my hands to determine how stoned I am. My fingers have become little penises. I bend and straighten them. The same color and consistency of a penis, with penis heads replacing my nails. My lips are dry, and I rub them. Horrified, I know this is what a penis feels like against my mouth.
Desperate, I must break this malignant spell. Staring at flesh, flesh everywhere, I am going mad. A furious standoff between fantasized sexual pleasure and terror.
I get up and stretch my LSD-chilled bones in the overheated atmosphere. Cohen is having an especially successful night, and the rival team increases its lead. The tragedy of my team losing cuts into my heart.
Still standing, I cup my hands around my mouth, look at Cohen, and I scream. As loud as I can.
"Fuck you, Cohen! You hairy ape!!"
I regain my equilibrium briefly. Giant dicks on the court and pretty girls in the stands disappear.
"Fuck you to fucking hell!!"
The shaggy ballplayer looks up toward the stands and peers in my direction. He looks puzzled and a little hurt. But not mad. He is, in reality, a nice guy.
What have I done? I have just screamed an obscenity at a complete stranger at a public event. I sit down, look at my feet, then back to the court, and down again. I am ashamed, but shame is easier to bear than a mesmerizing fascination with my friends' penises.
The girls' giggling explodes into a peal of laughter at my outburst. They must think I am a fool. They probably know I'm on acid, too. They know I'm a fool on acid. Will they report me?
I have to get out of here.
Without looking at the girls, but with a parting glance at the game's intolerable intensity, I start descending the far end of the bleachers. I am visually assaulted, not by what I see, but by the mere sensation of vision, immersion in this overwhelming visual environment. The light beats down on my body. Just as painful is being an object for others to see—others who are scrutinizing, judging, and condemning me. I pick my way carefully down the rickety stairs. The crowd's roar and announcer's voice press around me, and my depth perception flattens. I don't want to fall. Finally touching down on the wooden floor near an exit, I am out of the building with a few long strides.
It's dark, and the air is chilly and damp. The streetlights illuminate the uneven sidewalk outlined by masses of something black, shimmering, and menacing. Moss? The crowd's tumult fades rapidly behind me.
I need a shower, I decide as I close the dorm room door behind me. Tom and I are roommates this year, and his clothes are strewn about our common room. The smell of Old Spice, though less than before the game, permeates the air. I pick up his clothes and toss them onto the bed in his side room; I return to mine, strip down, and look in the mirror.
My face is discolored, lumpy, and misshapen. My glasses are too thick and my eyes too small. It's hard to focus, and drawing nearer, I peer into my black massively dilated pupils. My long hair has never felt good on my head—too wavy and greasy. Now it's hopelessly matted. A sickly halo surrounds my face. I pull back and appraise the rest of my body.
Cadaverous, listing at a strange angle. I can barely locate my penis, shrunk as it is from the acid and my distorted visual sense. I feel more than asexual. Or more precisely, the inverse of sexual—negatively sexual, like a negative number. I look nearly dead, neutered.
I put on my bathrobe, grab a clean towel, and walk down the hall to the communal bathroom. I set my glasses on the four-sinked countertop, hang the towel on a hook attached to one of the two stall showers. My body is indescribably uncomfortable, but the hot water soothes my left hand with which I assess the temperature. The water looks good, too. Even in the dim gray light of the bathroom, the sparkling cascading stream is beautiful, and the mist shimmers with bright iridescent rainbows. Pretty. Unlike my body.
I step into the square thin metal enclosure and pull the curtain closed. Soaked, my hair extends halfway down to my shoulders, and shampooing it is laborious. Nor do I like contending with it on a daily basis. The waves are embarrassing, like hairy wings emerging from either side of my head. However, if I comb my hair forward after shampooing, the wings don't appear. My father's gay hairdresser—who also cuts my hair—taught me that trick. My acquiescence to the homosexual stylist's advice adds another layer of uncertainty to my crisis of sexual orientation.
I pour Day-Glo blue creamy fragrant Head & Shoulders shampoo into the palm of my left hand and spread it out with my right. Lifting both hands to my head, I apply the shampoo and begin massaging it in.
I feel clumps of hair falling out from my scalp. I lower my hands, take a look, and can't tell what it is I see. Looking more closely, there are one or two strands on my palms. Out of the corner of my eyes, though, I see large wads of hair in my hands.
Is my hair falling out? It doesn't seem possible, yet appears to be the case. I hope not. Does LSD cause hair loss? I know that cancer patients lose clumps of hair.* Is this the first symptom of cancer? No matter what it is—cancer or LSD—something is off. I feel for bald spots but don't know if I'm touching skin or hair.
I focus on my normal shampooing routine. Shampoo, rinse, repeat. Every time I run my fingers through my hair, more appears to fall out. I devise an experiment. I tap my forehead and assess the resulting sound. Then I tap the top of my head. Without hair, the sound should be the same; with hair, it should be muffled. When I try this, there is no difference.
I turn off the water, climb out of the stall, and dry myself off. Instead of briskly rubbing my hair with the towel, I gently pat the top of my head. I take a deep breath, wipe away the fog on the mirror, and even with my acid-drenched vision, I see that my hair is fine. After more thoroughly drying off, I put on my robe and walk back to our room.
I decide to check in with Ambrose. I knock on their door, and when he opens it, I ask, "Do you have a beer?"
"Yeah, man. Come on in."
I sit in a chair, staring at nothing.
He asks, "How was the game, man?"
"Intense." My mind is empty.
We sit quietly in the dim dorm room, and the familiar audio atmosphere surrounds and comforts me. I drink the Coors in quick gulps, wish Ambrose good night, return to my room, and go to bed.
*Actually from chemotherapy, not cancer.
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