Tuesday, April 24, 2007


K* called me today sounding high as a kite; he was wandering the streets, had lost his keys and wanted to know if he should hire a locksmith to break into his apartment. Typical-enough-sounding Chelsea story, except that it was a weekday at 2:00 p.m., and K hadn't used drugs or alcohol for over 6 years.

After swapping a few e-mails on Match, K had agreed to meet with a 40ish gay man (we'll just call him "Whackjob" from now on), who was a professional and published author, and appeared to be your average, well-groomed, well-mannered Murray Hill queen. They met at Border's for a "coffee date" to see if there was any chemistry. Whackjob, the soon-to-be-revealed sociopath, received a phone call from his building that a delivery man was there with a package (uhm, flag 1 - honestly, whose doorman calls them on their cell about a delivery). K's a trusting soul and had no reason to think anything was wrong so he agreed to go to the guy's apartment, even picking up a sandwich on the way to eat at his place.

At the apartment, Whackjob offers K some fresh-squeezed orange juice that he had sitting there that he mixes in a blender with some ice (uhm, flag 2 - fresh juice lying around? C'mon!). K eats the sandwich and drinks the juice. K said that the two just talked, but he sensed the Whackjob was watching him closely. K said the conversation was about dreams and how they can seem so real (not so obvious, but in retrospect, this is flag 3). Very soon, K was hit by a wave of dizziness (flag 4). K tried to stand up, but was unsteady on his feet. Whackjob didn't flinch. He asked K if he wanted to lie down on his bed (that would be flag #5, boys and girls). K, suddenly aware that flags are flying, decides to salute and get the hell out of there.

Once on the street, K called me and I was able to determine (based upon anecdotal information only, not any real life experience mind you) that he'd been dosed with a hit of GHB (a/k/a "the date-rape drug").
* Name deleted to protect my friend's anonymity.

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