Take Ecstasy, They Said. It'll Be Fun, They Said. (Part 1)

Years ago, a friend promised my husband that ecstasy would give him the biggest erection of his life. What followed was not what anyone expected.

Years ago, a friend convinced several of us that ecstasy would make for the perfect swinger party.

My husband was not a drug guy, so this was not an easy sell. Knowing that, our friend skipped all the talk about emotional connection and heightened sensations and went straight for what he thought would get his attention.

"You'll have the biggest erection of your life."

That was the sales pitch.

To my surprise, it worked. Not because he was suddenly excited about ecstasy, but because enough of our friends were enthusiastic about the idea that he eventually agreed to host everyone at our place. If nothing else, he was curious to see what all the fuss was about.

There were four couples, all friends. Our self-appointed expert arrived with the goods and a detailed list of instructions. We were told what to eat, what not to drink, how much to take, and how long it would take to kick in. One of the men announced that he'd done it many times before and took a whole pill. The rest of us took half.

About an hour later, it hit me.

Not in a good way.

I wasn't feeling sexy, connected, or social. I felt completely wasted. Talking seemed like an impossible task. As soon as my legs felt capable of carrying me, I got up and went inside.

One of the other women followed me because she was concerned about how I was doing.

A few minutes later, she suddenly started tearing off layers of clothing because she was convinced she was sweating to death. Within minutes she was down to her underwear. Then she noticed a cool draft coming from underneath the bathroom door and immediately stretched out on the floor with her face practically against the crack so she could enjoy it.

At the time, this seemed perfectly reasonable.

While she was lying on the floor cooling herself with bathroom air, I looked up and noticed a light fixture in the hallway.

I don't know why.

I can't explain it.

I just remember staring at it and feeling better.

For whatever reason, I found that light strangely comforting. I stood there looking at it far longer than any sane person should spend looking at a light fixture.

Meanwhile, one friend was lying on the floor in her underwear with her face against the bathroom door because she liked the draft, and I was developing an emotional attachment to a hallway light.

This should have been a warning sign.

Back outside, things were not improving.

The man who had taken a whole pill started sweating profusely and turned white as a ghost. Our expert calmly announced that if he didn't cool down soon he was going to throw him in the pool.

As the only person there with any medical training, I remember silently thinking, "Please don't throw the overheating man into the pool."

Unfortunately, speaking was no longer one of my available skills.

At some point, all eight of us squeezed into a tiny hot tub because apparently that was supposed to help everyone "get in the mood."

The moving water immediately made me nauseous.

While I was trying not to throw up, the woman next to me turned and informed me that she was Cinderella and I was Snow White.

I stared at her.

She stared at me.

Then she launched into a discussion about Disney characters.

Not movies.

Not the party.

Disney characters.

Across the hot tub, another woman was making repeated attempts to interest us in her glass dildo. Under normal circumstances this might have generated some curiosity. Unfortunately, she was competing with Cinderella.

Across from me sat the four men.

This is where I remembered the original sales pitch.

"You'll have the biggest erection of your life."

Looking around that hot tub, I can confidently report that the marketing claims were not supported by the available evidence.

Not one of the four men appeared remotely interested in sex.

One was overheating.

The other three, including my husband, had abandoned English and were enthusiastically exchanging Québec swear words.

To this day, I can still remember the vocabulary lesson:

Tabarnak.

Esti.

Câlisse.

Meanwhile Cinderella continued discussing Disney characters. The glass dildo remained largely ignored. I was fighting nausea. The sexy evening we had all been promised had somehow turned into a support group for cartoon princesses, French profanity, household lighting, and bathroom door drafts.

Eventually I got sick, which turned out to be the best thing that happened all evening. After that, I actually started to feel better.

By the end of the night there was no sex, no magical connection, and certainly no record-breaking erections.

There was only a room full of confused people wondering what had happened.

Naturally, our friend had an explanation.

"It was a bad batch."

And somehow, despite everything we had just experienced, several people believed him.

Unfortunately, that isn't the end of the story...