Sunday

7/27/25

The bedroom was hot, in every sense of the word. Between the oppressive summer heat, and our writhing dehydrated bodies, there was a genuine feeling as if one were thrown in a kiln. Our usually lavender bedsheets, now stained with presumably gallons of sweat and other fluids hung precariously off the bed as our indistinguishable mass of bodies undulated with the pulsing music and physical sensations.

Harley and I started the night relatively tamely, we enjoyed our bodies together, every part of our skin now an erogenous zone. We licked, caressed, and indulged in every inch of flesh. We eventually decided to call an old friend over to join us in the celebrations. Max is a tall enby with long wavy red hair and an undercut, honestly the most androgynous person I've ever had to pleasure to meet, with the versatility to match. That, combined with their genuinely stoic features, made them the perfect addition to our night. They were happy to join in as per usual.

We laid there for what felt like days, taking turns consuming each other, physically and spiritually.

It's honestly difficult to describe a regular molly experience to the lay person, let alone the experience that transpired tonight. There's closest I can get to an apt description now that I'm sober is to ask you to imagine the following:

You're at a club, the music is pounding and you're surrounded by thousands of people so close to you that you can practically taste them. As the music becomes more intense it somehow fuels your dancing more and more until it feels like you are literally being puppeteered by the rhythm. Your sense of self rapidly begins to slip away as you become part of the crowd, no thoughts, no consciousness, just the experience of being a part of a greater being, experiencing the world in a completely new way. Now combine that with sex and you're like halfway there. Could not recommend enough if you're fucked up like I am.

Seemingly weeks later, the three of us laid there, a mass of limbs interwoven, catching our breaths and recovering from our own individual ordeals.

The sun was fully up, and none of us had gotten any sleep. So we just closed our eyes and let the endorphins carry us off into oblivion.

----

I was the first to wake up later that day, around 2pm. I was never good at sleeping in. It's almost as if my internal clock yearns to wake up and start ticking itself, bring me along with it. I got up and let Harley and Max enjoy the rest of their slumber while I tried to get my life and brain back in order after the eventful night. A pot of coffee was made, and a plate of biscuits and jelly was left on the counter for the two as I cleaned up my own plate and got ready to go out for a few hours. I've found that the best way to recover from such trips was to get out into the sun before the serotonin withdrawals kick in and bring me down with them. So I went downstairs, grabbed a Citibike, and made for Hudson River Park.

It wasn't a long ride by any means but the bustling traffic and intense sunlight quickly brought me out of my reverie by the time I parked the bike and walked into the park. I was immediately confronted by the expected juxtaposition of it all. One block I'm in a busy downtown street, getting yelled at by a random uber driver for having the nerve to be on the road where I belong, next block, it's a serene grassy knoll, with children playing adults of all ages enjoying the summer weather in their own very unique ways. It's why I love the parks along the west side so much, there's no limit to the amount of unique experiences one can have on days such as today. One day it's eerily quiet and you can't quite seem to figure out if you're alone in the city or not. The next day, you're accosted by a group of Pilates moms who Insist you're in "their spot" on the grass, and get your joint stolen by a squirrel as you kindly relocate.

Nevertheless, it was beautiful today, and I happily laid down my improvised blanket (an old yoga mat) to lay on, while I took in the sun and sights of the river. The Hudson, characteristically was full of kayakers, jet skis, container ships, and the depressing sight of New Jersey on the opposing bank, but that never stopped anyone from ignoring them all and pretending they were on a beach in St. Tropez.

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Once adequately situated and laid down comfortably, I let my mind wander and reflect on this week's occurrences, from the usual bullshit at work, to the party of Friday, to the seemingly brief weekend, lack of sleep included. It was honestly better than most weekends I have in a year, old friends caught up with, stresses alleviated, stories written to recount over brunch eventually. Except for the one itch that seemed to relive itself in my brain. For some reason the conversation with Chloe and James kept replaying in my brain like a damned ear worm. I know I didn't say anything stupid, so why was I so instant on remembering it? Something about his job and field of study tickled me unlike anything else as of late. He said he was able to modify mouse genomes to get them to regrow limbs, and with promising options of human trials. That's great and all, but why would my crossfaded brain latch on to that so much?

It took two hours for the circuitous thoughts to finally resolve the conflict, and by the time they did I was nearly frantic with potential. They fucking reprogramed the mouse's genomes and made their bodies construct anything they wanted then too. Sure, in this case it was missing limbs. But what's the difference between a missing leg, and one that was never there? There's no hardwired number of legs gene right? Even if, you could edit that too surely, where does the line really draw? If this technology is as promising as he said it was, what really distinguishes coding and computer science from genetics and biology? Sounds like just a different language to me. If a mouse can regrow a leg, what's to stop a human from changing their own physiology?

Upon that realization and the spiraling thoughts that followed, I was no longer able to sit still and enjoy the day in the park, it served its purpose nevertheless. The bike ride back to Chelsea and my apartment was exceedingly short as my body worked on autopilot, brain too occupied to pilot it consciously. I opened the door to find Max and Harley gone, the former back home with a promise to catch up soon on a post it, and the latter away for the night to catch up with some old friends. That left me alone in the apartment, with a brain full of ideas, and the Internet at my disposal. Not even the serotonin withdrawal could keep me down tonight.

----

I spent 7 hours on Google that day, and read countless scientific papers on the subject and many corollaries. All that, and no consensus to draw on. The research that had been fine so far has been on lab animals, and with few practical applications. Mice were made hairless, they regrew limbs, and genetic diseases were seemingly cured in them. But nothing practically transferable as of yet. Those studies were deemed impossibly unethical at the moment. The human genome was seemingly sacred and immutable. The most I could find was a promising treatment for sickle cell anemia in African Americans. Why am I even surprised? Medical science often moves at a glacial pace, especially with the ever dwindling grant funding for novel research available, I should have known. It would probably take decades to see any meaningful progress on modifying the human genome at best, the ethics committees would block it to eternity. Rightfully so. That left me with two major blockers to getting the answers that would truly satisfy this craving, financial, and ethical. Both massive hurdles. Such research would cost millions of dollars, and few rational humans would ever willingly subject themselves to such trials. I don't blame them, the usual financial incentive for grad students is nice, but it won't convince them to let their peers alter their genomes after all.

These are the kind of nights I would never tell my therapist about, I'm supposed to be working on myself and my self image issues. Hours of research into vague scientific disciplines are far from that. So is letting myself get carried away on a distant idea of possibly fixing my issues one and for all. After all, such notions are never truly fixed, they are alleviated and overcome through countless hours of self discovery and communication. I've been told many times how unhealthy my obsession is with resolving issues,

I've even been told it's a residual part of my male brain that refuses to cope with emotional turmoil, and instead seeks practical and logical resolution to emotional problems.

That's precisely what's happening here, and I am fully willing to admit it.

I refute the "male brain" argument, that's fucking bullshit. Cis women try to practically resolve their issues just as much as cis men, they just do it differently and relay different aspects of the situation. I don't think all mental health issues can or should be resolved with a simple mindfulness exercise. If you could tackle it head on, why wouldn't you?

So that's exactly what I did.