My decision to smoke weed for the first time was both a long time coming and a spur of the moment decision. I had thought about it for a long time, but between my strict Bible Belt upbringing (the first 18 years), my involvement with the military (the next 11 years), and then my employment with a national retailer that didn’t allow marijuana use in any form (2 more years), I had never really gotten around to it.
Sure, I’d thought about it. I had played around with the idea in my mind, slowly resolving many of the mental obstacles I was raised with. This wasn’t some hardcore drug, cooked up in a lab, refined and mixed to a fine degree of chemical composition… no, this was literally just a plant. Getting baked was no different than getting drunk from an intoxication standpoint, and pretty much everyone I knew had done that at some point. One by one, the objections fell until that fateful night I was hanging out with a girl I had recently started dating – and she had just finished rolling a joint.
She started to light it, and I looked over at her. “Mind if I smoke with you?”
Her jaw dropped. She knew I had never smoked pot before. “Sure!!” she enthusiastically replied, then lit the joint and handed it over.
My first inhale nearly killed me. I’m a social smoker, but one thing I had forgotten to take into consideration was the presence of a filter on the end of a cigarette. This requires significantly more suction to pull the smoke through than it does on say, oh, a hand-rolled joint with a completely open hole straight to the good stuff.
I almost died coughing.
She almost died laughing.
She took the joint from me, saying that she was helping me out; in reality, I think she was not only trying to save the doobie she had just rolled, but was making an earnest effort to keep me from setting her apartment on fire. Once both of us had recovered and were breathing normally, she re-lit the J and demonstrated how to slowly pull the smoke into your mouth, then inhale slowly. She kept emphasizing this word “slowly” like I had just pulled a Santa Clause over a lit chimney, but instead of trying to go down it with a bag of gifts I had attempted to put the fire out by inhaling the entire thing.
(I don’t know if I mentioned this or not, but she’s extremely gifted in the art of sarcasm.)
I gingerly took it from her hand and copied her technique as closely as I could. I still coughed, but not nearly as much. After three hits, she advised me to wait and see what happened. At this point I was feeling slightly buzzed, kind of like you do when you’ve just smoked after you haven’t had a cigarette in a while. I’ll have to admit, I was disappointed. “This is what all the hype is about?” I thought.
Three minutes went by.
Five minutes.
Nothing.
Then it hit me, like a freight train out of nowhere. I’m not really sure what happened, but time and space warped, the room shifted, and happiness descended upon me like a warm blanket. As the test subject in Pineapple Express says, I felt “like slab of butter melting on a big ole pile of flapjacks.” Unfortunately, just like a slab of butter, I couldn’t move. I was, almost literally, stuck to the couch.
She had left the room and was taking a shower; having lost all sense of time, I contemplated waiting somewhere between two minutes and a hundred years before she would come back and help me to bed.
After approximately five years I decided that she wasn’t returning, ever, so I mustered up the courage and somehow managed to get from the couch to the bedroom, where I dissolved into the bed and stared at the ceiling, enjoying the absolute, complete, utter relaxation that washed over me. A few years after that she returned, and after recovering from a fit of giggles at my expression, we made love.
And how. Wow.
That was, to date, the single most epic lovemaking experience I’ve ever had. I’ve already described how I lost sense of time, so I don’t know how long it went on, but it felt like forever (in the best way possible). The next morning I asked her how long sex had lasted and she rolled over, lifted herself up on one elbow, and stared directly into my eyes. “Hours.” She said. “You were amazing.”
Slowly the image of my rapidly evolving alter-ego, Weedman The Mighty Lover, formed before my eyes. Those thoughts were rapidly dashed as I realized this superhero would never be able to bypass a buffet or Krispy Kreme shop; regardless, I couldn’t wait to experience this phenomenon again.
It wasn’t long until I smoked pot a second time, and the next two or three times that first experience repeated itself. Over the next few months my tolerance grew and the experience changed to a generally completely relaxed experience; the best word I can think of to describe the way it has felt since then is “mellow.” Completely mellow. I’ve struggled with anxiety and depression for most of my adult life with a laundry list of tried and failed prescriptions for both, and weed has been the one thing that has turned it around for me. It’s something that I would highly recommend for anyone; just make sure that when you go to smoke that first joint, you’re in the spot you plan on sitting for the next few hours/centuries, with an appropriately sized supply of Doritos.
…and perhaps a good Seth Rogen movie on repeat. You’re gonna giggle your butt off.
-Weedman the Mighty Lover
Please don’t take anything you read here as medical or legal advice. If you need medical or legal advice, consult a doctor or lawyer. The articles and content that appear on this website have been written by different people and do not necessarily reflect the views of our organization.