Whippet Good!

• Lori Palminteri
• Uncategorized
• May 7, 2019

The first time I did a whippet I was 28 years old and tripping on acid.

What a ridiculous sentence.  It’s hard to believe that in all those years I worked in restaurants I never did a whippet until I was 28.

We spent most of the day in the sun at the park.  Soaking in the music as the world seemed to dance to it.  We seldom spoke.  Or at least I did.  I’m not much of a talker to begin with, and anyone I have ever tripped with, I’ve warned that there’s a good possibility I won’t say anything for hours, but that doesn’t mean I’m not having a good time.

To conceal his identity, I will refer to the person’s apartment we were at as “shaman.”  There were four of us.  Including my brother, who was late to the party and was not tripping.

Nitrous oxide, or laughing gas, is sometimes referred to as hippie crack— as the hippies in the music festival scene like to drop acid and inhale balloons full of n02 to blast you off into another dimension.  Arguably, I am a hippie, however, as much as I love live music, music festivals are too crowded with the annoying kind of hippies for me (the annoying kind of hippies are the hippies who don’t know how the economy works).

Look, I’m not going to advocate the use of whippets but before you get all bent about it, keep in mind that the atmosphere is 78% nitrogen (21% oxygen), so it is not poison.  You are breathing it right now.  And if you’ve had a tooth pulled from a dentist, you’ve probably actually been high off of it.

Whippets never really appealed to me because it was such a short lived high.  Why bother?  But when handed a canister during that trip, I inhaled and then thought I was dying.

If I had ever done a whippet before that moment, even once, I would have known that it comes with a sort of pulsing sound which I guess is the sound of your pulse?  I’m not even really sure.  My high was well waning until I first inhaled the whippet.  The first thing I noticed was that pulsating sound.  In fact, I had thought it was coming from the AC vent above me.  And then my vision fractured into kaleidoscoping rainbows.  Within seconds, my thought process was as follows, “oh shit, what the fuck?  Am I dying?  I’m dying.  I just want to tell my brother I love him before I die.”  And then I just accepted it.  I just accepted that I was dying on that couch in that moment, and everything was still kaleidoscoping and it was so beautiful and I felt a sense of peace.  Is it healthy or alarming how quickly I surrendered, accepted and was at peace with my own death?

Spoiler alert!  I did not die.  And when the nitrous wore off (which is like 2 minutes), as one does on laughing gas, I burst into an uncontrollable laughter.

It was awesome.

Now.  That being said, there are other things that need to be said.  At that time, I was going through a break up that would continue to be an ongoing break up that would cause much turbulence and heartache for the following year.  Ah, hearts— they’re real fucking assholes.  Notwithstanding, I was grateful for this here discovery combination of psychedelics and whippets (to any of you out there who may be a little square, no, we were not huffing rediwhip canisters, you can buy n02 cartridges from any head shop, really, as they are legal).

So… here’s where it gets weird (I caution certain readers, especially my family members, to just stop reading right here because I’m about to write about masturbation, other readers, rejoice!).

Like everyone else, I’ve been through my share of break ups, though none of them quite as shattering as that one.  Still, there’s something to be grateful for in the sense that I increased my toy game (hint, hint, wink, wink) and grew ever experimental with myself, resulting in more than satisfying results.

And then I had an idea.  What if in my solo sexual splendor, I hit a whippet right as I’m about to orgasm.  If it came even close to the experience on LSD, it would be amazing.  Once you have ideas like this… if you’re me… there’s no going back.  The idea must come to fruition.

The main danger I saw at the time was that I could potentially ruin orgasms for myself forever.  What if it was so good that sex with anyone became dull?  Somehow, that was also alluring at the time, seeing that both my head and my heart were metaphorically fractured.  As it is, porn has ruined a lot of guys.  Especially my generation.  They make for lousy lovers.  But on the other hand, while bedroom toys have done us females tremendous favors, it may actually have drawbacks on our intimate loving as well.

Let the experiments begin.  Like I said, you can buy a box of “cream chargers” at any head shop, which, let’s face it, no baker is going to a vape shop because he ran out of chargers for his whipped cream canister.

Without getting into too much detail (go ahead, use your imagination, but when you do, keep in mind that I have great abs), it did take a lot of trials.  The good news is, the trials were fun!  But timing the toys, my body and administering the whippet inhale at the right time before cumming was trickier than I thought it would be.  But, boy oh boy, do I love a challenge!!!

Trails continued.  Practice makes perfect, right?  The whippet, I suppose, along with the brief euphoria burst, fucks with your senses, so it would really throw and often delay my orgasm all together.

Persistence prevails.  One night, I have my various “instruments,” if you will, along with the loaded nitrous canister, and I hit it at just the right moment and WHAM!  A sound barrier breaking orgasm.  I officially took self pleasing to a whole other level… a whole other weird level, but in my experience, the weirder the better.  I really think I’m a trailblazer on this one, guys.  Dare I say, hero?

Unfortunately, this collision of euphoria is equally as difficult to replicate as it was to accomplish the first time.  And in case you were wondering, I’ve never brought whippets into the equation with another lover (not yet! But who knows!!!!).  Though that is a pretty weird thing to bring up… “oh my fetishes?  I’d like to be tied up and you fuck me while dressed as a pirate, and I also am going to be doing whippets while I’m on top of you.”  I only ever brought up this happening one other time to one other person.  And now you all know!!!!! Spice up your sex life with some bizarre experiments!!!!!!! What do you have to lose!!!!!!!

Moving forward.  Having successfully achieved an orgasm on steroids, for the most part I just went back to not doing whippets during masturbation.  Though, some nights when I was feeling weird, I’d go for it.  Usually, I couldn’t time it right, so I’d just end up hitting the whippet after I came.

Cigarettes after sex is the only time cigarettes actually seem appealing to me.  Otherwise they’re gross.  Having never smoked a cigarette a day in my life, it’s not something I can say fairly, but there was something so soothing about a whippet post sex that seems to have that same sensation.

And here’s where it gets weird.  Or weirder.  Or just really kind of disturbing and a little sad.

Whippets do have a euphoric effect.  One night, after playing with my toys, I have this box of whippets near my bed and I’m depressed and mentally fucked that day, so I just do all the whippets, one after the other.  And I feel fucking great.

A week or so goes by.  I don’t know how long.  Don’t fact check me here, some time went by.  I’m coming home and I’m especially upset that night, and I think it a good idea to buy some more whippets.  I get high first, put on a nature documentary (if I’m watching TV, it’s always a 50% chance I’m watching a nature documentary) and go through the entire box of n02 cartridges.  And I didn’t masturbate!  What a waste!

This would be the first of a series of nights where I would not only numb myself, but blast my dopamine deprived brain with laughing gas.  Like most drugs, I’d pay for it in the morning.  You don’t get hungover, but my depression in the morning was near intolerable.  I would wake up wanting to walk over to the Hellgate bridge, just a few blocks from my apartment and jump off of it.  Mornings are already difficult for anyone who has depression.  Spend a night blasting out of depression, pay for it double time in the morning.

If that’s not troubling enough, another night when I was especially bent out of shape, some sort of combination of my regular depression with toppings of the romance relapse and the perpetual uncertain career stress, all I wanted was to go home to my bed and make it go away.  My wallet had less than $50— all the money I’d have to buy food for the week, and even though I hadn’t even eaten dinner that day, I didn’t care, I just wanted to get high that night and feel happy.

You ever have an “oh I’m a crack head” moment?  It’s a weird moment, because you never think it’s going to happen to you.  Crackhead behavior is both fun and funny sometimes, I’ll admit it… but crackhead thinking is not cool.  When you have to debate whether you should buy groceries for the week or get high for one night and then be depressed as all fucking hell in the morning… you’re a crackhead.

Fuck, I remember thinking.  Fuck, fuck, FUCK.  The fact that this is even a debate in my head is a bad sign.  My actions were beyond “having a silly ol’ time” and bordering self harm.  Self destruction is the result of this thought pattern: you’re killing yourself, I don’t care, you’re killing yourself, I don’t care, you’re killing yourself, I don’t care.

If you find this to be sad, you are right.  It is really sad.  The things we do sometimes to not be in pain.

Since it’s all on the record now, even though I’ve never actually spoken about it, I will say this to you, my dear readers:  whippets on acid are fun as hell, whippets during sex are weird in a fun way, whippets to deal with your deep emotional pain are very, very unhealthy.  Please do not do this!  Drugs should be used for recreational fun, I’m firm a believer in this!  But if you have a self destructive streak, know that you might have impulse control issues when you’re screaming on the inside.  Careful.  Call someone or something.

Man, this blog was so much more fun when I was talking about super orgasms, wasn’t it?  Geez, I really know to ruin everything.

The first time I did a whippet I was 28 years old and tripping on acid.  At first, I was in a panic because I thought I was dying.  Then the world seemed beautiful and what was going to be was going to be, and I was more than okay with it.  For what it’s worth, I look back and laugh at all this soberly, no laughing gas required, just a sick yet head sense of humor, and am able to laugh at it.