The first time I took Ayahuasca I dreamt I was buried alive 5 separate times and watched cannibals eat the dead.
I liked it.
My friend, Roan, was studying to become a Shaman and lead spiritual retreats. He smuggled the drug through customs every few months from Peru.
I first met him when I answered a Craigslist ad looking for models. He was teaching a seminar and needed attractive women for men to practice hitting on. He was a pickup artist, but I’d never heard of one. I was dumb young, video phones weren’t even a thing.
I worked for him a few more times when he had individuals fly in for private coaching.
One time in Chicago, riding in the back of a cab, Roan said to me, “I could’ve swore your tits were bigger.”
I hadn’t gotten implants yet and was flat chested.
“Yeah, I think I was still recovering from the breast reduction last time I saw you. This is the final size.”
His client leaned forward wide eyed, “how big were they?”
Without skipping a beat I said, “Triple J, they don’t even make standard bras that size, all custom order, gonna save a mint on lingerie!”
I was certain Roan would explode with laughter. The rest of the night his client would periodically mumble “Triple J… ” under his breath, and we’d laugh about it again for several years.
He had a crush on me I didn’t realize for a long time. But he was always respectful of me, protective even.
Here he was teaching men how to manipulate women for sex, but he wouldn’t use his own techniques on me.
After we’d done Ayahuasca together a handful of times he told me he didn’t feel comfortable having me join. Didn’t think he was skilled enough yet and I scared him.
“I’ve never seen someone like you before. You go so deep into the medicine without holding back,” he said.
I wasn’t sure if I should be insulted or flattered. Maybe it was my enthusiasm for being buried alive that frightened him.
The last time I saw him we met up for coffee. It was his idea, not something we usually did. He told me I was profoundly attractive, his words never mine. He wanted to take me on a date.
I thought he was joking like he always did.
I got busy with college, an eating disorder and abusive ex. He got his doctorate, dated and married the right woman.
A few years ago he died of cancer. Too young to go like that. I missed the funeral but still cried for the loss of my friend.
He’s buried in my home state, while I call his home state home.
Maybe it’s better to let old friendships fade away and never know their real end.
The tone and tempo of his voice are permanently recorded inside my head.
I admired his complicated self. One of only a few real, good men I’ve ever met.
