My phone buzzed on the floor where it lay charging; a text message.

Annie: “Hiiiii. I’ve got acid. Let’s do it Saturday?”

I re-read the message. Ummmmm no. That’s insane. Saturday. What’s on Saturday? The city felt empty in August. Nothing could possibly be happening. I should check the weather. Oh, it’s going to be sunny. Wild. But possibly. Maybe. No. Could I? I guess. No. Yes. No. But it’s sunny. Maybe. Yes. Okay. Fine.

Typing: ……

“Ummm sure. High Park?” I added a sunset emoji.

Before I tell you what happened, I need to rewind a little. I first learned about psychedelic drugs from men. I read The Doors of Perception by Aldous Huxley. Doodled the front cover of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Listened to Jimi Hendrix like a stoner in Dazed and Confused. And read every single page (196 to be exact) of Carlos Castaneda’s teachings from Don Juan. Psychedelics were fascinating from an artistic and dominantly male perspective. Tales of heroics, disaster and pleasure lured me into a culture that celebrated bright colours and self-awareness. Women were rarely mentioned. And this never bothered me, until now.

That’s when I convinced myself to say yes to acid. I mean seriously, who’s to say that women experience psychedelic drugs the same way men do? We are different genders after all. And I’m tired of reading everything from a man’s perspective; I wanted to experience it from a woman’s. See my reasoning? Okay, I’ll admit it…maybe I was a little curious too. Like c’mon, it’s the summer and I’m in my early twenties. This is TOTALLY normal and acceptable. It would be an experiment. An exploration into womanhood. There was no turning back now.

IMMEDIATE QUESTIONS THAT FOLLOWED (V. IMPORTANT):

Sarah: Wait, what does it look like and how do you take it?

Annie: It’s a tiny square piece of paper that’s the size of a pinky nail. Put it on your tongue like a Listerine strip and let it sit for twenty minutes. Spit it out after like chewing gum.

Sarah: What do I wear?

Annie: A really cute jean jacket, that’s what. And a backpack filled with a water bottle, extra sweater, house keys, lipstick, notebook, pen and $40 cash (just in case).

Sarah: Will I get really hungry and dehydrated?

Annie: Not really.

Sarah: What movie should I watch before the trip?

Annie: Save the Last Dance. Because it’s like, phenomenal.

THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM

The night began with a classy drink at The Ace on Roncesvalles. I ordered a Dark n’ Stormy and waited for something to happen while Annie commented on the Devilled Duck Egg special. Around us, golden lights lit up the bar like a fireplace, cozy in a way that made everyone feel safe. Twenty minutes had passed since the acid melted and I began to hear things more clearly from further distances. Behind me, a woman described a girlfriend who drank too much at a wedding last weekend. She felt embarrassed about it and wanted to say something without being rude. A modern dilemma. On the other side of the room, a cluster of old friends in their mid-forties rolled eyes between wine tasting. “Isn’t it lovely?” a woman asked. In front of me, I looked closely at our server who read the dinner specials off a piece of paper he hadn’t memorized. My brain was suddenly in a hot yoga class: stretching in panoramic views across the room. Glass bottles of whisky, vodka and rum reflected sparkles. My vision felt like a bubble bath. A little giggly after the drinks, we settled the bill and left the bar as my stomach rumbled with anticipation. Or menstrual cramps. Either or.

CEREMONIAL SAGE IN HIGH PARK

The air felt like cool morning fog against my skin. As we walked further into darkness, the breeze felt clean in the trees that surrounded us. Annie and I became hysteric over duck eggs. Athletic couples in neon walked by us. Were they on it too? Why are they in High Park at 10pm? They couldn’t seriously be exercising at THIS hour. The further we wandered, the more my brain focused on details. In a trail that looked non-threatening, we walked into pitch blackness only to find the High Park Labyrinth that smelt like dog piss. My hands felt sensational against the towers of grass that tickled against my palms. The moon was half full with clouds that looked sort of pretty. We lay down in the grass and I dug my nails into the dirt. Crickets and grasshoppers clacked and buzzed in my ear. Faces appeared in the branches while Annie lit some sage. Yes, the burning sage smelled divine. Time was irrelevant. Poison ivy reminded us to stay alert.

FEELING GROOVY ON BLOOR STREET

Annie’s phone is buzzing. It’s a text from a DJ. He tells us to come to The Piston for a disco party and we seriously consider it. But it could be fun, no? Fuck it. Dancing can’t be THAT hard. Right? Nobody will even notice us. LET’S DO IT. Determined to dance, we walked eastbound on Bloor for what felt like days. My legs felt soft and agile. Energy was relentless. The inside of my mouth felt dry and I craved something wet and sweet. Together, we followed the beaming bright lights through the empty streets of the BIG on Bloor festival, now closed off and filled with zombies of drunks. Bros shouted at one another. A woman in a wedding dress stood outside The Bar With No Name surrounded by a cluster of suits. I felt timid as I walked by; unable to handle strangers. I was invincible and powerless at the same time. I really needed to pee.

WHITE RUSSIANS, JUST BECAUSE

The Piston is blasting waves of disco. Bass bounces off the wall and invites us into the backroom where a crowd is dancing groovy in retro wigs and glitter. So much glitter. An older man who looks like a gym teacher dances in the corner like a pervert. A jean jacket squad raise hands in a chanting circle of tall beers. Annie and I walk to the bar. Words felt very sloppy and my jaw suddenly felt like Play-Doh. I rehearsed my drink order in my head: White Russian. White Russian. Say it. Just say it. Annie burst out laughing under the table. I held it together when the older bartender asked me to repeat myself. “Uh. I want a….White Russian.” He looked at me like I was a little girl then made the drink with a carton of milk that was most definitely expired. A White Russian appeared; red cherries and all. I’m a classy fucker. Behind me, Annie’s neighbour appeared, “You going bowling after this?” I smiled back. Pretending to be a young woman at the bar was a breeze.

WIGS, GLITTER AND TUMMY ACHES

We danced. It could have been a stumbling swirl with a hair flip, but all-in-all, it felt like flying. I chuckled between hops, thrusts and spins. In the corner of my eye, I saw a couple in their late forties. A tall man with greyish hair and dark eyes wore a leather jacket with glitter all over his face. The woman, a fast-moving dancer, adjusted her curly blonde wig in a striped blouse and silky flare pants. Together, they danced in a way that made my heart thaw. They grinned warmly at each other like best friends, and while the woman danced by herself in circles later into the night, the man smiled at her from the booth with pieces of glitter stuck to his cheeks like disco balls. They were magnetic. And I loved them. My stomach began to growl from the milk. Wtf. Why did I order a White Russian? I really don’t know. Whatever.

GLOW-IN-THE-DARK FRISBEE

I desperately wanted to pool hop in Christie Pits. It was the last weekend of summer. I doubted police were trolling the neighbourhood for “dangerous” pool-hopping drunk girls. Annie knew it wasn’t a good idea, so we walked to the park instead. At Harbord and Grace, a group of kids threw a glow-in-the-dark frisbee in the baseball diamond. Lying down under a big tree, we sat in the grass and watched them snicker at one another in a drunken stupor. We invented stories speculating where they had been before this. A vegan dinner party rave? No way, it’s a running clique. Maybe they’re drunk ghosts from Black Hall? They’re definitely in a band. Isn’t that the dude who works at Burger’s Priest? Yawning, the night was coming to a close. We walked in the familiar direction of home between side streets of Ossington and Dovercourt. Hammered women in high heels stumbled home from the bar with handfuls of pizza. Annie and I parted ways with a hug. Twenty minutes later, she texted me: “Home now. Eating baby watermelon.”

My kind of gal.

MY EXPERIENCE ON ACID AS A WOMAN

LSD was a sensual experience. It was whimsical and full of twists and turns like yoga in High Park or something. I was alive in a way that made my rib cage feel heavy. My lips looked majestic and red. My skin tingled with a layer of sweat that felt deserved. Dancing was close enough to flying. And my perspective tilted, just a little bit. With my nail polish chipped and eye liner smudged like a preteen, everything felt romantic.

So how does my acid trip compare to the men of drug culture? I can’t say I found religion. I didn’t “trip balls,” nor did I discover my true self while. However, I will admit that I was wrong. While the art forms and media I consumed as a teenager were largely male dominated, the psychedelic experience was androgynous. I felt like a human being under the influence of a hot summer, burning sage, romantic lighting and trashy dancing. It wasn’t my genetic makeup, tits, vagina or lipstick that made womanhood more spectacular on acid; it was everything else. The glowing lights. The snippets of conversation. The strangers on the street. The smirks and the glow-in-the-dark frisbee. Despite being on my period during the trip, I didn’t feel any more woman than I do now. Maybe a little gassy after the White Russian though.

I guess I could have said no to acid, but I said yes, and I don’t regret it.