Most of the drug users who visit the Free Clinics for consultation are in trouble with drugs, which may have skewed Galloway's picture: "People who use it illicitly are taking very large quantities," he says.
Users like Mike Feinke and Bill Walsh say they've never felt an addictive tug from GHB, but neither of them took the megadoses that Galloway patients did. Mr. B, for example, took 15 grams of the powder, vomited, lost the contents of his bowels and his bladder, and passed out for three hours. (Still, according to Galloway's paper, Mr. B didn't notice adverse effects when he quit using.) Another user, Mr. D was using 20 grams a day in six divided doses. Ms. G flipped out while taking GHB with MDMA. Mr. F, a member of AA, encountered GHB at the gym as a nutritional supplement and upped his dosage to take advantage of its intoxicating effects. Heavy user Ms. H encountered "shaky" and "hyper" feelings after she swallowed three capfuls three times daily over one holiday weekend. A year later she was down to three capfuls twice weekly and reporting no problems.
Galloway worries about patients in recovery from other drugs who might start hearing about this new drug GHB that is "safe" and sexy. What if they begin to self-medicate their insomnia and anxiety symptoms and fall off the wagon? What if the eight problem users he has tracked for his scientific paper are not the exception but the rule? What if the sexual panacea re-emerges as scourge?
Lined up in front of Badlands, a small pack of men in tight jeans patiently waits for the bouncer to give pass into the full-capacity Sunday night crowd. I'm waiting too, a bit out of place in droopy Levi's, to meet Mike Feinke again. It's been two weeks since he privied me to his world of dance music, cruising, and GHB. Tonight he's doing me another favor, providing me a hit of GHB.
Close enough to hear the bad techno, I see Feinke working his way through the smoky throng toward the door. Stepping outside, he spreads a large smile and pulls me out of line. "The Guy's being weird, but here it is," he says, producing a small plastic bag from his pocket.
Feinke's no amped-up dealer, he's a regular guy doing me a favor, opening the doors of a clique that usually shelters GHB. The first time we chatted over drinks he said, "Before I came to talk with you tonight, a friend reminded me that the more I talk about GHB the higher the price will go."
Tonight, as I trade him $10 for the powder, I wonder why he's opened this world to me. He has told me directly that drugs and his kid-in-a-candy-store life of a young gay man in San Francisco grate on him. A bright guy with a writing degree and a decent job, Feinke might be reminding himself that he has a life outside of drugs and cruising, that GHB doesn't really matter.
Stepping from one foot to another, he says, "Is your girlfriend home? You're going to, you're going to want to -- ," he giggles and wipes at his mouth. "I'm on GHB right now," he says, and his glassy eyes and giddiness do not belie the fact.
Glancing over my shoulder at the door, I realize that Feinke is in a hurry, and isn't going to entertain any more questions about GHB. I query the size of the dose, to make sure it's 2 grams, and thanking Feinke, I amble down 17th Street. Looking back, I remember something he told me about GHB at our first soiree, something that explains his dopey actions tonight.
"Unfortunately, it's just another way to stay at the bar longer.
