Silk Road forums
Market => Rumor mill => Topic started by: sickboy on February 06, 2012, 06:23 am
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I've never tried Foxy. I only recently heard of it and no one I know IRL has ever seen it. I really want to give it a try so I thought I would come to the forums and ask you guys who are experienced with Foxy where I should get it. I see only a few vendors have it. Whos's is the best?
Thanx!
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im bumping this thread because I want to hear some of your guys' opinions on foxy!
seriously! i would trust the members of the forums a lot more then the people on the street whos general consensus is that its freaking nuts and most of them hate it.
i hear a lot of good things though and am eager to try it, but want some general opinions from here first :)
please folks! share your experiences
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I have Foxy in my name :D
Who need my opinion? Just go with sex on the edge.
http://www.erowid.org/chemicals/5meo_dipt/5meo_dipt_article1.shtml
We have entered the "chill space." Judging by my nipples it's an apt name, but that has nothing to do with the cold. Everywhere, couples are languidly knotted together like octopi in heat. A disco ball spins lazily above, and refracted bits of light strobe across flesh and faces. I stumble past stacked fur pillows and a candlelit incense altar. At first the 10 or 12 couples spread out around the edges of the circle don't seem to be looking at anything, but after my eyes adjust to the darkness I see that in fact they are staring intently at a prone couple rocking vigorously by a wall. The girl is on top, and her ass rises and falls steadily. Her navy-blue canvas sailor skin is pulled up around her waist, and I can't take my eyes off the rhythmic jiggle of her cheeks.
I glance at Isabel, who is busy giggling off compliments on her slutty mermaid costume. "Are they really having sex over there?" I say to no one in particular.
From the shadows to my left someone says, "Yeah--they're on foxy."
Wet and Wild
In the 1973 manual Sex, Drugs and Magick: A Journey Beyond Limits, Robert Anton Wilson wrote, "The future will be much wilder and hairier than the immediate past." With this in mind, I drank the vial of clear liquid safe in the confines of my apartment and waited for my future to begin.
The taste was terrible. Secretly I felt secure in the knowledge that I would at least weather it better than John. He downed his dose and shuddered violently. "I feel like I just licked the tracks of the fucking subway!" he moaned. Here's a guy who's such a straight-edged vegan he won't drink sake, for Christ's sake, and I have him squeezed between my legs ingesting questionable research chemicals invented before Reagan took office. But all I can think about right now is that someone should call in a weapons inspector to check my mouth for a stash of war chemicals.
We're not off to a good start. A few moments pass while we both stare into space. John says, "Well, at least there haven't been any fatalities reported. As far as we know, anyway." I pop a piece of gum into my mouth and chew like crazy.
"I brush my hand carelessly across my lap; the response is immediate, electric and sharp."
Oddly, I begin to feel a tingling flush of warmth between my legs. It's absurd. No one could take a drug called foxy and get hot 10 minutes later--life just doesn't work that way. Besides. I'm so busy waiting to puke that I can't pay attention. I brush my hand carelessly across my lap; the response is immediate, electric and sharp.
Experienced foxy users say it's not a beginner's drug, and I'm starting to see their point. Right after we take it. we figure we have some time to gather supplies from the store--candles, raspberries, water--before it kicks in. But by the time we make it out the door, we are tripping so hard we find the dull sidewalk overstimulating. "I don't think I can make it," John says, eyeballing 74th Street like a bazaar in Bombay.
Back upstairs, I suddenly feel like the incarnation of femininity, but not in a sexpot way; more Botticelli's Venus than Madonna. I saunter up to John and shimmy slowly down his body, and it doesn't feel absurd. Clothes, even the kind by La Perla, seem unnecessary, so I shrug them off to the accompaniment of Seventies soul. John turns out the lights and watches me dance. I don't notice he's filming me until I hear the clicking of his video camera. I motion him to follow me into the bedroom.
Now my body is a strange combination of hot and cold--one second I'm trembling, and the next my thighs are slick with sweat. Although the physical sensations are like nothing I've ever felt, I'm mentally unchanged. I can speak clearly. but because of the delicious electrical rivulets running along my tongue. I'd rather kiss John's lips and the soft nest of his throat. Everything, suddenly, is a sex toy: a hair on his chest, the bedroom curtains blowing in the breeze across my ass.
Shivering from the subtlest waves of pleasure, I close my eyes as John runs his hands over me. "Do you realize you haven't stopped moving your belly erotically for three hours?" John says, and I say, "Seriously?" We've put on a CD of Algerian raï, a spell of Saharan wailing and drumming. I'm no longer aware of the boundaries of our bodies, only the rhythm they make together.
John turns me over. "You feel so subtle," John whispers, sounding out each syllable like they taste good in his mouth. I've been uncontrollably wet all night, and now, at last, I'm ready. The foxy sex is searing and endless. Foxy sex turns my skin inside out. Together, John and I shape-shift into different positions like figures in a Mayan hieroglyph.
I'm a Venus flytrap, about to snatch an orgasm the size of Alaska. I don't need an area code because I don't want anyone to call.
The postsex cigarette hour is filled with weightless intimacy. Some drugs lead to a comedown period of hellish introspection, but not foxy. "It's not like This Is Your Life, "John says, "starring you and your brain and all of your neuroses." I can barely remember my problems, my gripes, the lingering doubts I have about John's suitability as a long-term partner. In fact, I'm almost disturbingly serene. I've gone from being a hypochondriacal girl on the rag, so to speak, to a yogic instrument of divine will. Nothing he could do would hurt me right now. I wouldn't care if John went dancing with 15 sluts in white go-go boots and I stayed home and ate Twinkies.
The sex never seemed to stop, even when we hopped into a cab at one A.M. en route to an after-hours dance club. Our cabdriver dialed all his margins so tight and with such precision that I could have whispered into the ears of the passengers in the cars next to us. Sometimes he fucked the road, stroking it with effortless, powerful confidence. He made it look easy to charge red lights that magically turned green as we crossed the line. During the smooth ride we witness a procession of lights and flitting human minidramas unfolding down Broadway through Times Square. Everywhere the night went, there was a beat, and we were always in sync with it.
Whoa. Maybe this was too much of a good thing.
Foxy is one of my favs. I also have Moxy
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I know I need to dissolve this into some kind of alcohol for volumetrics. Any recommendations?
Also, I read there was a cross tolerance between mdma and foxy. How long is the tolerance period?
Its probably not a incredibly significant cross tolerance. Probably about a week at most. Some of the psychedelic effects do coincide with the effects of MDMA.