“Wanna try on the wig?” the DJ asked me, holding out a mirror. It was a tired joke between us. A year ago, I had snorted cocaine for the first time. After the first hit, a bunch of us tried to flag a cab to a party. We were laughing, smiling, sucking on cigarettes, chewing gum and swilling water. I was wearing a black Cleopatra-style wig. Weaving down the main street of a petit bourgeois suburb, between customers sitting at sidewalk tables outside cafés and restaurants, I'd declared, loudly, ”I love this wig.” I remember breathing in and feeling a heady rush of pure pleasure. It emanated from my heart to the tingling nerve-endings at the tips of my fingers and toes. I thought, “I feel so good and confident and sexy. Wearing this wig makes me feel alright about everything.” But all I was was high.Like ecstasy, coke only ever felt really good the first time. I tried a lot of other drugs afterwards to recapture that careless, fleeting, seductive feeling – and never did. I don't do any of them anymore.