Shhh, don't tell: I'm taking a break from updating BIPC's Super Secret Project spreadsheet.

Today's thought-byte is...Poppers: Are they good or bad?

Poppers seem to be All The Rage these days, at least in the gay world. Having a vial of Flush or whatever it's called is as required a prop as, say, owning anything with 'Abercrombie & Fitch' on it. And I despise both.

Sniffing a Popper gives a headrush that temporarily enhance your perceptions. The bottles are small enough to carry on to the dance floor at the club for a whiff. Yowza man this beat is soo-ooo amazing! You unscrew the cap, keep a thumb over the opening (to prevent the stench and potentially flammable spillage), jam it right into your nostril and take a snort. It's considered good ettiquette to share. If sniffed during an 'intimate encounter', it's supposed to heighten your shining moment; best to sniff just before.

Poppers are sold as 'room deodorizers' but I'd hate to be any place using them for that: They smell like pungent metallic uck. You buy them in sex stores, next to the other 'marital aids'. I thought they were banned, ever since Paul Lynde, that craaazy character actor was found dead with a bottle by his side. Maybe it's true: Back then, Poppers were Amyl Nitrate -- now a 'controlled substance'. Today, they're a slightly different compound-- Alkyl Nitrate. And if you go out, they're everywhere.

Picture this: Hugshyhermit in Providence, Rhode Island. The year: 1986. Little hugshyhermit has a cute little boyfriend, R, from Ponte Delgada in the Azores Islands. Every weekend Hugshyhermit and R go dancing at the Mirabar, and R snorts up a storm of Poppers. (That, and bong-hits.) Whenever R snorts and takes a hit, he giggles and babbles away in portuguese. He sounds like a disturbed munchkin, and this becomes less and less funny and more and more annoying as time goes on. Whenever Hugshyhermit snorts and takes a hit, the floor and walls circle and he gets a pounding headache. After Hugshyhermit dumps R, he never does Poppers again.

What, never? Never. A couple of weeks ago, I picked up Underwear Boy -- a guy who 'donates' his underwear to the highest bidder 'for charitable purposes' in strip shows. Uh huh. Back at his place, things are going well and out come the Poppers. No, thanks, I say, and nicely, too. "Why -- don't you do them? When was the last time you did it?" He's rather on the defensive: "Now I feel self-conscious." Sniff away, I don't care. And so he does, near constantly. When I leave, Underwear Boy holds me close: "Call me," he hoarsely whispers. Hmmm, I seem to have misplaced the number.

A week or so later, the next guy asks: "Hey man do you do Poppers?" and it was all I could do to not roll my eyes. No matter -- soon he's sloppily snoring. I seem to have misplaced that number as well.

For those of you reading my Blog, you know I whine about being single with nary a boyfriend on the horizon; and then here I write about two numbers I could be calling...and won't. What gives?

I think recreational drugs should stay out of sex. Call me ole fashioned; I like my encounters natural. It's a turn off having that little bottle in the way; it's disconcerting to have someone snorting away. Every inch of our bodies with those billions of nerve endings can be put to good purpose, and I can't think of a better slow (or fast) hard and hot time than investigating them nerve endings.

Doesn't being high take away from that sensation? Oh, no, people say, It *adds* to the sensation. I disagree: They're not there with you; they're somewhere else. Maybe I'm wrong; maybe these guys would make a good husband; maybe these snortin' fools are good for another roll in the hay; maybe, baby... but the moment has passed: Been there, done that.

Speaking of pounding headaches. Brenda's in one of the closed offices near me. I can hear his voice, high-pitched, on the attack: "blah blah blah I said this before blah blah I told blah [CEO's name] blah blah blah impossible blah blah can't be done."

Well, back to the Super Secret Project. Vicodan, anyone...?