Coke adds life?
I continually run into my hot, straight neighbor on my dog walks. You know, the one that thinks I’m wholesome. We briefly chat about nothing, hug out, and I’m on my way. Our fakelationship has graduated. He rang the doorbell.
“Hi, are you doing anything. I’m lonely and want company,” he said when I opened the door. I explained that I was doing laundry and packing for the 4th weekend, so I wasn’t really doing anything.
I got him a beer, gave him the 10-cent tour, and took him out to the back porch. We chatted briefly and as we were coming back in the door, he turned, stared me down and kissed me.
“We’ve been flirting for months. I just wanted to get that out of the way,” he said.
It was a fabulous reminder that I am a woman with needs, but the needle on my internal creepy Reiter scale was twitching.
“That felt great and I agree, the flirting has been fun and you are a good looking guy, but I have to tell you right now, I’m not fucking you,” I said, trying to manage his expectations. The other reality was my legs were unshaved; I was in yoga pants, a big t-shirt, and a sport bra from my work out a few hours prior. I was just plain gross.
He said he understood and that was cool, then offered to give a tour of his place. I put the whites in the dryer and walked with him.
We made it to his bedroom where he asked me if I was OK with him doing coke. I told him it was his house and it wouldn’t make me uncomfortable, but I wasn’t interested in participating… EVER. Food remains my drug of choice. I sat there and got a first-hand drug education. This wasn’t like the disco coke the kids did when I was in high school. This was a ritual. He sprinkled the coke on tin foil, added some baking soda and water, let it dry, then burned the foil from the bottom and sucked the smoke through a three-inch glass straw. I guess the way Richard Pryor freebased was too old school for him.
Once the high hit, I immediately fired away with the questions.
“I see your car around a lot. Do you work?” I asked.
“Well….” , he responded which I knew was the prelude to a good unemployment story.
He used to be a contractor working in concrete (which would explain the body), but with the housing slump, and the abundance of cheap Mexicans, he hasn’t worked in a while. “I get help,” he said.
Now, where I come from “help” means public assistance or a trust fund. I cocked my head, looked confused and let him elaborate.
“I have a few lady friends that take care of me,” he admitted.
“Seriously? You are a 30 year-old gigolo?” I asked.
Indeed he was. Then he asked my age. He was dumbfounded and then said he loved older woman because we know what we want. Alas, I know what I don’t want, and that’s a young, cokehead gigolo.
The next morning, my doorbell rang and it was Cokie sweating in satin pajama bottoms and a Hugh Heffner robe.
“Let me guess, you’ve been up all night,” I said laughing at him.
“Yeah, what time is it?” he asked.
“It’s time for me to go to work and for you to go home,” I responded.
I liked our relationship when there was mystery about him and when he told me I had a nice ass. Now I’ve met yet another troubled LA guy with no direction.
NEXT.