Flavor Of The Week: Flings Go Better With Coke

Being a single, attractive, 31-year-old, successful, heterosexual New York male gets me a lot of opportunities to date, engage, court and have sex with incredible women. The ratio in New York City is mind-blowing; the quality of physical, mental and emotional states are awesome; the women are simply wonderful wonderful wonderful!!!

But some aren’t. No, really not. I must report in complete honesty that my conquests blow my own mind at times. Sometimes the things I get away with, well, they are impressive. But sometimes things get away with me, and it’s a horrible flaw to fall into the who-rejects-who-first game, the who-cums-the-hardest game, the who-is-more-whatever game.

Games suck.

But they are inevitably going to be run into. Here is a great example of judgment perhaps not being 20-20, and a player looking for a playmate simply being played.

Boy meets girl at a brunch spot, girl and boy make eyes, swap numbers, go out later that evening. We’re both liberal, fast and we’re in the bathroom of the Gutter (the new bowling bar in Williamsburg) having sex within 15 minutes of showing up. OK. Great. It’s clean, it’s safe, it’s weird, but she’s into having sex in bizarre places. I can rarely get off in bathrooms, so I get to wait. OK. Great. That saves me.

On to another bar, and we call the dopeman. Copping cocaine in yet another idling Lexus is not exactly new material for this Jewish cocaine cowboy. So boy and girl become weekend warriors together. I can afford to take another ride on that wheel, all right. And for some reason, this one, she knows how to drive me crazy! I’m mad about her. It’s GOT to be her pheromones. She smells so good to me I could have eaten her, even though going down on her wasn’t going to happen, considering her hygiene by the time we were through drinking all day was, well, you read we had sex in bar bathrooms, right?

So we meet for a drink one day after work, and I’m in a suit. I look like a million bucks, even though I have a mortgage and feel like I owe everyone money. Which I do. I tell her I want to quit coke and I’ve got half a bag at my place. I’m down. Feeling down. She’s obviously selfish and a user. She actually asked if I would buy the drinks before meeting me. This is like the animal kingdom! Provide resources and you get some!

So the cocaine—I’m not dumb to how she works. I use that as a lure to get back to my crib (I live alone in a fabulous bachelor pad), and I want her to be there, to lie down next to me, to curl up and be like, well, like a couple. I guess I’m just a great big soft-hearted honkey, hung like a donkey.

“So you have a bag of coke?”

“It’s yours if you want it.”

She wants it. I buy the drinks, I pay for the cab, we go to my place. She had never been to my place. I get out of the cab. I go upstairs. I throw my billfold on the table with my keys, my wallet, etc. I toss the coke on the table for her. She’s in my place! Potential girlfriend, in my apartment! She sees where I exist! She likes it! She’s doing cocaine in my apartment!

I move behind her and slap her ass. We fuck. The things she’d say. So romantic.

“Do you want to just bend me over?”

She’s just as bored as me. Thank you, Kurt Cobain.

I tried to get her to cuddle but she’s not having it. It’s back to her new half-bag of coke.

I’m tired and coming off of all this binging she and I have been doing. I’m a wreck. I’m also realizing my life is becoming, fuck it, it is, has been for years, one long series of affairs. Trysts. I’m a slut. I’ve become a slut. I’m curled up on my couch naked. She’s doing the coke. She’s calling a cab. She’s wishing me well, but it’s fake. I can tell. She’s just another one.

The women I choose sometimes. Loose and fast with everything. Should have known. She had tattooed earlobes. What does that mean? I try to overlook things. My good fucking God, who tattoos their earlobes? And then others I throw away. Great, good women with minds and hearts. Wow am I tired of sleeping naked on my couch.

Before she left, she took $60 from the table. She left me the change from the cab, but the rest of my billfold, gone.

“Listen, I was really an emotional wreck last night, but did you take $60 from my table?” I asked her, newly rested.

“No.”

“Uh, are you sure?”

“You can just go sell some real estate and make 60 grand anyway.”

“I can’t believe …”

“I fucked you. I fucked you.”

I could tell how she translated the situation. It was a form of lightweight prostitution, like she’d never sold it before. Jesus. A new low, even lowah than befoah. It might sound strange, I know, but life is strange—and sex is strange—and this happened, which proves it!

In all of my wildest dreams, never would I have thought love would elude me to the extent that I would have so many partners. It’s got to be in the... Well, it’s at least three digits.