_content warning: death, explicit drug use_
We met because her friend broke the rules of another subreddit. Her first pickup was the best meth SoCal had seen in months; I drove to the SGV to get it and nearly didn’t make our appointment, so fucking stuck I was.
A: Wya
T: Google sez 12mins
A: kk
T: Your car or mine? Literally my first time doing this btw
A: Mine
She was impatient, taciturn, and smoking hot. I was apologetically social; I _warned_ her that this was probably more than she was used to and to be careful… and then I asked if she wanted to have sex. I broke every commandment in the plug’s bible.
After she sped off, alloy wheels throwing rocks every which way, I stayed in my car in the empty lot, stuck on homemade threesomes involving petite blonde MILFs.
A: Oh. Eyes more open, mind more awake then the yawn of comfort. This shit is *good.* I’m weird, but it makes me comfortable?
We texted for two hours after I came through. She sat at the dining table in her apartment after her ex had picked up the kids; I sat, stuck on my iPhone, in a faceless, sensible Japanese sedan parked in a faceless, sensible Valley parking lot.
A: I missed this shit. It *does* reminds me of what I’d score in the late 90’s.
A: Did you know, once upon a time I had the only ounce in Boston? My dealer came from New York and got busted with however many ounces he had right after my man picked up from him at CVS.
A: Fuck. You’d get high just smelling the shit.
A: Never seen its like again until now. This is really your first time dealing?
T: You ever see that movie _Lawless?_ It’s based on a true story about my family. A whole generation of good boys turned into backwoods bootleggers who went on to found NASCAR.
T: The less-fortunate cousins abandoned stills and corn to focus on shake and bake.
A: I saw that one! Oh wow.
A: Franklin County reminded me of Boston. As long as you were white, you could get busted by local LEO and get off scot-free.
Every month or so she and I would talk about everything for hours, until a wince in her core would remind her that, oh yeah, did I think she could pick up another eightball? Of course, no worries, I’d say, which she would follow up with a request that _would_ make me worry. _Yeah, I think I can get you two grams of black. a-PVP? I’ll have to fudge a purchase order… China White? Does that even exist?_
“Don’t worry, I only use it to help me sleep,” she assured me before she pinched a practiced amount of dingy powder and sniffed it out of existence. “Damn, where did you _get_ this?” she slurred three minutes later. I wanted so badly to confess _From the woman I should be with now instead of you… who is also not my wife…_ but truth is painful, then and now, and I fear I’ll have another memoriam to write about another woman soon enough, because if that bitch Rona doesn’t kill her, her violent common-law husband will.
My real-life cake day, about a month post-Christmas:
A: Hey. How’s your shit these days?
T: One shouldn’t use this stuff to be a productive citizen and provide for a family. It is strictly for being married for twenty years in one night.
T: No, it’s strictly for being in a poly triad, quartet, quintuple etc. for twenty years in one night. It’ll work for a couple, but you’ll always wonder about what might have been.
A: That’s a hell of a mental image. Come over, as long as you don’t make fun of my Christmas tree lol
T: I would NEVER make fun of your Valentine’s tree.
In retrospect, I should have known how the night was going to go when she opened the door with her shirt on inside-out. But I was oblivious, even when she showed me tea from a French Press and kept brushing me with her expertly-enhanced breasts through the aforementioned inside-out top… even when she had me trace the tree tattoo on her right forearm, and showed me on her chest where she wanted to ink an aphorism in Sanskrit… even when we were _oooohing_ and _ahhhhing_ over the faux long-haired pillows on her bed, she had to remind me about the first real conversation we had, face-to-face, in her Infiniti coupe, for the night’s ultimate end to become a possibility in my still-a-goody-two-shoes mind.
T: Look, I have to warn you… this stuff is way better than what I’m used to, maybe way better than what the Valley is used to.
A: _[rolls eyes]_
T: And I bet you have connects who sling you that BS all the time, but I’ve been doing this for nearly three years, _[another eye roll]_ and I’m having trouble holding it together from just a taste test at 5am.
A: _[waiting expectantly for me to leave her passenger seat]_
T: Um, do you want to have sex? I’m not normally so forward, but I think sex on this with me would be really, really good. I take direction and love ea—
A: No, thank you, not today.
T: Ah, okay. _[fumbles with door handle,
opens]_ Take care.
She gently ribbed me about that memory, and then she asked for a massage. I’m good at giving massages, especially with the lavender-scented oil she had. (Another thing I haven’t done for a lover in too many years.) One touch led to another sigh, one kiss led to another lick, and an hour later we were in each other’s arms, grinning, chests heaving, slick with oil and sweat and lube and semen.
“Could you open the window, please?” she purred. “And hand me the plastic tube next to the bed.”
Cool air tingling on my back, I picked up the apparatus. “What is this? A super-bong?” I joked.
“No, it’s to administer a breathing treatment,” she purred again. “Will you make sure I don’t fall asleep for the entire twenty minutes, please?” And I did. I watched, rapt, as the solution vaporized and redistilled, some of it going into her lungs as she cooed and sighed. And when the treatment ended, she and I fell asleep face to face, with birds unfamiliar to me gaily tweeting a chorus to the dawn.
She took a short-term contract in Santa Clara for six weeks. Travel nurses are always in demand, and they get tax breaks, so more cash stays in their scrubs. Hospitals are getting wise to this, though, and are slashing their offers commensurately. She broke the contract after two weeks; I don’t know why and never will.
We met up again post-midnight February 26, after my spouse had drifted off to an uneasy sleep. I had lost my voice the weekend before, like I do every year, and what little I had regained made me sound like a retired professional wrestler. I parked in the first plausibly-deniable space I could find behind her building, and went up to her apartment. This time she had requested black with the clear, and the foreplay was limited to tea and helping her pack for a week-long trip back east. I knew what I was in for this time and had no shirt on under my jacket or underwear under my increasingly-baggy Kirkland _couture_ trousers.
“I just need something to smoke this with,” she said absent-mindedly as she turned, smooth back and magnificent ass capturing my gaze, as she held up the black baggie.
“Really? Even with the lung stuff, you smoke black?” She looked at me, not askance, but expectantly. “Slamming doesn’t make me nauseous, but I get it if you don’t want to do that,” I assured her. Wordlessly, she stopped looking for glass and metal rods and produced from nowhere a black leather pouch containing a worn spoon, lighter, cotton and fresh syringe.
Watching someone I adore slam black, clear or a combo is always fascinating. _Was this the kit she brought from Boston?_ I wondered. The spoon was small and had a rubberized handle. _Did she feed her children with that once?_ Her children were extroverted star athletes, and the thought of meeting them was super-intimidating to an introverted former soft boy. She had the deft left hand of hundreds of hours of practical experience and continuing education, but had chosen the back of her right hand and had missed a little. I felt absurdly grateful that this confident, assured goddess still needed me to massage her hand so as to move the bolus of black tar and distilled water into her vital currents.
Just before she unzipped my jeans, she said “I don’t want sex.” “All of this is sex to me, darlin’,” I replied sincerely, but with my Ravishin’ Dick Dude voice, it came out as more comedic than I meant, and she giggled. I knew what _she_ meant, though. My dick stayed dry, but everything else got wet, and the soaked bedclothes chilled us delightfully after as the birds sang another new song to the night.
The call woke me at 5:30am, asking where the fuck I was. “Work, where else?” I lied yet again, shaking us both awake and aware. I dressed hurriedly, whispered my goodbyes over her whispered protests, and ran out only to find my car blocked in by another faceless Japanese sedan and a passive-aggressive note affixed to my rear quarter-panel. I found it hilarious—I was in too good a mood to be pissed. l left my number and a sincere apology on the note and returned to her apartment, where she showed me a broken door on a credenza _(easy fix for my next visit,_ I thought) and read some of her pre-teen daughter’s poetry (she has talent and skill) as we sipped tea.
Eventually I got a grudging text from the would-be parking enforcement officer accepting my apology and allowing me to leave. My suddenly-shy goddess had wanted me to accompany her to the airport, but I really _did_ have to go to work by that time. We kissed our goodbyes, and I backed out of the alley onto the street and into the heart of the Valley.
That Friday, I got sick, as is usual the week after I lose my voice. But the firm was expanding, I was the only one with essential skills, and the signed contracts didn’t care about fuzzy heads and violent expectoration. I worked every day, all weekend, through one of the nastiest colds I’ve ever had that I couldn’t quite call a flu. She got in touch from Boston asking if I could recommend a notary public—an odd request, but safer and easier to fulfill than two grams of China White. March 5, she posted on social media that she had started her new job very close to my house, and I thumbed-up from my sick bed, having finally taken a day to recuperate.
One day turned to four. The next week I had learned several new words starting with “Co-“ and sent the new telemetry nurse at Dignitas inspirational texts about the good work she was doing keeping us all safe. But by March 20 I hadn’t heard anything back. Had Covid-19 repressed the irrepressible? Had she merely ghosted me? I got in touch with her mother over Instagram.
T: Hey, is Annabel okay? It’s been a while since I’ve heard from her, and I know she just started a new job.
J: How do you know my daughter, Annabel?
_I sold her the drugs she couldn’t steal
and ate her out until she wept with pleasure and pulled my lips to hers just so she could taste herself._
T: We’re friends. Occasionally we’ll meet up for tea, chat about how difficult
it is to date after marriage, commiserate over compensation trends in our respective fields…
Nothing. (Would _you_ have written back?)
Later, during other anxious phone browsing, a notification:
J: I’m so sorry to let you know that Annabel died on Friday…
My heart leapt into my neck and I opened the Instagram app.
J: …March 6. She had pneumonia & died from respiratory failure at 6:20am… My heart is shattered into a million pieces… No one & nothing can replace her.
I whimpered involuntarily, tossed off messages sympathizing and asking after her two intimidatingly perfect grandchildren, and lay stunned in my bed.
That was how my spouse found me, and that was how I confessed all.
I’m separated from all three of the women I loved now. Society doesn’t let cheaters, johns and casual booty calls mourn their lost, but we grieve just the same. Thank you for letting me do so here, and for letting me introduce Annabel to you.
Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/frnbq0/mf_in_memoriam