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I can't smoke pot. It doesn't mellow me out, and it definitely doesn't make me horny. I have two friends in L.A. who swear it helps them relax during anal sex, and then there's my other friend, who's straight, except when she's high, she likes girls and can have orgasms just by kissing them. What happens when I take a hit? Add paranoia to a heightened sense of smell, and I'm in a corner frantically sniffing my armpits. If I really want to relax and get laid, I look for a partner whose fingertips smell like resin.
For years, potheads were my drug of choice. You know the type: the nice guy who's always home, the one who thinks the world of you when you bring over a pizza — the guy with whom you can be lazy. Once I was married to your basic leader of the pack. During our marriage, my husband started a company, got a Masters and a Ph.D., built all the shelves in our apartment, learned to speak German, ran ten miles a day and stopped having sex with me. We tried to address the problem, but there was no time between scuba expeditions and organic gardening. Like a finely crafted F-14 crashing into the desert, we came to an expensive, fiery end. Then came Daniel. To earn money for college, I had been go-go dancing in a gigantic club, the kind that plays heavy metal and offers body shots during happy hour. When I spotted Daniel out on the floor, he gave me the stoner nod of approval: eyes at half mast; two slow, up-and-down movements of the head. I wrote my number on a cocktail napkin and stuffed it down his shirt. Our relationship began immediately. Daniel showed up for our first date with a case of Coronas and a cast on his arm. "What happened?" I asked. "Duuuude, I fell off the roof!" he said. I asked no questions. None of it mattered: not the broken arm, not the Beavis and Butt-Head laugh. With that mouth, that hair, those work boots, that little ass, that weedy lemony smell, I had to fuck him immediately. It was like sharing a bed with a puppy: he was clumsy and enthusiastic. Foreplay consisted of me taking one good look at him; we started kissing shortly after penetration. He gnawed on my neck and moaned unself-consciously, his broken arm besides my left ear, his long blond hair spilling all over my face. He was just feeling it, digging it, no thinking, no worries, oops, no condom. (I got lucky: no STDs, no baby.) With a stoner, there's little post-coital conversation but a lot of comfort. They're like Xanax in human form. (Unfortunately, my woman-loving friends tell me that female stoners tend to get really chatty and creative. So unless you're really into Gestalt Psychology as interpreted through watercolors, they might not provide the same level of tranquility.) A few notes on attracting one of your own:
First of all, unless you're a dealer, you can't expect the stoner to come to you. Some places to look: 1. 7-Eleven, after 11 * - a personal favorite. 2. What to Bring, How to Think. 1. Money You must never: 1. Expect them to be on time. 3. Care and Feeding 4. Sex
So I went on a bender. At a local dive bar, I met Timmy the model. I was attracted to his raspy voice and pursed lips. He had other tell-tale signs of the perfect stoner: he was happy, broke and had big blue eyes surrounded by red. I bought him a Rum & Coke and a bag of Doritos, and we made out on the beach for hours. Afterward, he lit up a joint and stared at me while he held in the smoke. He was able to say, "You're a fuckin' hottie," without taking a breath. But it was not to be. Timmy took off to the runways. Once in a while, he would leave me a message from Paris or Milan, something like, "Hey baby, I got fired from Armani for looking tired!" followed by several minutes of laughter and coughing. Still, I wasn't ready to quit, not completely. I worked a few Surf Expos, giving away samples, stickers, keychains and my number to a few dudes who looked a little too young. I had a one-nighter that began at a taco stand. Now, it's been two years since I've indulged. The last So I believe I have found myself the perfect stoner — a former one. He still has that languid, sexy quality I love, but now that he's off the weed, sex is intense and great. He's post-coitally thoughtful. He never pressures me about anything. He can ignore what needs to be done — the dishes, the laundry, taxes — but will organize a booty call at any hour. He still runs out of toilet paper on a regular basis, but he always remembers my birthday. n°
©2003 Ondine Galsworth and
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