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.

It started when I was fifteen. After breaking up with a budding alpha male named Brian (who was six-foot-two, with a hard body and a souped-up Camaro), I began to eyeball the potheads across the schoolyard. They were languid and sexy; they loved to go to IHOP. It was so much more relaxing to sit on the sidewalk with them, listening to Zeppelin, than to go to the Hamptons with Brian, who would scrutinize the tightness of my perm and the whiteness of my Pro-Keds. The stoners just looked at my ass like it was an ice cream cake.

Daniel showed up for our first date with a case of Coronas and a cast on his arm.

They're just more basic, less analytical. They have a straightforward, pre-verbal quality that I love: if they like something, they put it in their mouths. There's no strategy involved.

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:

1. Habitat.

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
2. The graveyard shift at any gas station, really
3. Phish concerts
4. Upstate New York
5. Any community college*

* - a personal favorite.

2. What to Bring, How to Think.

The key to dating a stoner is to know your limitations. Or, I should say, his. You must always bring your own:

1. Money
2. Condoms
3. Cellphone
4. Umbrella

You must never:

1. Expect them to be on time.
2. Expect them to remember what they said last week.
3. Ask them to fix your showerhead.
4. Scold them for disappointing you.