Dating Bradford: Do You Party?

“Do you party?” He asked on the street where we met.

“Oh” I said, realization dawning as his attractive points
plummeted, “No, I don’t, uhh, do drugs… anymore.” I threw in the “anymore” as a
been-there-done-that type of thing to show I wasn’t just being puritanical.
“Those messy days are over.” I
emphasized “over” so he knew I wouldn’t be providing any party
favors.

“What’s wrong with you?” He said jokingly, while looking at
me with his beautiful Greek eyes that said so-much in as little as a raised
brow, “Well do you mind if I do?”

It was then I should have said, “No thanks, I’ll see ya
later” but at that moment I was standing inches away from kissing his luscious
full lips. The moment lingered.

“So what are we standing here on the street for?” He finally
said with a wry grin.

I wasn’t going to let Adonis sway me into doing any Tina - assuming he had some, and that his drug of
choice was crystal meth - but it was late, we
were horny, and if the guy needed to do a bump
of whatever, that was his business - or so I thought.

His business became my
business shortly thereafter as we lay naked on my bed and he pulled out his
crack pipe. Christ, I thought, he’s that kind of “partier.” I excused myself to the kitchen to “get some water”
– code for hide my valuables and reevaluate my game plan.

It wasn’t like I hadn’t had sex with drug users before –
shocking, right? – but the last time was years ago in a black painted plywood
cubicle of a “private men’s spa” and it was so distasteful I pretended to block
it all out.

This Adonis Greek boy - torching away over my 400 thread
count sheets - brought me back to that night at The
Hollywood Spa, where I’d hammered away at yet another flaccid
muscle-boy, this one taking phone calls WHILE I was inside him. “Girl, I told
you I’m out” he’d said on one such call to a friend in another cubicle, “Score
us another baggie. I’m in… wait, hold on…” then turning to me as one hails a
waiter, “Excuse me uh, Brandon or whatever, what’s this room number again?”

Not pretty.

Returning to my bedroom with a bottle of Pellegrino I had to
admit, drugs or no drugs,the Greek
boy was beautiful– lying there naked, all tall and swarthy - a former model
(aren’t they all) sprawled out so come-hither-like and saying, “Give me some of
that.” He didn’t mean the water.

It was therefore no surprise to find myself inside him ten minutes
later and having a Hollywood flashback while he distractedly played with his
iPhone - surfing the 3G Network for more downloadable Madonna. Just for spite I
slammed him against the headboard a few times but it didn’t seem to phase him.

Again, not pretty.

Another ten minutes and I’d lost my hard-on out of boredom.
His had made a cameo at the beginning then gotten stage freight after he’d
fired up his crack pipe for the second or third time. The whole scene was
beyond putrid.

I gave up and rolled over to take a nap. Not a heavy sleep
mind you - because you don’t leave a drug user unattended in your home - but
enough of one to let him know the playground had closed for the night.

An hour later he’d moved onto Kylie Minoque and was still
fiddling with his iPhone, trying to change the settings to get better speaker
quality.

“I should get your number,” I said thinking, “and your name
in case I have to call the Police.” He got the hint and started putting on his
clothes and mercifully left soon after. When he’d gone I vowed never to invite
drugs or drug users into my sex life again.

I guess somewhere in my subconscious I’d wanted him to feel
like I was enough. That I would take him home, get him all worked up, and then
he wouldn’t need his drugs. It’d happened before - but not this time. This time
instead of feeling that my sexy could substitute substance for sustenance, I
felt like the friend along for moral support – A.K.A. a codependent.

The whole thing makes me wonder, after all I've been through with drugs and drug users in my life, why would I even consider bringing them
home with me again? For what? So I can feel disgusted with myself, have some
lame sex that didn’t get me off, and remind myself how lonely and unattractive
I feel? And when things became uncomfortable, why did I need to play the “nice
guy,” dragging out my misery instead of telling him to get the fuck out?

So I put it to you: When finding yourself feeling frisky
and foolhardy, what do YOU say
when they ask, “Do you party?”