Respective Addictions

The night I met Cole* he was definitely high on coke & presumably high on other drugs. He came into my job—a strip club—late at night and asked me where the most private lap dance area was. As we were talking his eyes shifted around the club, like he was trying to familiarize himself with the place as quickly as possible.

📸: Tyler Hagen

He wore a wide, cotton headband around his brown hair, a purple hooded sweatshirt, jeans, and Nike sneakers. His green eyes were eclipsed by enlarged pupils. He was tall—6 feet at least—and his face was handsome, despite having an asymmetrical nose. I wondered if it was natural or the result of an accident.

I felt him out with typical questions: Where’re you from? Have you been here before? After some moments of conversation and consideration he decided to buy a thirty-minute VIP lap dance with me.

Cole asked if he could do a line of coke during the private dance. I told him there were security cameras but I could stand in front of him and it wouldn’t be an issue. When he offered me some I declined, again citing the cameras; I didn’t want to lose my job.

During the lap dance he was respectful and communicative. He asked if he could touch me before scooping my breasts into his brawny hands. As I danced on him I noticed how muscular his thighs were. I felt diminutive in his lap. We shared intense, intimate eye contact. “I wish I were high with you,” I said. He invited me back to his place but said there was no pressure.

I was glad I went home with him, although I had my doubts at first. My initial thought upon entering his living space was that he could do better in the interior design and cleanliness departments. Despite living in a luxury apartment building in downtown LA his place reminded me of a college dorm (he was in grad school at a local university). The common area had only a TV and a small sectional sofa. His bathroom was coated in a layer of dust. It turned me off and I thought of ways to leave even though I’d just arrived.

Cole arranged several fat lines of cocaine on his dresser for us to snort through a straw. I did one and he welcomed me to do more. I did more. When he kissed me I was shocked how good it was. Suddenly I didn’t care about the state of his living quarters. He had clean sheets and he was a great kisser—sufficient. “Tell me if I do anything you don’t like,” he said to me in between making out.

When he took off his clothes he revealed a chiseled physique from chest to calves. Cole put on a condom and we had the passionate, connected sex I’d been craving. The cocaine intensified it. I was amazed by how in tune we were with each other. “I love this,” I said emphatically while looking into his eyes during missionary.

Afterward he asked if he’d see me again. I said maybe. “Fair,” he replied. I fully expected it to be a one-night stand but the next day I felt compelled to send Cole a text: last night was so fun. He said I should come over again.

As I started to see him more I realized his drug use was far from casual. Whenever he’d come over he’d pull an array of substances from his coat pockets and spread them on my counter. When I was at his apartment he’d recite a list of items and say, “I got whatever you want,” or “Do any of those interest you?”

Blacked out eyes, shaky hands, and involuntary jaw movement weren’t unusual characteristics for Cole to exhibit when I was with him. It depended on the night and what he’d taken.

Six weeks and many sex dates later we were having beers in an Irish pub. In an unprecedented discussion Cole explained his initial relationship with using, starting with prescription pills and alcohol when he was in high school. The conversation felt like a breakthrough, like I was beginning to know him beneath the surface of after-hours hookups and hazy highs. The elephant in the room was finally being acknowledged.

In the weeks leading up to that night I felt myself getting closer to him. Somewhere between sleepovers, period sex, ditching condoms, and meeting his friends I became attached.

During our talk I romanticized statements like, “I’ll always tell you what [drugs] I’m on” and “I won’t ever forget our conversations.” I swooned. Only it wasn’t the kind of thing I should swoon over. These were declarations only an avid drug user would be proud to make, and only a woman with a schoolgirl crush would be pleased to hear.

Cole asked if his lifestyle bothered me. I thought it was sweet that he cared about my opinion. It indicated to me that he wanted me around on an ongoing basis. It felt good to have him recognize me as a fixture in his life even though our relationship had mostly been about sex. On a couple of occasions he asked if I wanted to go on a date, but we never did.

“I’m conflicted because you’re always coherent and present with me,” I told him. I really was perplexed. How could a person be in peak physical shape, maintain an academic career and social life, yet nearly never be sober? Logic told me I should leave this man to his vices, yet here I was building a bond through having the best sex with him.

That night after we left the bar, Cole stopped our stroll and asked me if anyone was behind him. No one was. He pulled out a tiny vial of ketamine and offered it to me after several minutes of explaining its characteristics and effects. I snorted a small bump off a key in the palm of his hand. We made it to his apartment and were having one of our most affectionate sex sessions before he answered a phone call that turned our night around completely.

Cole hung up the phone and said to me, “I’m only going to ask you this once, and I’m sorry for asking at all…” He paused and waited for me to look at him before continuing to speak. “Do you have guns at your apartment?”

I said no flatly. The question scared me. And I was annoyed. The room had taken on a nervous, dark, ominous tone. Before he asked about guns I saw him fidgeting with a pocket knife while I was still in his bed. He was flustered and cursing. He motioned the sign of the cross. “Should I wait here?” I asked. He gave me a stern no.

We went our separate ways for the night and I worried about him until the next afternoon when he nonchalantly texted me, Everything’s good now I’m sorry. If I needed a sign to leave this man alone, that incident should’ve been it. But I couldn’t walk away.

I thought back to the first time I spent a full night with him. We’d met up at a bar, went to his friend’s place to hang out, and then had lustful sex on Cole’s living room floor. When I got dressed to leave he said I could stay.

“Are you a cuddler?” I asked after we climbed into his bed. He was reclined on his back. “Yeah, get on top of me,” Cole said as he invitingly opened his arm for me to rest my head on his chest.

How could I judge him for being addicted to drugs while I was addicted to him?

*Indicates name’s been changed