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Dating dealer

Dating dealer

I had to have him. What he had instead was a futon mattress laying on the floor, upon which dust balls would find their way, sticking to the corners. Because he dealt drugs out of the attic. And the door to the attic was in his bedroom.

Four years my senior, I met him while we were baking pizzas in a small shop in the suburbs. He was exciting; he liked my musical tastes; he listened to me when I talked.

When his longterm girlfriend broke things off with him because he was too possessive and volatile, I took my chance. A boyfriend with a car, tattoos, and a penchant for weed. What I saw was a sweet guy, in touch with his emotions, trying to kick a bad habit. The troubles started when he got his own apartment. Fuck the police, you know? The worst thing about dating a drug dealer are the phone calls, closely followed by the impromptu visits.

I learned to hate that ringtone, and dread the sound of approaching footsteps on wooden stairways. Eating supper? Not anymore. Winning at Mario Kart?

Sorry, better luck next time. Having sex? So I took to writing. I wrote him countless letters, explaining how wrong I thought this whole thing was under many angles. I never gave him any of them. The breaking point happened on a hot day in July. We were laying on his dusty folded up futon, the ceiling fan blowing hair in my face.

It was one of our good days; quiet, silence enveloping us, comfortable. I think we were talking about our feelings for each other, something we hardly ever did. Then that dreaded ringtone sounded, closely followed by the sound of a car engine in the driveway. I closed my eyes, and I clearly remembered thinking how sleazy his friends were for giving him a two-second warning with that phone call. He got up as we heard the footsteps, and as he ushered them through the room, I looked up from my unmoved position on the futon.

As I heard them weighing and measuring upstairs, I covered my eyes with the blanket and tried to still the anger flooding my muscles, tensing up my jaw.

He read it on my face, and did all of the talking. Without saying a word, I think it was one of the only nights in our entire relationship where I held my own. A few days later, out of what I imagine was a sense of guilt, he asked me if I wanted to take a trip to the nearest big city. Illustrations by Laura Caseley and Esme Blegvad.

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Dating dealer

You are probably getting things that are better than street value, this can also cause health and addiction problems. So I took to writing, Dating dealer. And what if someone tries to rob me? He would win me over once again. Posted by lightsideofdark, Dating dealer. I once saw a couple take turns on a bong like it was a portable oxygen tank, before heading into the next room to have a wall-rattling, furniture-smashing fight. Other girls who've dated small-fry weed dealers with a Scarface complex. Photo by Jake Lewis. You'll often pray the Dating dealer phone call will be a PPI claim, is how desperate it gets. Not everyone who smokes weed is an intolerable bore.