I love Dení and probably always will. Dení listened to me talk. Listened for content, which was refreshing. Over 2017, convenience stores had been stocking larger and larger bags of candy. They were common enough in the stores I shopped at that I kept bags of Sour Patch Kids and Haribo Gummy Bears in my cupboard. I explained at great length to Dení how I usually don’t notice separate flavors in mixed color candies, but I love, Love, LOVE the orange flavored Sour Patch Kids, precisely because they taste different. That afternoon I had bought a 3-pound bag of Sour Patch Kids, and while I was otherwise occupied (buying cocaine for the two of us from my roommate), Dení quietly and expertly separated out a whole candy bowl full of orange Sour Patch Kids candies, just for the two of us. I was touched, as was Dení.
Dení is smooth and pretty, thin and thirty, though she resembles someone younger. I first met her when my “friend” Chris brought her over to my house. Ostensibly the two were on a date but he ditched her at my house—in my bedroom! —for a couple of hours so he could go and run errands. He asked me pointedly, in private, to “not touch her,” and I still don’t know if it was a setup he, she, or they’d cooked up. “She’s not like that.” He said it. She said it. It’s true. She’s not like that. We all say it.
Everyone was gone from the house, so Dení and I were alone together in the bedroom with snacks and lots of cocaine. We played music, chatted, and joked, and puffed, and after about 45 minutes, I asked her pleasantly, and more-or-less directly, if I could pay her a hundred bucks to take care of me, and she blushingly agreed.
In fact, and in more detail than you probably want to know, she had first expressed her hope I wasn’t annoyed by her presence, that Chris had somewhat awkwardly ditched her and we obviously didn’t really know each other, and she hoped I wasn’t put out. I told her the truth, that I was enchanted that she was there, she was fun and intriguing company, and I had been thinking of hiring someone from Backpage to come over and take care of me, and wouldn’t it be a win-win if she wanted to do the work herself, and I would pay her up front? That is how it transpired, and how strange but friction-free it felt. I have to admit, it was a reach for me, and perhaps the hardest request I’d ever made, because it was so politically challenging– I had never asked someone visiting me, a guest in my home, my friend’s “girlfriend”, to proffer paid sexual services. At the same time, I’d convinced myself I was on a radical truthfulness kick at the time, and it seemed obvious to ask. I really liked this woman, and I was going to get my dick sucked anyway, right? And note how, hovering there was the silent, unchallenged assumption that smoking cocaine and sexual activity were connected in a way that made them inseparable. No one should ever try and separate them– their inviolate connectedness supports the male angle, on crack-and-sex-O. The bond is molecular. No doubt, she is the H2 to my O.
Despite my hesitancy and over-thinking, the answer from Dení was yes, and in a short while she became even more affectionate and talkative, dressed in leggings, she accommodatingly stripped off her top to give me access to her small sensitive tits, and she energetically tied her hair back into a thick pony tail I was tacitly invited to grab. She loved the hundred bucks I folded up and slid into the pocket of her leggings, just like she loved the drug I kept passing her. Puff, puff, shiver and giggle. Sweating to cleanse. Brushing our lips together, we murmured assent after assent.
Her blowjob was energetic, and on the theatrical side; initiated on the bed, completed on the floor, and more than adequate to the task. I enjoyed her lively attention thoroughly, and afterward she became soft, silly, opinionated, and affectionate. She oozed “value”—spared no opportunity to make sure I knew her work was worth every dollar of the (relatively) handsome price I’d paid her. I was already completely convinced.
One piquant facet of our encounter was how we’d done this delicious deed in such a way that she appeared not to be a provider. She made me promise not to tell Chris, and she called later to find out if I’d kept the promise. I hadn’t (of course I told Chris because shameless womanizing was the only “positive” area of our relationship, braggin’ about shaggin’). It was all good. Instead of a provider hookup, Dení had turned our encounter into a peccadillo. I got to play a soap opera character, the wise but corrupt old man, reluctant lover of this high-strung ingenue who needed saving.
Chris finally returned to get Dení and brought her to another party. According to one story I heard (she texted me as it was going on) she didn’t want to fuck, and Chris ended up driving her home early, like before 5:00 am. She called later to let me know she would rather have stayed at my house. She was warm and thoughtful. I pulled and yanked at the bait, but I couldn’t free myself from the hook, and Dení reeled in the line, reeled and reeled.
Here’s what’s interesting about Dení: the money exchanged was never specifically brought up in conversation. Dení became a professional girlfriend of sorts for me. She was, technically, a provider like all the others, but after our first encounter, we never haggled price, or fee for services, or anything directly. Instead, after we’d puffed and rutted and slurped with one another, for ten minutes or all afternoon, she’d have me stop at the grocery store on the way home and buy groceries for her household. We didn’t really have to rut, and I’d still pay her. It wasn’t all about provider services. Sometimes she did housework, and she packed a lot of books and pictures for me when I moved. Once, she even joined me in an encounter with another woman. Once I paid her storage unit bill, once I paid for a bag of crack for her and her friend that I didn’t get to share. I let her charge about $75 bucks on my credit card one night in Walgreens, for presents and party-related expenses for her son Dylan’s 8th birthday. He is a very cool, smart, sophisticated kid, and his Mom is either a very cool babe or she’s a stoned hustler who made her life work in a way I’ve never imagined.
When I met her, she was addicted to Suboxone. She went to rehab for that, and I believe she’s past it. I think she may still have problems with crack. That’s a hard one to kick. I have tried not to enable her in that regard, which is difficult because she’s a ridiculously fun person to smoke cocaine with. Dení is also mentally ill, with a legit disability, and is stuck in the dual diagnosis system of hell. Her ex-husband, who came out as flamboyantly gay and a devilish drug abuser after they divorced, is living in Dení’s Mom’s one-bedroom subsidized apartment, along with Dení and Dylan. I never quite understood how that worked, but never could shake the feeling they (Brad (the Dad) and maybe even Dení’s Mom) were pimping Dení out to me. They depended on her financially, but she didn’t have a job. And I shook my head violently, from one side to the other, but her hook was set. She reeled hard as I plunged through the water as fast as I could swim. But there was no use fighting.
I loved Dení, and I believe she loved me. I was forever buying her cosmetics and soaps and toothpaste and shampoos and scrunchies. I loved shopping with this springy, spectacular young beauty because it was a way to spend time with her. I can tell you, to keep things with Dení in perspective, that since my prostate was removed, I’ve had my penis fully inside only four women—the woman who was my fiancé at the time of my surgery (bless her patient and disappointed heart), Terri, Janessa, and Dení. I have nothing but gratitude for these patient and generous women, and for my delicious pink Dení most of all.
Ed.: There are two more women on this list now. Keep reading compadre.
Bitchez 