Drugged Drinks and Ripped Tights

December 7, 2014 at 12:14 pm (Cosmic Encounters, One Particular Angel)

Just call me Pudding Pop.

A couple weeks ago, as I was working, I got a text message from Angel. “How you doin? It’s been a while.”

I’ve been told my face lights up uncontrollably when I see someone I have a crush on. I must have been projecting beams of light at my phone. “Great! How are you?”

“Good. Dumped the BF, for good this time. Third time’s a charm.”

We’ve been sharing relationship drama for years now, both of us holding out for a day when our respective partners would see the light, that we are the bee’s knees, and why don’t you treat me right, etc… When things boil over, we run to each other.

And she was texting me on a Saturday night at 10 PM. I know her well enough that she’s always in bed or “in bed” by 9:30. And she’s thinking of me?

Oh my…

I had to brag, so I pulled out my mildly-stupid phone and Tweeted, “Runnin’ with the devil; off work, meeting a friend to do semi-responsible things. Then we gonna tear it up…”

Hit me, bartender...

Hit me, bartender…

It’s been a blessing to meet a girl who likes weed as much as I do. She gets my philosophy behind it. She rarely drinks alcohol, so when she suggested we go out for a drink, I had a better idea. “Why don’t I get us something to drink? It won’t be alcohol, but you’ll get goofy as fuck, minus hangover.”

“I guess I trust you, shady mister.”

So I went to the weed store, and picked up a couple of medicated vitamin waters.

I have been preaching the medibles for years, and practicing what I preach. Finding something I can comfortably work behind has been fun, but challenging. Too much this, and I risk falling asleep. Too little that, and I’m a bitch on wheels, plus my legs, knees and feet are screaming after eight or ten hours. Finding the right combination of painkillers took time, but I figgered it out. In the meantime, I got a pretty good idea of what some of my lady-friends might like.

It doesn’t hurt that they tend to be lightweights.

Vitonic Vitamin waters look like something you’d find at a hippie store. Looks like a Naked or Odwalla drink, with grit and earthy colors. My first sampler, the weed-lady said, “Brownie sales will plummet once he gets ahold of these.” She was right. I get pain relief, and a bounce in my step, but no drowsiness. Like a shot of gin, except I don’t feel like killing the customers after a couple hours. I want to hug them instead.

So I picked up my regular strength, and got the apple-green one for Angel. I picked up a large cup of ice at work, and made a mini-cooler. (It used to be Olde English 800 in that cooler…) I put it, and her present, into a plastic bag and beat feet to her work place.

She said she’d be ready, and she was, standing outside her work one minute after getting off. She was reading my texts, not noticing me across the street. An older gentleman standing next to me at the crosswalk noticed Angel, tugging down her miniskirt and adjusting her tights. “Oh man, the sista got some legs on her!”

I smiled back at him. “Yes, indeed.”

She had noticed me by now. She said something to the older guy as he passed, with a smile. She met me on the corner with a quick kiss and a longer hug. “Did the old guy say something?” I asked.

“He told me I looked nice.”

I told her what he’d said just before that, adding, “And I agree!” I patted her on the backside, and we walked.

As we walked, we shared our blues songs. How we are getting used to breaking up, and how it gets to be just another part of the year. Weren’t we doing this last year? How the heart hardens, how you do it without the inner turmoil that we used to swear we could never live through again, yet we do. It doesn’t get easier, it just seems easier to take as you do it again and again.

But we weren’t out to commiserate. It was Friday, and Angel needed to pay her rent. (When I told friends we had a date to go pay her rent, I got the briefest of Sugar Daddy “looks”, but no one said anything. For the record, Angel was paying her own rent, I just tagged along because she didn’t want to ride the bus to Beaverton by herself.) I love riding the bus with a good bake on, and I came prepared.

I pulled the bottle of green Vitonic out of the bag and handed it to her. “This is one good dose, or two mellow doses.” I pulled out my copper-colored mango-based bottle. “Yours is a Level One. This one is a Level Three. That means there are three doses in my bottle, one in yours.”

She looked at the liquid level in my bottle. There was about a third left. (The party starts early on my days off.) She popped the lid on hers and took a sniff. “Smells like weed and apple juice.”

And then she chugged half of it. “I was thirsty.”

“And you will be mellow, in about half an hour.”

We walked to the post office, nudging, whispering, occasionally holding hands. I love how we fall in and out of courtship. As we walked, we updated each other on status. Both our significant others are moving out.

After going postal, we caught the bus to points west. The bus was crowded at first, so we moved to the back, sitting in the side seats. As a spot opened in front, I suggested we move forward to get a better view.

As I arose, she said, “Wait-”

I was already up. I looked down, and Angel’s lower lip was sticking out about six inches. The clip-knife had snagged her hosiery, and torn a silver-dollar-sized hole in her outer thigh. “Oh, shit. I’m sorry.”

I knew she was fond of them, because earlier we’d spent a couple minutes discussing how they accentuated her legs. I mean, I wore my special red underwear for her, so I am guessing quite a bit of thought went into those tights.

We moved to the middle of the bus, by the rear door. At the moment there were only two people on the bus. Angel whispered, “I don’t want to wear them now.”

“I think it looks kinda hot, actually. Like a tattoo on a girl, back before every girl had a tattoo.”

“I think it looks trashy.”

“Like I said, it’s kinda hot…”

“Other guys have said that too, but I can’t do it…” She stood slightly, reached both thumbs under her miniskirt and began wiggling out of her tights, right there on the bus.

I was torn between looking, and being a gentleman. I landed somewhere in between. I admired her milk-chocolatey thighs, but leaned ahead to form a block as the guy across the way figured out what was happening. I patted her thigh, she patted my thigh, she pulled out some footie socks and just like that baby’s in a miniskirt. The tights went into her purse. I resisted the urge to ask for them as a souvenir, but I was curious.

“So you just gonna toss ’em?”

“Nah, I confess. I’m gonna sew ’em up. There is also a hole near the butt, I was gonna show you but the bus came too soon. Now you get bare legs…”


We found her real estate office, paid bills, made it back to the bus stop. We snuggled under my coat like two lovebirds; only the people passing by knew we were sharing a joint while waiting for the bus. The Vitonic had kicked in, and the ride back should be even more fun.

Kiki present

As we rode, I reached into the bag and pulled out her present. It was wrapped skin-tight in plastic; I flipped the knife blade open like a hoodlum and cut through. It revealed the comics-covered brown wrapper. Inside? Two boxes of Little Debbie’s Red Velvet Christmas Trees. The lady loves Red Velvet. I want to make it my porn-star name.

She kissed my cheek, and carefully folded the wrapper. “I save all your wrappers, you know.”

“I know. That’s why you get my Fambly Circus collection.”

“Sometimes I’ll get up in the morning, fire up a number and spend twenty minutes reading your comics. I’m late getting started, but I have a great laugh.”

I wish I could convey how much it meant to me to hear that.

Soon we were back downtown. We went to her work, where she bought new (but not the same) tights. I offered to pay. “When I said we were gonna tear it up, I didn’t mean your drawers.”

“They are three dollars! I got this one. Actually, I probably have three dozen pair of tights at home. I think I need an intervention.”

“Not with me around to rip them off of you.”

My phone rang, it was Meg. I answered.

“What are you doing?”

“Nestled in a doorway with Angel, all up in her grill…” (A “Hi Meg!” from Angel verified this.)

“Oh, well, if you aren’t too busy, I have prescriptions to pick up.”

“Is it urgent?”

Meg laughed. “No, you have time to go do your thing. By Monday?”

“Sure.” I rang off, told Angel.

“Does that mean you don’t want to see me to Gateway?”

“Oh, I would love to ride with you.” The MAX pulled up, and we boarded.

It was Friday night rush hour, and we couldn’t find a seat together. After doing the jailhouse conference thing for a few stops, I decided to use time wisely and fetch Meg’s pills, get my check, and see if maybe Angel will be up for meeting later? Raincheck, as she was meeting her mom for a birthday drink.

And thus began a volley of texts back and forth that I won’t share, but it was a lovely bit of communication. My beautiful friend and I have each other. Before leaving, I asked, “I don’t know what will be happening then, but can you save me a minute for Valentine’s Day? Maybe a minute, maybe the whole day? I want to have at least have a minute with you.”

She blushed as much as a black girl can. “I will do that.”

And this is how Valentine’s Day is becoming my favorite holiday.

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