"BEAMER"

I saw Beamer after work this past Friday night. I left for the club early, around 2pm. Halfway down the 110, I realized that I left my fucking work bag at my house. I doubled back. Shit traffic both directions. Wasn’t happy. Got the bag, a sleeping pill and headed back down south. Work was lacklust. Only real money came from Cargo Pants, which I stupidly had waited until the last minute to text. Feeling the need to be uber-respectful, knowing that he hates the club, but then breaking down as I saw how the night was going. This “respect” only meant that “Shannon” got less dough because the banks were closed, and he refuses to use ATM’s. Fuckit, I’ll take what I can get. We talked for about an hour, maybe more. Most of my mid-shift consisted of writing, drinking, and laughing with my girls. 10 p.m rolled around, and I needed to skeedattle. I was starving, having only eaten a salad around noon. I texted Beamer and asked if he would order me Chinese delivery. I don’t usually eat at his apartment, but we had negotiated a sleepover because I owe him money—hence the sleeping pill—and a place near his house has the best Vegetable Chow Mein. The overnight kept me from driving home through Manhattan Beach on a weekend night after drinking for hours. Another plus, they’ve been randomly shutting freeway exits off late at night. So, it was a win win. Of sorts. I prefer to sleep alone in my bed, and I prefer not having to be “on” in the morning. Especially “turned on”.

 

When I arrived at his place, I changed into my “sleepy pants” and dove into the food. He poured me a big tumbler of scotch, an ice water, and ordered a movie for us to watch. I took my Halcyon, thinking it would kick in just after the sex (I was wrong), and I pulled out a joint for him, courtesy of Hattie and her hubs. I’ve never seen him smoke weed, but we had talked about it, and I told him I’d hook him up. He was waiting to smoke up for some reason. Finally, halfway through the film, I told him to light that sucker. He did. I took a tiny hit, just to make him feel more relaxed—he knows I don’t smoke weed, but he doesn’t know about my drug use. He said that he really wanted to go down on me while he was high. “I could go down on you for an hour.” An hour-long head session from a customer sounds like the ninth circle of hell, but with all the booze, pills, and powders, it was likely that I’d be numb from the tits down anyway. I figured we’d fool around when I was done eating and the movie was over, but the Chow Mein and sleeping pill—and what I later guessed to be bunk Adderall from my ex-husband—equaled a passed out hooker on the couch. Just before my eyes closed, I mumbled something about making it up to him in the morning. He said OK, but that he was dying to hold me, so he came over to the couch and spooned me. I went out like a light. Hope I didn’t f(art) on him.

 

This has been said, but bears repeating: don’t ask questions if you don’t want to know the answer.

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