Is Pepsi Okay?

I think cocaine loves me. For once, I’m the flirt wearing the five-inch stilettos in the courtship. She has always been there for me, and I’ve always acknowledged her but never gave the time of day. She would attend my childhood birthdays but usually hung back at the adult’s table. In college she came to visit on my first day at a pre-rush fraternity party and from then on we always seemed to find ourselves in the same room; her promising the world and me giving thoughtful consideration. Once, she followed me to London and I was more flattered than concerned. I appreciated her ability to hold back as she was never as pushy as the crowd she was with. She was consistent to remind me of her existence and her eagerness to be inside of me. I can’t lie – I found her attractive. She was no longer mysterious to me, but she had this liberal, elegant appeal which had drawn my desire.

I managed to graduate college without ever bedding the temptress. I lived in her city without so much of a hook-up, but she was always around with her silver hair and gorgeous sparkle, seductively parading in front of me. We had managed to not cross paths for several months while I worked through a breakup. I suspected she was respecting my space. That was until one night, at the Pink Pony in Atlanta, where we locked eyes under the neon lights and an upbeat 2Chainz song blared over the club. I had a weak spot and my first love, alcohol, allowed me to break monogamy. There in the booth, I leaned in nervously and made contact. The touch was soft. The interaction was weaker than anticipated. However, the thrill clutched me. Our romance was cut short. The man who had brought her requested cash for the interaction. For that, I never felt our embrace was genuine.

I eventually moved from her city and she found me in the next. It wasn’t long before she was at every party or bar I attended. I could not fault her for her consistency. I had the hunch she might be addicted to me at this point. Her constant presence was familiar and provocative. It never felt regretful because there was never any confrontation like you might have with a past lover. Despite this, the incompatibility was strong since I only wanted her in the privacy of my own home. She was the one woman I didn’t want to be an exhibitionist with. It’s only nights like this when the curtains are closed, a Pulp record is spinning, and my adoring, generous uncorked wine suggests that I call you, my old acquaintance, for a threesome. Try again another time, my dear.