The Devil’s Weed
by David Cain
In my late twenties, between relationships, I spent about a year on my own. Mostly, I read and wrote, sang and played my guitar. Except for work, I hardly left my flat. Eventually, I grew weary of my solitude and my mind began to wander toward finding a mate. I mentioned my need to a friend.
He set me up with a friend, a very attractive young woman with obvious intelligence and a pretty good wit. However, she seemed cold toward me from the beginning. I did my best to put her at her ease but it seemed like things were going nowhere. I told her good night and went away feeling lonelier than before.
I ran into my friend and told him what had happened on the date with his friend. He encouraged me to call her again, assured me that she would warm up with time. I doubted that she would even care to try but he promised me she would.
I gave her a call and we went on another date but exactly the same thing happened. She didn’t seem to be having a bad time but she wasn’t having a good time either. I was patient, friendly, kind, my whole arsenal of getting along behaviors but nothing seemed to affect her. Once again, I said good night and went back to my books and guitar.
I soon saw my friend and explained the situation. I thought maybe he had another friend I could try my luck with.
“You have weed, don’t you?” he asked.
“Always,” I said.
“Did you tell her that?”
“Our conversation never went far enough to mention anything like that.”
“Well that was your mistake, bozo. Jamie loves weed.”
“You think that will make a difference?”
“Call her up right now and tell her you have some weed. Then you tell me if it makes a difference.”
I called Jamie up, right then and after she said hello, I told her I had some really good weed.
“Really?” she said with more emotion than all our dating hours combined contained. “Do you want to come over here or should I come over there?”
I chose to go over to her place, with the idea that she might be more relaxed at her own place. She showed me in with a grin and a hug, already more physical contact than our dates had shared. I took a seat on the big pillow by the coffee table and put a half ounce bag down. Jamie brought out a big glass bong filled with ice and sat down beside me, closer than we’d been before and started grinding a big bud.
“I don’t usually mention weed to people before I get to know them pretty well. I guess that was a mistake.”
“I love weed,” she said, filling up the bowl.
She took a big hit and then so did I. We fought the urge to cough, billowing clouds out of our tightly held mouths, spewing smoke from our nostrils before exploding into a thick fog of sweet dank dope smoke. She laughed and I laughed. She mechanically, automatically, kept filling the bowl and we went deeper and deeper into a mellow cool excitement.
We talked, finally having all the conversations I had hoped our dates would bring. Hours went by, discussing everything and nothing, the serious and the silly, the profound and the personal. It wasn’t long before I really knew Jamie and she knew me.
Her clothes started slipping away, first with a change into the comfortable, a soft oversized sweatshirt and some loose pajama pants. As she moved and stretched and lay and leaned, different parts of her very attractive body would shift into view for a moment, sometimes longer. I got to know her nipples and the crack of her ass, the lines of her loins and the dimples.
I didn’t dare touch her, nearly naked as she was, until she reached over and grabbed my erection through the thick denim of my jeans.
“Get those off,” she said, reaching for the button and tugging until I pushed my pants away. “Nice cock,” she said as she enveloped the length in her wide open mouth. “Watch,” she said with a playful glance and she started to suck me intently.
The next few hours were a blur of every sexual thought I had missed out over the long abstinent year. Like a man bound to silence and suddenly set free, I fucked with reckless abandon, in every way I could imagine. Jamie met me stroke for stroke, every bit as hungry, every bit as delighted. We fucked and licked and sucked and screwed until all we could do was sleep.
I called Jamie a few days later, carefully biding my time so I wouldn’t seem desperate. She spoke to me as though she hardly cared I had called. Bitterly disappointed, having felt so much in so short a time with this woman, I started to pull back, ready to end the conversation and let her go.
Then I said something about weed and Jamie changed again. She became happy and hopeful and couldn’t wait to see me. I took her to dinner. I took her dancing. We didn’t smoke any weed until I took her home. She was a delight to be with all through the night. When we did finally imbibe, she became a sex fiend, giving me all I could ever want in a fucking.
As I got to know her, I learned that merely the promise of weed would change her into a wonderful companion. The weed itself, while clearly an aphrodisiac, wasn’t as important as the potential. I always told her I had weed and sometimes we smoked ourselves into an orgy of sensual pleasure. I loved her and she loved me. We were a great couple.
Then my weed connection soured and there was nothing to be found anywhere. I pretended for a while but eventually Jamie realized that I had no weed and might never have weed. She turned cold, distant and started to spend more time away from me until eventually she didn’t answer my calls.
And I knew that she didn’t love me. Jamie loved weed.