Sometimes danger comes in covert forms. I was outside of my favorite bar and I hadn’t noticed him and his slim, but sculpted arms, messenger bag, and Clark Kent demeanor — this was a tattoo bar, after all.

But I should have known then that anyone that cuts in and offers you a drink while you are publicly deploring your ex should be seen as a threat, possibly taking advantage of the wounded.

He was enticing, though, confident and intelligent. Oh, and did I mention a dealer of cannabis and narcotics? This was the kicker that curled my toes and utterly possessed me. Like James Bond, he was always on a mission. An undercover criminal. Could one be any more badass?

I was feeling animated and breezy in the bar, as an unexpected happy hour turned into an all night affair. I found myself talking with another fellow (okay, and maybe making out for a second), and searched the room for Bond. Ah. There he was. He walked towards me, took me up into his arms, and laid a delicious and expected kiss upon my whiskey burned lips. The kiss of death.

He had a way of acting interested, but not too interested. He would initiate plans, but it was up to me to make it happen. One may see this as a sign of dickwad-dom but it kept me on my toes. He was a flatter-puss, and my two Achilles heels, ego and mojo, loved his ravings of my beauty and smarts. How could I not adore someone who wasn’t afraid to kiss me in public, rave about me to his friends, and flaunt me to his “coworkers?” Dealer was my new addiction.

We had a few “take your date to work” days, where I would take him to films and writing events, and he would take me on drug runs after. The former encompassed spontaneous make-out sessions and great conversation, and the latter a ravaging and wild adventure reminiscent of a Tarantino film. There are times in a woman’s life when nothing feels better than knowing that something hazardous could happen at any moment.

The night came when I was escorted back to his marijuana palace. I kept refusing his assertions, keeping him wanting more. He pinned me onto his bed and pulled my jeans off, not giving me any chance to protest, diving face-first to my sopping pussy. Clearly a man who knew the way of the beaver.

We fell asleep until morning. When I returned from cleaning up in the bathroom, wearing his underwear, he was awake and couldn’t keep his hands off me. I curled up into a ball and let him work for it. I was trying to hold on, trying to protect myself, but his Johnny Wadd cock gave my joints no choice but to weaken into submission.

He pushed it into my tight pussy, slowly — allowing my wetness to come flooding out after the initial protrusion. He loomed above me, pressing himself into me and holding my face — staring into my eyes with conviction. Every so often he would grab one of my tits and suck on it, sending me reeling — until we finally both came in unison.

We hit the bong and then I went home and slid into bed for a nap, feeling everything from the bone to the tiny hairs on my wrists. In the long run, Bond may not have been relationship material but he sure gave me a glimpse into the untamed life of a man on a quest to chase paper. He had me, made me feel, made me want, and for a short time, that was enough.