fourth-one: line c̶o̶o̶k̶ coked out

slut work
5 min readSep 28, 2022


Truth of the matter is, Forty-one needed a furnished place to stay and I needed a short-term roommate before a friend could eventually take his place when her lease ended.

Forty-one and I shared one conversation, if that, before we had made that decision. (Thirty-one days, the last month of summer, how weird could it possibly get?) It was an intoxicated exchange that I initiated in attempts to clear the air. We worked together; he in BOH and I on the marketing team, different departments of the same establishment, and although we seemed to have worked at the same places at different times and shared an unusual amount of friends in common, he would never acknowledge me.

The cautiously humble part of me just assumed he must hate me, that I had done something so deeply offensive that he just preferred to ignore my existence. In my experience however, that has never been the case. He wanted to fuck, and I had only registered his lack of attention because I did too. And that was the topic of the only conversation we had in person before deciding he would move in.

On a night out, more than a few drinks in, he met me at home to “check out the place”. We had drinks, drugs, inched closer on the couch and made out a bit.

At some point he tells me “I have something to tell you” (never a good start) — “I rap” and proceeds to pulled out his phone and showed me his music videos and then freestyles at me. Anyone that knows me on a personal level, knows this is my absolute nightmare to have someone “serenade” me (if you can even call it that), but essentially perform for you so intimately with the expectation of you reacting a certain way, ideally positively. I’ve never understood it, and it gives me full body shivers just thinking about it now.

So why you might be wondering did I push through that and fuck him anyway? Trust me when I tell you, he’s pretty. And if you haven’t gauged this already, I want what I want when I want it. Always.

To my delight, it wasn’t the slightest bit weird or awkward after. We were buds — buds that hooked up with each other a few more times. He had a chaotic energy that I found oddly familiar and endearing. My previous roommate and best friend had died tragically, and I was and still am processing it but I found that I missed caring for someone in that way. Making sure he was fed, he had slept, making it to work — it was a labour of love and it stopped so abruptly. Forty-one moving in softened that specific loss, but also put me in the precarious position of caring for someone that also led a risky lifestyle.

We talked openly about it, and he would text me when he wasn’t coming home so I would’t worry, which was always much appreciated. I had also asked him to come home on an evening where being alone in the house was unbearable and he did, came home kissed me on forehead as I was crying on the couch. I’m aware this blurs many lines, I assure you I took this as a gesture of camaraderie — that two people with a penchant for disaster could recognize life can just be shit sometimes and you need a friend.

Did we fuck later? Sure, but besides the point.

The end of the month was quickly approaching, Forty-one had found a place, to which I was a reference for. He had asked if he could stay for a couple extra days as his work week began, and couldn’t arrange to move, to which I obliged but asked him to be on his best behaviour when the new roommate moved in the following day.

Somehow, what followed that evening was nothing of the sort.

Two strange women¹ had come over — had this been any other day, this would’ve been a non-issue but Forty-one wasn’t really in a position to invite anyone that late into the evening past his agreed upon sublet; this was courtesy I extended him to be kind. I reiterated how important it was that the house remain in a respectable state, and I was in no mood to have unknown guests while I was in bed. Eventually, I hear the front door open — I peek out my bedroom door down to the foyer where a pair of white cowboy boots I had never seen before, remained. Someone was still here- interesting.

Moments later I hear the undeniable sounds of furniture moving; they were fucking. So here I am, lying in my bed — coddled between a sense of disbelief and hilarity as I write this article.

At this point, why wouldn’t I expect someone take advantage of my generosity by blatantly ignoring my request not to have guests over that night that late, past their sublet, the very same day I had provided a stellar reference, and only 3 days after we last had sex — in the bed and sheets that I own, in my very own home?

I didn’t need to tolerate this behaviour, as Im no longer trying to be the chill girl — and so I demanded he leave the next morning.
That following evening however, whilst performing my nightly ritual — hot shower, body oil, serums, incense, embracing the newfound calm energy in the house, I did a quick tidy of my room. My hectic week was reflected in my room of disarray, I fluffed my pillows and blankets as the most assaulting piece of fabric unceremoniously flew out.

Didn’t think this would have to be explicitly said but as a general rule, it’s probably too soon to fuck someone new in the same house as your last lover when they still have your boxers in their bed.

Even more inappropriate to leave them with the sheets to launder, but I digress.

Truly the most annoying thing about all of this, it sounded like they had an okay time; all I got out of this was a sad soft whiskey + coke² dick and this story.

Juice was definitely not worth the squeeze.

¹strange women: As in strangers, I actually have no idea who they are or their level of strange.

² whiskey + coke: both of which had been provided by yours truly



slut work

autobiographical | semi-original content | an ongoing experiment in vulnerability