When the Guy You Met at a Bar Sleeps in a Race Car Bed
I walked into a local bar near my apartment in Miami on a Saturday afternoon to pick up my alcoholic friend who was visiting for the weekend. She introduced me to a young guy, who was sitting a few seats away. He wore a black t-shirt with “Coconut Mafia” on it. I was wearing a white tank that said, “Depressed Hot Girl” across my chest. His head was shaved, which I normally didn’t like but . . . “C’mere,” he said softly as if he thought I might be afraid of him. I walked closer to him and he put his arm around my waist and pulled me in close. He was extremely sexy with dirty blond scruff and blue eyes. I was shocked at how turned on I was from just looking at him. He had this permanent devilish smile. He was too much — too cute, too happy; too smooth. He was the type of guy you use a condom with — at least the first 2–3 times.
Coconut Boy asked for my number and an hour later he texted me. He was still at the bar. Did he live here? Did he own it? Did it matter? Turns out he didn’t live there, he lived in the building next door to mine. He also had two roommates, 3427 Instagram followers, and was fourteen years younger than me.
Coconut Boy’s Instagram was one gigantic red flag. The main photo was of him naked on his terrace, holding a coconut over each of his balls. For work, it said he was a model/actor, although there was no…
