That time I dated a drug dealer (who may also have been a jockey?)

I once dated a guy shorter than me to prove to myself I wasn't shallow. I lasted a week. Yep, the height put me off, not the fact he was a dealer. Mmm.

When I moved to Melbourne in 2018, I wanted to get my first shag under my belt. I’d made my way through a dozen Sydney men since my long-term break-up and was ready to sample a whole new, deliciously bearded menu so I hit the apps.

I started chatting to a builder with a cracking sense of humour (I can be laughed into bed) and after a week of flirting we decided to meet. We met at a bar in Southbank and to my disappointment, he was tiny. Like, jockey tiny. Fortunately I'd had the foresight to wear flats given he didn't list his height in his profile. Smart.

His personality, however, was huge and more than made up for it.

Side bar: For any less-tall fellas who may be reading this, my preference for a man over 5'9" isn't about you, it's about me and my insecurities. I'm 5'7" and not a slight woman so I need a taller man to make me feel small and feminine. I'm working on it. *shrug*

My jockey had the confidence of a man who either had a lot of money or an enormous penis. Or both. He walked around the bar like he owned it. The staff knew him, random patrons new him and we didn’t pay for a drink all night. It was like seeing a politician at work. People approached him, shook his hand, whispered in his ear and he'd just reply with a hearty laugh. He’d mentioned he'd been a biggish deal in VFL so thought maybe that’s why people knew him? Whatever it was, it was hella sexy.

I sat, mostly to appear shorter and give my back a break from slouching, and watched the man press flesh like he was the Second Coming. I was summoned at one point and whisked past some security guards to the men's toilets where he proceeded to do lines (I needed my wits about me) and talk me through why this particular coke was so good, whilst the guards made sure people knew the men's was temporarily closed.

As we returned to our table, the singer in the live band dedicated the next song to him and his "lovely date". I was so impressed! When had he had time to request that? I didn't even see him go anywhere near the stage. As they began to sing, I recognised the band immediately (they were a big deal in the 90s). I thanked my pint-sized pal for the dedication and he said not to thank him. He explained they were his buddies and had played at his birthday party the week before. Riiight.

He was whisked away again by someone in a suit and I sat alone again, nodding along to the song dedicated to us, uncomfortable with the unintentional staring competition I'd found myself in with the lead singer. Did the bloke blink or what? Intense.

Polly Pocket finally returned to inform me we were leaving. I was surprised and disappointed as he'd been on a date with everyone at the bar but me, however he took my hand and walked me to a cab rank. We were about six deep in the queue when second in line recognised him and gave us his spot. Gee people in Melbourne were generous. What a great city! Within a minute, I had been put in a cab and the door shut behind me. As I was asked, "Where to?", I realised I was alone and my date was walking towards Crown. I guess that was that then.

A few days later, much to my surprise, he invited me to his place in South Melbourne. Curiosity got the better of me so over I went. When he opened his door, he wasn’t alone. Two men were sitting on his balcony – one with the nickname of a pastry and his very famous brother. Normally I would’ve been starstruck, however I was too distracted by the fact that Danny DeVito had no furniture. Apart from a mattress (sans fitted sheet) in the middle of the living room, and two chairs on the balcony, zero.

I said hello to his guests and it was swiftly suggested I stay and take in the city views from his balcony whilst he showed them out. As they walked to the front door, I took in more of the sparse apartment: I noted a massive TV - phew, he wasn't a total weirdo - and cash. Piles of cash. I’m talking 20+ stacks over 10cm tall each, not to be overshadowed by the KILO BAGS OF COCAINE in the kitchen.

Naturally I started looking for weapons but before I’d conducted a full sweep, he was back. He walked into the bedroom that I could see into from the balcony where he put a wad of cash into a safe. A SAFE! It was like a movie, complete with little black, velvet bags on the top shelf of the safe – obviously there were diamonds in them.

I'd gone from dating the sweetest man alive, to dating a drug dealer. Talk about personal growth!

He was so blase about all the drugs and cash (and diamonds). He didn't acknowledge them or feel the need to explain, he just rolled up a 100-dollar bill, snorted the biggest line I’d ever seen and suggested we go see “the best view in Melbourne”. Was that a euphemism?! Had I seen too much that now he had to kill me? *gulp*

Clinging for dear life as he drove us about five minutes away - in a ute, if you were curious - we made our way to the rooftop of a nearby residential building and Polly wasn’t wrong. The view took my breath away. I figured if he was going to throw me from the roof top (good luck with that, Tiny Tim) at least it was a nice way to go. The weirdest part? He had a security pass for a building he didn’t live in… and when we saw people in the lift, they knew him because of course they did.

He suggested we get dinner (potentially laced with poison?) so we went to a nearby Italian restaurant. The staff greeted him warmly and 10 minutes later we had our takeaway and were on our way to his empty pad. I feel it necessary to mention we didn’t actually order anything, nor did we pay…

He did a couple pre-dinner lines, we ate and swept up in the sexiness of all the mystery and garlic, I pashed him. Fortunately, he kissed me back and as we entered into full-on making out, there was a knock at the door. His accountant, apparently. Yep, his accountant makes house calls at 9pm on a Wednesday. They talked shop for a solid 20 minutes and I was hypnotised. Whilst I didn't understand a word of it, it was very arousing seeing Frodo be all authoratitive and boss like. His “accountant” got up to leave – with a thick envelope – and the jockey said to him whilst making eye contact with me for the first time since we'd met, “I’ll give you a hundred bucks to take her with you!” I was in love.

He had another hefty line and we moved to the uncovered mattress on the floor. Eww. He turned on the TV and whilst flicking through the channels, his face came onto the screen. He was being interviewed at a race course because a horse he owns had just won something. I bloody knew he had something to do with horses!

He must get turned on by himself because as he started to answer the journo's question, he launched at me. Kissing me, pulling at my clothes and proceeded to flip me onto my stomach and pump me like a teenager as he watched himself on-screen. Giddy up! Sadly, just as the 30 second interview ended, so did he. He pulled out and immediately passed out. In a semi-state of shock, he came and I went.

Bloody hindsight is an arsehole of a thing. I wish now that I'd thought to take a stack of cash with me. Payment for services rendered?

Two days later he text me: “I feel a lot of pressure for this to work.” As far as excuses to not see someone again go, this was pretty creative. I was at a party at the time so when he called me, presumably to explain, I missed it. I called him back and we played Phone Tag two more times. I called him last one time and he didn’t answer, nor did he answer any of my messages over the next few weeks. Handy Smurf had vanished.

The only conclusion I can draw is that either he’s in jail or rehab. Welcome to Melbourne!