I’m sitting in a pot café in Vancouver - a.k.a. Vansterdam - with a small group of mostly male friends. We’ve been here since roughly 4:17 pm sipping cappuccinos, nibbling on nachos and shooting the shit, all the while ingesting massive quantities of marijuana in all manner of incarnation. Joints of Island Sweet Skunk, bowls of Hempstar hash, dollops of amber honey oil and vaporized smears of chartreuse Budder. Not to mention the special Nanaimo Bars that could lay out an elephant with their potency and sugar content.

A figure appears in the open doorway encircled with a penumbra of escaping smoke against the copper light of a midsummer evening. My herb-addled brain sees a caricature of a Spaghetti Western, but my snorting abruptly ceases as I realize the identity of the interloper. She scans the room with her eyes and nose, hunting for a table with the perfect combination of high THC and testosterone content. But this table isn’t her final destination, because once this marijuana minx devours all hopes, hearts and ganja, she’ll move on to the next one and so on, until the café is littered with empty shells of men and their equally empty Baggies.

She spots her first mark and swoops in for the kill.

A take on the time-honored tradition of the "bar skank," the "pot ho" is a sly strain of female who uses her sexuality to get herself high without pitching in to the communal stash so much as a spent roach. In fact, she most likely pockets any roaches that end up in her possession on their circumambulation of the sharing group, with a demure giggle. Once she’s exhausted your supply of marijuana and her supply of thong/cleavage-revealing maneuvers, overzealous flirtation and salacious commentary, she flits off to the neighboring table to do it all again.

While this perhaps milder form of gold-digging behavior isn’t limited to tokers, nor women, men are easy prey to a heaving bosom cradling the long, thick shaft of a sexy piece of glass.

On the flip side of pot hoes using sex to score nuggs, there are pot pimps as well, who slap and splay their impressive stashes on the table like an engorged member, hoping to use nuggs to score. Far be it from me to object to how consenting adults relate, but I get sad when I see some poor dude kick in the last of his bud with the fantasy of extending the affections of the pot ho who plopped into his lap five minutes ago.

She surveys the room, then bolts for the stinky couch in the corner. Now you’re without nuggs and nookie, your heart is broken, your balls are blue and said pot ho has already moved on to the next stoner shlub.

Mamakind is a contributing editor of Skunk and is currently writing A Girl's Guide to Ganja

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