Some Blacked Out Shit

After completing a few months in India with one love, I had assumed it would just happen again in China. Why I thought it would be that simple, I have no idea. But as Number Fifteen and I fucked my second morning in the country, I figured that he would be my fuck friend for the next six months. Wrong, I was so very wrong. I would never fuck Number Fifteen again, despite my efforts, nor would I find a steady sex friend in my time there.

In fact, I wouldn’t fuck another guy until the 1st of July, but that is only according to my roomie… and several other people at one of our gatherings. Though, I do not doubt the accuracy of their claims.

China was like a second round of college. Housing was provided by our company, and all you had to do was work during the day, then pay for your food, drink, and fun. We sure did a lot of all three.

We would frequently drink a very, very strong Chinese whiskey. At least we called it whiskey, it was probably just grain alcohol with other mysterious components. But it would fuck you right up for a low price. I remember very little from the night in question, this is a secondhand story, relayed to me by my roommate the morning after.

How the night started is a mystery. One could guess that it probably at our usual pub. Then, we ended up at the apartment of Number Fifteen, who happened to be rooming with my roommate’s new sex friend/boyfriend. Upon arriving, I must have immediately blacked out because my memory goes from hazy to nonexistent. Apparently, I vomited on the floor, which my darling roomie cleaned up. What a pal. To help me sober up, she fed me buttered bread with caviar on it. I maintained that I had never had caviar a few weeks later. However, there was photographic evidence to the contrary, and one of my favorite pictures with my roommate. The moment I soberly ate caviar, I knew that I have tasted it previously. Definitely a sense memory, and still one of the strangest foods I’ve eaten blacked out.

I was soon put to bed, but did not stay there for long. After a short nap, I went to the bathroom, perhaps to vomit again, who knows. But I was not the only one whose body was trying to extract the abundance of alcohol. Number Sixteen was also there. Both being wildly drunk, we ended up laying on the bathroom floor. When my roommate came to check on me, she found Number Sixteen on top of me, thrusting into me. Laughing, she calls everyone over to see, and they all have a good laugh. But everything is funny until someone shits their pants. And this time, it wasn’t me.

I was quickly and suddenly thrown out of the bathroom, and stumbled to the couch where I fell asleep for the night. It was then discovered that Number Sixteen had shit not only himself, but all over the bathroom. I was fast asleep and unaware of anything around me. My roommate would tell me that he tried to blame it on me, saying I was the fecal source. Knowing otherwise, she and her guy take his pants to wash them and put him on the couch opposite of me.

I wake up on the next morning, wearing clothing that is not my own. I see Number Sixteen fast asleep under a blanket. I always wake up early, so I used that time to clean up, assuming (correctly) that I had made an ass of myself the previous night.

After another couple of hours, others begin to stir. With the hangover creeping over me, my roomie and I grab my clothes and go to our home. She had been laughing since she saw me, asking if I remembered anything from last night. Once we got into the elevator, she says “Wait until you hear what you did last night…” The short walk home was enough to hear every sex and shit-filled moment.

Mildly mortified, I went right back to bed and stayed there the rest of the day. That was the first, but hardly the last bit of public sex for me in China. I would revisit this public sexual display with Number Sixteen again… and again. Other than my virginity loss, this was the most blacked out fuck I had ever had. I really have no choice but to be okay with it. I do not usually think too hard on blacked out sex. It is not as if I can change anything. What is the use of being upset, ashamed, or regretful? Not an ideal situation, but it is the situation at hand. And now I have the story about the time a guy was fucking me and then shit himself.

Lots of memories in China are hazy. I did not once have sober sex in those six months. So on to the next drunken tryst, one with consequences discovered months later.

High Speed Lane Change

I spent one week back in the United States, trying to keep my body on Asian time, thinking of Number Fourteen, and missing my life in India. I watched a lot of Game of Thrones, it made me think of my now distant friends.

Before I knew it, I was back on a plane and headed to Beijing. After a 13 hour flight and a three hour car ride, I was in my new home in Tianjin. It was the largest, and one of the nicer apartments I have ever called home. Hardwood floors, three bedrooms, chandeliers in every room, and the most important feature, red track lighting lining the perimeter of my bedroom. This was affectionately termed stripper lighting. This lighting would set the mood for many a Chinese tryst.

That first night, as I laid on the world’s most uncomfortable, stiff bed, I thought, how crazy it is that I was where I was, after I had been where I had been. Two weeks ago I was in Chennai in the arms of my lover, now I am in Tianjin, laying on a board, waiting for morning to come.

Finally, the sun rose and I met my new roommate and soon to be great friend (we also lived with our translator, who had picked me up from the airport. We would not be friends). She is not a morning person, not many of my new co-workers were as I discovered that first 9:00 a.m. call time.

There were three women, counting myself, and eighteen guys. Great ratio. The single guys of the group were undoubtedly waiting to see the new girl, me. I’m sure when my jet-lagged ass walked out they were bitterly disappointed. Surely they were hoping for someone much hotter, larger breasted, and more blonde to fuck. All they got was a pale, thick, brunette white girl from rural Pennsylvania. Sorry boys.

I slowly met my new coworkers and friends, feeling their scrutiny of me as a person and performer. It was clear that the group was a fairly wild one, and that weird and interesting fun was in store. India was quiet compared to China.

That night, I was invited to dinner at what was the go-to pub. That is when the drinking commenced. The following day, Monday, was the mutual day off, so the partying happened on Sunday. I learned that I was working with people from all over, some from the U.S., others from Australia, Ukraine, Russia, and Brazil. I ate with my roommate, another American, and an Australian. I had my eye on the Australian, he was cute, and that accent is unbeatable. American women just love accents, known fact.

At the Beijing airport I had picked up a bottle of Jack Daniels at duty-free, unsure what the whiskey selection would be in Tianjin. It was awful in India. Alcohol is also a great way to make new friends. I offered my whiskey to this new group. So, back to my place we went, my roomie leading the way since I had no idea where anything was, including my home.

The four of us stumbled into our clean and elegantly decorated kitchen, each taking one of the four chairs around the marble table. I retrieved the bottle from my room and the shot taking began. As would be expected with four drunk, horny people in their 20s, conversation turned to sex. A subject I was ready to thoroughly discuss. Very soon, and I don’t remember how it started, but someone began shedding clothing. Then, very quickly, we were all removing articles of clothing.

I am sure it was started by the Australian. I was happy to oblige, I enjoy nudity. I remember him leaning over to look at me, approving of my hairless, freshly waxed vagina. There were now four naked, drunk people sitting around a table in China. How funny life can be!

The bottle of Jack now stood empty, the Australian and I made our way back to my room. I later learned that my roomie had been fucking the other guy off and on for a while. I assumed that they were across the hall, fucking. Instead, they spent time arguing.

But, I was unawares as I was focused on the naked, blonde Australian in my bed. With my red stripper lighting illuminating my flowered and frilly room, I joined Number Fifteen on my stiff and unforgiving bed. There was no clothing to be removed, so we went right at it. While his cock was far from the largest I’ve experienced, he fucked me wildly. I do not recall cumming, but I was so very drunk, and it still felt very good.

He was laying on his side, fucking me in the spooning position. Things were great, solid fucking was happening. I was thrilled. Things were slipping, things were sliding, and then all of a sudden his cock is in my ass. Fully in my ass. Balls deep in my ass.

Being drunk as hell, I could not properly articulate what had happened. Luckily, I was wet enough that it was not as shocking and painful as it could have been. A surprise, but one easily accepted in my drunken, horny state. I thought, alright, now we’ve moved onto anal, warning would have been great, but here we are doing butt stuff. Awesome.

But then, he starts fucking my pussy again. I immediately think, no, no, no no, not good, not safe. All I could think about is how they (the “they” that always has a lot to say about a lot of things) say to never do that. That doing so would cause dire vaginal consequences. But it had already happened, so what was I to do now? And so, he proceeded to fuck whichever hole his cock found first.

I suppose he came, I cannot remember where, or maybe he just passed out, or maybe I passed out. At any rate, we were both asleep. Two strangers at the start of the day, now with great carnal knowledge of one another.

I woke up early the next morning, as morning people are want to do. I look to my right, and there was a naked, sleeping, tattooed Australian man in my tiny twin bed. I looked at his back gently rise and fall with each breath, asking myself how I got to this point. I was reminded of Number Nine, watching his breathing in that one morning we spent together, thinking the same thing, how did I get to this point?

This is something that I have found myself to frequently do in the morning. I look at the man who has just penetrated me, now so peacefully asleep, and I ask myself how and why. I ask myself a lot of questions in that familiar moment. My unrest coupled with his tranquil slumber. It is usually in that time that I realize how little I know about the person next to me, and how I want to know the person next to me. And trust me, I realize that there is a level of creepy to watching someone sleep and breath, but it is always a moment of great introspection for me. I am going to keep doing it.

Back in China with my sleepy Aussie lover I thought, wasn’t I just in the arms and fucked by my lover in India? There was momentary guilt, but the time for Number Fourteen was passed. What was to come was several months of some of the most insane sexual decisions I’ve ever made. This night ushered in a phase of my life that had me in situations ranging from the funny to the potentially dangerous to the emotionally damaging.

Goodbye India, Hello China

My relationship with Number Fourteen always had a time limit. It had a limit before it even started. Three months was all we had, and that time was up. It could not be anticipated that I would find someone like Number Fourteen, and I was not prepared for it to end.

In fact, I did not want my adventure to end. I could have gone on for months living life like that. I loved my time in India, I loved the people I was with, I loved Number Fourteen. I got to explore a new place and culture while finding the perfect companion with whom to do it.

Our very last day in Chennai, we had our favorite breakfast together, and fucked before our final bit of sightseeing. We took pictures, drank out of coconuts and had a lovely time together. Upon returning to our home, as a group, we sat together and drank some of the homemade ginger beer made by Number Fourteen. It was wonderful to all be together. I would love to go back to that specific time.

As time wore on, the time of my departure loomed. I thought that we would spend those last hours together in each other’s arms, fucking like we never fuck again because chances are, we wouldn’t. Instead, overcome up emotion that he wanted to dull, he got completely plastered and fell asleep. I was incredibly mad, but there was nothing I could do. While he slept, I wrote him a note. A note that he has kept to this day. He writes me whenever he sees it. I forget it’s contents, but it was undoubtedly wordy but describing my love for him.

When it was time for my taxi to leave, those that remained all said their goodbyes. I was leaving with three of the guys, and after they all said goodbye, it was down to just Number Fourteen and myself. There was not much else to do, not many words were exchanged, but none were really needed. We hugged, we kissed, and he closed the door. I watched as our bungalow, my adventure, and my love disappeared from view. It is then I began to cry. Tears rolled down my face as the now familiar sights of southern India raced passed me. It hurt my very soul to leave a place and people I had so fallen in love with.

But, perhaps some of the magic was that it all was so momentary. I do not think that I could ever be “with” Number Fourteen. It was perfect in the time that I had it. If I were to try and extend it, I do not believe that it would work. I do not want him in the long-term. Yes, I sometimes pine for him, but sometimes it just feels good to long for something like that. I genuinely loved and love Number Fourteen. But time moves on, and so did I.

I have promised myself to return to India one day, but I it will never have that same magic as that first time.

I was now headed home to the United States, but only for a week. I was then on my way to Tianjin, China for the next six months. China did not offer me the same love I had found in India, but it sure gave me a lot of stories to tell.

Love. Even When You Shit the Bed.

Since a lot of us were in a new environment, with new food and bacteria in general, many of us got sick. I was very, very sick. I have never been that sick before or since. My fever was so high that I would not drip one drop of sweat walking and working in 120 degree heat. My forehead was burning to the touch. I should have gone to the hospital more than once, but I didn’t. Number Fourteen was the one to take care of me.

On day three of the first round of fevers, Number Fourteen suggested we go to the ocean and submerge my body to help break my fever. We were still having sex, and a lot of it, despite my excessive body heat. A little (read: big) fever will not keep me from great sex!

The Bay of Bengal, at least where I was living, had suffered tremendous riptides since the 2010 tsunami, that is what we were told by the locals with whom we worked. Swimming was prohibited, but that did not stop Number Fourteen. I was too scared to get in, I’m not the strongest swimmer. Nonetheless, Number Fourteen took my hand and stayed with me. He wrapped his strong hands around me and picked me up as if it were nothing. He carried me further into the sea. I kept telling him how scared I was and not to let go of me. I latched myself to him. The waves beat against us, submerging our intertwined bodies. I clung to his body with all my strength, afraid of being pulled into a riptide. It was terrifying, romantic, and erotic all at once. His shirtless chest pressed close against my thin, soaked shirt, dripping with salty sea water, our bodies as close as they could possibly be.

After soaking me from head to toe, he took me back to the shore and continued to dive and swim amongst the raging waves. I sat on the beach and watched him swim and enjoy every moment of his surroundings, as I enjoyed mine. I could not help but smile as I watched him. I loved him in that moment and thereafter. He was silly, and weird, and far from perfect, but no human is. But he was my perfect companion at that time.

I continued to shiver as my fever began to break, only to return three days later. I still do not know what illness I suffered from, dengue fever or a touch or malaria, who knows. It didn’t matter, Number Fourteen took such good care of me. My frequent sicknesses were made much better because of him. When the sight of Indian food made my stomach turn, he made me plain oatmeal with peanut butter in his room by using an electric kettle. He would make me food, kiss me, and fuck me all while ensuring I was feeling my best. Despite every inch of my body in massive pain, I wanted him and every touch. I desperately wanted to reciprocate, but it was difficult to move, and he was just so understanding and loving through it all.

The true picture of love came in the middle of the night one night in May. Suffering (again) from many days of gastrointestinal distress, I avoided staying in his bed, as I had to shit every half hour. Like a lady, I did not want the man I was fucking to know that I in fact, shit.

But that fateful night, I thought, I feel well enough to sleep next to him, wrapped in his burly arms. Surely there was nothing left inside me, I had barely had any food. But this is India, and that does not matter because I was wrong. So wrong. Dreadfully wrong. Deadly wrong.

I slowly drift off to sleep, knowing that a man I love is laying next to me. Then, the next thing I know, I snap awake and immediately feel myself shitting. I can’t stop it. The power of weeks of Indian food and water was too strong. I shit not only his bed, but the entire way from the bed to the bathroom. To say I was mortified is a massive understatement. I just shit the bed and floor of my lover.

I am crying on the toilet as Number Fourteen gently knocks on the door. I began to apologize profusely. He come in and comforts me and tells me that it is all okay, that I am sick and it happens. I then, defeated, lay on his bathroom floor, curled in the fetal position, clutching my stomach. Number Fourteen gets a towel and removes his sheet. He cleans everything, while reiterating that I should not feel bad or embarrassed, and he would take care of me.

I don’t move from the floor, and he brings a blanket and pillow to me. I remain curled up as he washes his sheets by hand in the water he had in a bucket. After hanging it up to dry, he lays next to me on the floor and wraps me up as he always did. I’ve never felt so simultaneously sick and loved. I shit this man’s bed and he still wants to hold me. We slept like that, on the bathroom floor, until the sun came up. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt so loved. We then moved back to his bare mattress, which he had also cleaned.

Only one other man has loved me as much as Number Fourteen, and I am not sure even he would do what Number Fourteen did for me. Moments in crisis or need are when love shows itself the most. In those moments it is selfless. Number Fourteen loved me, and I loved him, and not even shitting the bed would change that.

Life and Love in Chennai

For all that I remember with Number Fourteen, I do not remember the first time that we fucked. I am sure that it was great, all sex with him was great. Since we had already known each other and flirted for the past month, the first time we did fuck there was none of that first-time awkwardness. It blurs with the entire month where daily sex became the norm.

Once we began copulating, we fell into a beautiful routine. We would wake up together and he would take me in his arms. He always said how small I was, which, I’m not, but compared to his large and sturdy frame, I felt it. After laying there together for a bit, sometimes having sex, sometimes just feeling each other and cuddling, I would go back to my room to dress for breakfast. My morning stride of pride (never walk of shame) was usually met by at least two or three of my coworkers sitting on their porches. It became habit for us and they would always jokingly call me out on my morning post-coital walks.

After breakfast, we would have a few hours until we had to begin work. Those hours were spent doing any number of things, always together. Some days we would walk or take a tuk tuk into town. We would look at the wares and buy new, interesting, and unknown foods to try. Number Fourteen told me after some time together that he knew he liked me after he saw me eating. He believed that anyone who enjoys and savors food, especially like I did (and do), will be a good lover. That, and he liked a woman that would eat, and I sure ate a lot when I was there. The food was great, how could I not, especially when that enjoyment led to great sex!

I loved having a partner with whom to explore a different culture, particularly with someone like him who could pick up language and make friends with anyone. We found a place that served amazing breakfast, and would go there together and order one of everything to share. I loved those mornings when we would have breakfast, just the two of us.

All throughout this time in public though, we did not display physical affection. Culturally, it would have been inappropriate. It was difficult, yet being unable to touch each other also added an element of excitement. And no matter what happened, I knew that he would protect me, even though I never feel like I need protecting. It is a nice feeling nonetheless.

We had so much fun together, in bed and out of it. I had never had such a regular routine with anyone previously. It felt good to have a partner with whom to share my experience, even if it was only momentary.

The Repercussions of a Casual Greeting

It is interesting how small, outside circumstances can have such a massive effect on the course of one’s life. With one very casual “Hey,” I fell into one of the more meaningful sexual relationships of my life.

The last evening of April, I was watching Game of Thrones with Number Fourteen in his room. Someone had the first three seasons with them, and he wanted to watch them with me, or, really, watch me watch them.

All of our rooms were identical, with one bed, one blanket, two pillows, and two chairs. It was the ideal environment in which to find yourself with someone you’d like to fuck. There were limited seating and reclining options. So Number Fourteen and I were spooning on his bed. Our movie nights became just time for us. Once the show ended, or perhaps even in the middle of it, we began to kiss. He was as passionate as one would think this roguish Basque man would be. He was an amazing kisser. His touch was sensual and confident and our mutual desire only began to grow. The more we kissed, the more I wanted him.

For whatever reason, I was a little wishy-washy about going for it with him. But all doubt went away when we started kissing. It was quite clear that I wanted him quite badly. He fingered me, making me cum in no time at all. I do not recall, but I am sure that I went down on him and tried to reciprocate the pleasure.

I was still struggling with what I “should” do in relationships. So I “should not” stay the night and have sex with him right away. Everyone tells you to do this. To not have sex right away. To hold out. To make him work for it. To me, it is balderdash. But in 2013, I thought the “right” thing to do is to leave for the night and make him want more.

So I bid him goodnight, despite his protests for me to stay. I then took my 20 second walk to my room that was two doors away. It must have been around midnight, perhaps a little bit after. Upon reaching my door, I take out my skeleton key that probably pre-dated Indian independence and opened the door to my room.

What was before my eyes will permanently remain in my memory as being one of the funniest interactions I’ve ever had.

There was my roommate, naked, on top of naked Rick. She turns to face me, covering her tits, and I meet both their gazes. Everyone is momentarily stunned and does not move. I barely get out an “oh” while Rick, with such remarkably casual expression and tone, raises his hand in greeting as if he saw me on the street and said “hey.” Just the most casual greeting, like his cock was not buried inside my straddling roommate.

We all begin to giggle as I back away and say “I’m… just going to go back to where I came from.” And with that, I close the door, lock it, and retrace my steps to the door of Number Fourteen. I knock and enter, quickly regaling him with the story of what I was just apart of.

I asked if I could stay in his room for the night since I had nowhere else to go. He enthusiastically agreed. This is how our sexual relations began. It is interesting to think about how one sexual act begat another. What if I had walked in and found my roommate fast asleep? What if I was not forced, by circumstance, into the bed of Number Fourteen? I’m sure that we would have fucked eventually, but I am thankful for this series of events that initiated it. We only had a short time together anyway. The month of April was now behind us, only leaving a few weeks left of our contract.

Time frequently works against affairs such as this. But then again, these affairs sneak up on me. He could have just been another guy, another fuck that was good, but forgettable. He was not. I believe that I will never forget him and our time together in India. That time made me love him deeply and quickly. And no matter how long we were in India together, it would not have been enough.

Sub-Asian Flirtation

Through a series of odd and fortuitous circumstances, I was on my way to India. For a little over two months, I would be residing and working in Chennai. It would be my first big trip out of the United States, save some trips to Canada and the Bahamas. It was an exciting and terrifying time. I spent the months of February and March performing in a show in my hometown and preparing for my April departure.

I went to the doctor several times, getting more vaccinations than a newborn, and I was tested for everything possible, including STDs. I was thankfully clean, otherwise I would have had to explain my early February trysts to Number Ten, who I was still fucking. I should have put a stop to that whole thing the previous autumn, but I am not good at voicing my opinions or displeasures with my lovers. So we continued to fuck and pretend to like each other.

Number Nine and I would occasionally write at this time. He was working on a cruise ship at the time and would email me every now and again. I told him of my forthcoming trip, but, like all of our conversations, it devolved into just sending naked pictures and dirty messages to each other.

As April approached, Number Ten became even more smothering. The end to our time together was looming ahead. We would fuck every couple of days in February and March, until we fucked for the last time on April 7th. None of it was memorable. I think that we both knew that once I left, our relations would cease. Though, just like I said “I love you” when I did not mean it, I said to him “I’ll miss you and see you when I get back.” I wouldn’t, and I wouldn’t.

Two days later I was on my way to Dulles International Airport. After a teary goodbye with my mother, I made my way to my gate. I would be first flying to Abu Dhabi, then on to Chennai. I was told that some of the people with whom I would be working would also have this itinerary.

At the gate, I saw two guys that looked as though they could be my coworkers. Sure enough, they were. We exchange greetings and began to chat about our lives and forthcoming adventure. We were soon joined by another in our group, and together, the four of us board our flight and find our seats.

I was sandwiched between two of my new acquaintances. I could not help but assess all three guys. I like to look. Maybe I would fuck one, or all of them. Two of them had girlfriends, to whom they were unwaveringly devoted, which was more than fine, since I was less than attracted to both of them. The third guy, Rick* who was sitting to my right, had great potential. He had done the most traveling out of all of us, so he led us through this uncharted territory. (*Name changed)

After a short layover in Abu Dhabi, we arrived in Chennai in the early morning, maybe around 3:00 or 4:00. The airport was unlike any I had seen. We collected our baggage and passed a man with an assault rife to make our exit into the heavy and oppressive summer heat. Even before dawn it was unbearably hot. I was completely overstimulated to say the least. I couldn’t look at everything fast enough. Luckily, Rick was able to find our ride to our new home.

I was tired and in sensory overload. After a short drive, we arrived at our tropical bungalow. We were then sorted into our rooms, two to a room. Our names were taped on the doors, and since there were only two girls, mine was below my new roommate’s. I opened the door to my room, and there was my roomie, on the queen-sized bed that we would be sharing. The two of us became instant bedmates and friends. It’s hard to not become fast friends with someone when you’re sleeping one foot away from each other.

Everyone was awake and jet-lagged, so, the tradition of everyone piling into the girls’ room was born. There were six of us, all sitting around and talking about our trips and new surroundings. I met another coworker, from New York, also with a girlfriend. The two of us would become very good friends and still are to this day. Hi Noah!

Two more guys would round-out our group. One being our manager, who was in his room, and would usually maintain his distance from the rest of us. While is was undeniably sexy, he would always keep to himself. He was a bit older than most of the group, and mostly watched cricket on television, or, so we surmised, find a local girl to fuck in our off time. I would have fucked him in a heartbeat, given the chance. Then there was one more person yet to join us. His plane was delayed and he would arrive a day late. So there were eight of us all together, two girls and six guys, I ratio I loved and prefer.

That first day was all a blur. I was surrounded by everything new and foreign. I would, however, find a very familiar feeling when our final coworker, Number Fourteen, arrived the following day. I cannot say that it was the same lust at first sight that I so instantly felt with Number Nine. But he was a big, attractive, sexy man.

He was about 6’5″ with black curly hair to his shoulder. He was big in a way that made you want to be held by him. Our glances were flirtatious, but I was not certain of his desires. It was a small group of people, being wrong about these things would be highly embarrassing. Throughout April, we would work during the day and hang out together at night. There was no internet in our rooms, so we spent our nights on someone’s porch, drinking the local rum, sometimes out of freshly opened coconuts. We would exchange stories, laugh about the oddities of living in another country such as India, and just have a good time together. It was, to me, a magical time.

Some nights we would gather, usually in the girls’ room to watch a movie or an episode of Archer. We only had entertainments people already had on their hard drives. Number Fourteen would always sit on my side of the bed. There was one night where it was just four of us, the two girls, and the two single guys. I think that we watched porn, laughing at the absurd plot and terrible acting. Number Fourteen had started cuddling me during movie time, frequently rubbing his foot against mine. He was the perfect big spoon. I liked having him behind me.

This is one of the more extended flirtations of my life. Usually if sex is going to happen, it happens immediately. Perhaps this back and forth is what enhanced our passion. It took a few weeks to get there, but when it did happen, it led to one of the most memorable and passionate months of my life.

Domination and Submission in Philadelphia

I leave Number Twelve never to see or hear from him again, which is more than acceptable. I could hardly be attached to him. Onward, I went toward Center City Philadelphia and my next lay. I had a workshop to attend for a few hours first, but as soon as that ended, I was focused on Number Thirteen.

I was nervous. Never had I met someone from the internet purely for sex. There was always at lease the guise of a date. It was decided, mostly for my comfort, that we would meet in the parking lot of his apartment complex. There, we would take a look at each other, decide if we wanted to fuck or just turn around and go our separate ways. As I approached, my nervous were intense. It felt very back-ally and highly questionable. He appeared in a side doorway after a few seconds and we said hello.

He looked innocuous enough. His features were large and slightly cartoonish, but he was handsome, and his voice was deep and inviting. After a solid twenty seconds, we decided that yes, we both wanted to fuck. This is really all it takes to determine attraction. Anyone on any dating site that allows one to “swipe” will attest to this rapid decision making that is fueled entirely by lust. This meeting felt very much like live Tinder. So, after declaring our mutual attraction, we went directly upstairs to his apartment.

The building was decent, and his apartment is exactly what one would expect in that type of building. He was clearly able to live comfortably, not luxuriously, but not want for anything. His studio apartment had an exposed brick wall and large canvas art upon the walls. I liked his aesthetic.

The pleasantries of meeting someone new quickly ended. After I set my bags down, he told me to disrobe. I did. He told me to get on my knees. I complied. He then walked over to me and dropped his pants telling me to suck his cock. I submit.

I was then thrown on the bed. He hovered over me, face distorted with power and lust. The things that he was saying and doing were insanely hot for me. I wish I could remember more of the specifics. I was too in the moment. Nothing like this had ever happened to me in bed, and I was enthralled by it. I didn’t think twice, as he commanded, I obeyed. It was the type of domination that Number Nine and I had tried, and failed, to do the previous summer.

Something immediately clicked inside of me with this stranger dominating and commanding me. It was a full mental and physical release. I let my whole self go since I could not remotely predict what would be next.

He called me degrading names like whore, pig, and slut. I could not get enough of it. He spit in my face, then had me open my mouth and spit in my mouth. His saliva was minty and fresh. He was clearly prepared to do this. Every new thing was surprising, and I wanted more and more. Though, at one point, I was taken out of it when he told me to bark like a dog. I was not at all into that. I think he could sense it, since he quickly had me stop and did not do it again.

He pounded me while continuing his verbal abuse. It was euphoric. I was to ask permission before I orgasmed. That alone put me over the edge. I came, and he came. My entire body was shaking, my brain felt as though it was buzzing. The sensation was unmatched. It was my first taste of true domination, and I wanted more.

As I continued to recover and figure out what just happened to me and my body, we both began to get dressed. Our conversation was again casual and respectful, as if none of the preceding action had occurred. We quickly chatted about our lives. I asked his middle name, just for the fun of it. He regaled me with an interesting tale of how he was not given a middle name at birth but later chose one.

I was fully dressed now and ready to go. So with a final kiss and a thank you, I left, feeling weak-kneed as I searched for the exit. Once I was back on the street I looked at the time, I still had a few hours until my train was scheduled to leave. So I found a Starbucks in which to sit and watch the world pass. I kept playing my afternoon romp over and over again in my head, completely forgetting about that morning’s tryst with Number Twelve. Number Thirteen and I continued to text as I sat with my coffee, feeling still turned on by the way he fucked me. He suggested that I return for a quick round two.

At the very mention of it, I was out the door and walking back to his apartment. He met me at the side door and we immediately went up, got naked and wildly fucked once again. It was erotic and animalistic, with a driving need to put our bodies together. His dirty talk intensified which only fueled my desire. We both came again, me repeatedly, but soon enough, we were putting our clothing back on again. If I lived in Philadelphia, I could have easily become addicted to Number Twelve and the way he fucked me. And, at that point in time, I thought that I would be living in Philly for three or four months. So we were both prepared for a lot more fucking.

But for now, I needed to return to my hometown. So we bid each other adieu and I hailed a taxi to 30th Street Station. I was thoroughly sore and happy. There was that small voice saying, “You fucked two people today, that is so wrong.” But I usually just shut that voice up or ignore it completely.

As the train departed, it carried me toward a place of mixed feelings and difficult sexual memories that I did not want to face with people I wanted to forget. The train was also taking me back to Number Ten, who was patiently waiting for me, not knowing I had fucked anyone else. I still had not forgiven him for that awful weekend in January, and that wedge would always remain between us. Luckily, my life would significantly change and I would be taken far away from all my past encounters and find someone I truly loved.

The One-Morning Stand

Upon returning to New York, I looked toward the internet to find sex and love. My roommate told me about the site he was also looking for love on, OkCupid. So, feeling dangerous, I made my very second online dating profile (the first being the JDate profile I drunkenly made while in college. I spent a month sending cheesy, pre-made Jewish flirts. Nothing happened). Now, it was 2013, I had a mission. I was going to be finding a man, a man better than any man before him. Surely he was out there, and he was on the internet.

Since that perfect person does not exist, I found plenty of lesser men willing to call me pretty and buy me a drink.

I did not look at the available men in New York since I was leaving for what I thought would be three months in Philadelphia. I had been hired to do a show there from March to May, but I was leaving New York in February to go do a workshop of it. So Philadelphia was my OkCupid location. I quickly began writing and texting two guys, one a medical student and resident at a local hospital, and the other, completely mysterious expect for his sexual desires.

I simultaneously flirt with both of them in every form of modern communication, expect voice calls, no one does that. I communicated with Number Twelve, the medical resident, fairly generically, but Thirteen, I disclosed to him my desires for rough sex. I described to him being choked in the shower and tied up by Number Nine, and loving it. Twelve seemed very vanilla in his sexual appetites, but being a doctor with high earning potential is always a turn on… At least a turn on for me. The more Thirteen would write, the more I knew I wanted to fuck him, but terrified to meet someone from the internet purely for sex.

At the end of January, I bid New York farewell. It was an uneventful month, but I would be back. I knew I would move there eventually. Off to Philadelphia I went. The week before leaving, I had secured a couch to sleep on, the couch of Number Eight. He had moved from our small town and from his once proud hole-in-the-wall to a rather enormous Philadelphia apartment that we shared with two other guys.

I met him at the church for which he worked. I always found Number Eight’s love/hate relationship with religion interesting. He was the one who had the Bible on his nightstand while we fucked. But he, like most humans, was a complex person who would frequently put forward only his best self for others to see. But that’s what the digital age is for, showing others only the best parts of you and your life. To demonstrate  how awesome and fantastic your life is, and how enviable it is. I love living in this age. I love knowing that behind every great picture or inspirational status update, there is a less than perfect life of a less than perfect person. Social media is a perfect place to lie to others and yourself. I digress….

That first night in Philadelphia Number Eight and I sat around and chatted with his roommates, and caught up on the last year of our lives. I wanted to sleep, but his roomies were still awake on the couch I was to sleep on, so Number Eight offered his bed. Wanting to crash, I willingly hopped in, and soon enough, he joined me. We talked for a bit longer, but mostly just cuddled. Maybe we kissed, but I remember very warm and comfortable cuddling. It is a small thing, but I really enjoy this little memory of him.

While we did cuddle, we did not fuck. I spent two or three nights there, and we would do the same each night. It was lovely. But, there were two men in that city that I wanted to meet and/or fuck.

So on Friday, the 1st of February, I met Number Twelve for an early-morning date. We both had later obligations, so it was decided on a morning redenzvous. It remains to this day, my first and only 9:00 a.m. first date. We met for coffee, artisanal pour-overs, at a very hipster coffee joint. The conversation was predictable, I told him trivial aspects of my life, and he did the same. This was as generic a first date as one could get, aside from the unusual hour.

After we finished our coffees, we began to walk as light flurries began to fall from the grey February sky. Cleverly enough, he took our walk in the direction of his apartment. As the snow picked up, he suggested we go back to his place. He was cute enough, he bought me coffee, he was someone new and different, so I went.

He lived in a gated apartment complex that was really, very beautiful in the falling snow. We passed the perfect trimmed shrubbery, newly dusted in the falling snow, to reach an inner courtyard where he lived, and in a rather nice townhouse. I believe he shared it with someone, I cannot remember because we were so quickly up the three or four flights of stair to his room. His room was small, cozy, and warm. He wasted no time in starting to kiss me, and the usual dance commenced. Our clothing was quickly removed. Some dirty talk happen, maybe a condom was used. I think I asked for it, and, as usual, was talked out of it. We start to fuck, and it was very frantic and fast-paced. After some furious pounding, he wanted me on top. Not a problem, I like to oblige the requests of my lovers.

Yet, a prolonged stay upon the cock of my partner, to me, is lazy, and laziness is not tolerated in bed. The message that that sends me is that the guy wants to fuck me and feel the sensation of fucking without the effort. It is this position where I can best get myself off, so, if he is completely inept in bed, this would be preferred. It is a position to enjoy for a bit, not the entire time.

As I grind myself on top of him, he continues to tell me how dirty I am, and how I am taking his cock, all things I enjoy hearing while fornicating. But soon enough, he came, and that was that. It was semi-satisfactory sex. I got myself off, while enjoying his dirty words. Nothing specific stands out. I do not tend to remember the details of the more inconsequential fucks of my life. Number Twelve was not remarkable, he was, however, my only one-morning stand.

After laying in his bed post-coitus, the “what next” feeling quickly took over. I did not have to be anywhere for a few hours, but I certainly did not want to stay in this stranger’s bed if we were not having sex. As we lay there, he leaned over the bed to check an electronic device of sorts. He lets out a groan and tells me that he has been paged to go into the hospital. How very convenient. I suppose when you’re a resident this is a good way of saying “please get out” without actually having to say it. Luckily, I had no intentions of overstaying my welcome.

I quickly get dressed as he remains in his boxers. He had no intentions of getting ready to go and respond to his very important page. Nonetheless, I can take a hint, and bundled up for the chill of the mid-winter weather. Perhaps there was a departing kiss, but I am doubtful and I was left to show myself out. That’s a lot of trust, letting someone you just met walk through your shared home. I could have stolen any number of things, but I just walked right out into the blast of cold air.

As I walked away I had familiar thoughts. I asked myself what the fuck I was doing. Did I really just fuck my morning date, and now back outside by myself, and all before noon? Surely that was not the norm for internet dating, because that was not dating, that was hooking up, that was sex. This is where I am led astray in the online dating world. I had a difficult time sorting out the dating from the sex. Now that I had endless faces and possibilities paraded in front of my screen, everything was more accessible, especially sex. Sex could be found with a simple, single click. And for the next year or so, it would be a dangerous game of clicking and fucking for me.

I continued to wander the snowy streets of Philadelphia for a few hours. Knowing I’ll never hear from Number Twelve again, I continued to write and text Number Thirteen. After not fucking anyone new in six months, Twelve and Thirteen came in quick succession. Twelve was a throwaway fuck, something about which I never think twice. When looking back at the significant lovers of my past, Twelve is toward the bottom. Thirteen, however, holds a much more significant place. Number Thirteen was my first true taste of BDSM, and it was terrifyingly exciting.

An Obligatory Fuck

My month in New York was passing quickly and was mostly uneventful. I did not fuck a soul while in the city. About a week or two into my experimental New York life, I ran into Number Nine. Since we were in similar fields of work, this was not too surprising, it was however, undesirable. It was a very quick hi and bye, he had to be somewhere, and I had to be anywhere else.

About ten minutes after seeing me, he texts me, apologizing for the quick departure. At that point, I simply did not care, I did not really want to force a conversation. Our communication was strictly a physical one. I told him that I was staying in Astoria for the month, noting the convenience if we did want to fuck. His reply was that he couldn’t because he was “kind of seeing someone.” To which I had a great laugh, and reminded him that that very thing had not stopped him from fucking me over the summer. He conceded the point, but said that he was “trying to be better.” Naturally I did not believe him. I also disliked the idea that monogamy is somehow “better” and the people that adhere to it are somehow “better.”

Nonetheless, we continued to text throughout the month, sending filthy messages with even filthier pictures. That was harmless. Sending pictures and sexting were in no way cheating, so he was, laughably, “better.” Nothing would come of the communication other than mild emotional distress on my part. I would not see him again for almost a year.

Still, my heart would still race whenever he would text me. He had his own text tone. I chose the most sinister sounding one, since it would make me laugh, and I wanted to laugh before reading anything he wrote. The tone is ‘suspense’ on iPhones, if you’d care to listen. That tone at that time was to be just for him. But then, the men with the same physical response from me just kept adding up, so now all former lovers have the ‘suspense’ tone… If their number is not outright blocked.

The most significant moment of the first month of that new and wonderful year was almost forgotten. I have not thought about it in quite some time. I haven’t wanted to dwell on it, I never saw a need to do so. Though, despite the lack of thought, it is an important occurrence that has since been repeated by more than one man. Really, I have repeated and perpetuated it. It is of my doing.

Before moving to the city, I had already planned a trip to Asheville, North Carolina. The trip was designed for me to find further employment within the arts. Number Ten had asked if I wanted company. Usually my mother accompanied me on these sorts of trips, and, in retrospect, I wish she had on this one. But I agreed to travel with Number Ten. I did want to fuck, it had been a few weeks since I had. The sex was secondary to the primary purpose of the trip. I was there to find work. For Number Ten, who had not seen me in three weeks, it was for pleasure, primarily his pleasure.

The drive down from the north was a long one. It started out fine, but as the hours pressed on, our tempers began to rise. We began to argue about little things. He kept needing and wanting to stop. I like to press on when I travel, making minimal stops. At one of the stops, he bought beef jerky, a smell I despise. As we got closer to our destination, I noted how hungry I was, but also a need to scope out tomorrow’s location. He wanted to find food, ignoring my need to be slightly more comfortable with my forthcoming stressful day. We must have gone into three or four different restaurants, all of which were unacceptable to him or me. Hunger and anger began to mix, and we became very short and pointed with each other.

Once we got to the hotel room, it all exploded. He was mad, I was mad that he was mad. I did not want to have to take his feelings and needs into account during MY trip. Looking back, it probably stemmed from his (rightful) insecurity within the relationship. He wanted attention and affection that I did not give him. He stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. I was furious, and wildly upset, the perfect time to call my mother. I told her that I was regretful of my choice in travel companion, and wished that she was there. I knew if she were there, we would have been watching a murder mystery on television with our takeout dinners in our beds. Instead I had an emotional man to deal with. I nether wanted nor needed the distraction. I needed to focus on the following day, not quelling the wild feelings of Number Ten.

We found one another in the lobby and had to confront the problem. Luckily, the hotel had a restaurant, which is where we ate. That put out a lot of the fire. After eating, we retired to our room, where I assume we had sex. I don’t remember, but he undoubtedly needed the physical reassurance.

He was very difficult when it came to planning the following day. There was one car, and he wanted to use it, making it difficult for me to get anywhere to get food or rest during the day. Despite the unnecessary stress, the day went well. It was certainly very long, but ultimately successful with several job offers.

Since Number Ten had my car, I had to wait for him to pick me up at the end of my day. It was late, and I was exhausted, wanting nothing more than to eat and lay in bed. Tired and hungry seemed to be the theme of the entire trip. As I paced outside waiting for the arrival of my lover, I received a text from Number Nine, telling me of a new job he was just offered. A job that I had tried, unsuccessfully, to get. This infuriated me, but did not surprise me. Number Nine would (and still does on occasion) tell me of his personal and professional successes, a rather annoying trait. Granted, I at one time, feigned interest, and he probably still thought I cared and would be delighted by the news.

Since I was still waiting for my ride, I called my mother again. I told her everything, about Number Ten making the trip miserable, Number Nine describing his achievements, and about my otherwise successful day. She always knows the right thing to say, and said it until Number Ten showed up.

Once in the car, I told him that I needed a lot of food as fast as possible. He was insistent on this one particular restaurant his mother had told him about, located in the center of Asheville. Reluctantly, I agreed. So to the center of town we went, and on a Saturday night, it was packed. It took an eternity to park at a distance from our destination. We walk into an hour-long wait for a table. He wanted to eat there so badly, and I was too tired to argue or move. So we wait. My anger rising at the situation, but I am too tired to act on it.

After a long wait, I sat across from him at the table, hating him. I had already chosen what I thought would be my meal. Unfortunately, it was one of those vegetarian, vegan, healthy, earth-friendly hippie places. These places use flax in abundance, a food to which I am highly allergic. It was the very thing that ruined our nice dinner the month before. It was in everything in that place. So, I ordered soup.

When one is tired and hungry, soup satisfies nothing. He ate his meal as I slowly, and begrudgingly sipped my broth. I was crashing fast, and we left. I was still starving. Upon our return to the hotel, I finally got to order substantial food.

All I wanted was to crawl into bed, by myself, and go to sleep. I was so mad at Number Ten, and he was frustrated with me. The trip was not as focused on him and ‘us’ as he had wanted. But there were we in the hotel room with two single beds. He gets into bed with me. I wanted to make my disinterest known. I was still not able to voice my opinions to my lovers, and hoped he would pick up the physical cues. He didn’t. So he kissed and touched me. It did not occur to me that saying no was an option. I had never said no, save the supposed drunken protest the night of my deflowering.

Soon enough, he was inside me. I laid there, staring up, thinking about how much I did not want him., how I was repulsed by him. I continued to stare at the ceiling, wanting it to stop, wanting to cry. He suggests that I turn onto my stomach, a position he knows I like, feeling how dry I was and hoping that position change would amend it. While on my stomach, he thrust himself into me, causing pain to radiate outward from my vagina. This is what made me cry. On my stomach, crying into a pillow, he continued to try and force himself into my dry cunt. Still, I did not say no or tell him to stop. I did not think that I had it in me to say anything. I cared, but not strongly enough to voice it.

Eventually he stops, not coming close to ejaculation. He could now feel my lack of desire and enjoyment. Luckily he did not see me crying. After a few minutes and a few apologies from me for being so dry and unable to fuck he says to me, “I feel like I raped you.” My first thought was, “kind of an accurate feeling, never do that again.” But I assured him that he had not. He hadn’t. I did not say no, I did not stop it. He would not have known to think otherwise. I am always ready and willing to have sex, why would this time be different?

I find that this apathy in bed still plagues me. Even if I do not want to fuck, I allow it to happen. If he wants it, I must want it. I do not care enough for myself to say anything. Then I find myself drifting to that same place where I stare at the ceiling or cry into a pillow, wanting it to stop, but feeling unable to do so. I have this self-inflicted obligation to fuck. I am too apathetic to think that my opinions in bed matter. It’s just sex. And after all, who am I to say no to it?

Luckily, I am starting to remove this apathetic response from my bedroom trysts. “No” has entered my vocabulary on occasion. That’s not to say that I would ever fuck out of a feeling of obligation again, but the frequency will certainly decline. I hope.

But back in Asheville, North Carolina in January of 2013, Number Ten remained in my bed for a little bit after the failed attempt at fornication. Eventually, to my delight, he moved to the other bed, leaving me to sleep in peace. It is difficult to sleep next to someone at anytime, let alone in a single bed with someone who had just tried to fuck your unwilling pussy. By myself, I slept soundly.

The next day, we left mid-morning to go back north. The ensuing nine hour drive was the most silent road trip I have ever taken. Less than ten words must have been uttered between us. I was mad, I didn’t have anything to say, neither did he. So for nine hours, I stared at the road ahead, and he stared out the passenger window. Near the end of our trip, defenses lowered and partial communication began. We stopped at a Cracker Barrel for dinner, casually chatting as if the previous hours of tense silence had not happened. But things did not go back to “normal” again. I was resentful of the trip, and he was resentful of my lack of feeling and devotion.

I happily left for New York the following day. I needed a city full of strangers, not a small town and resentful lover. Number Ten and I would fuck again, but not before I fucked Numbers Twelve and Thirteen first.