Sexless in Seattle

If there is one constant about living in Seattle, it's the never-ending rainfall. It's always cold rain mixed with some gusts of wind and leaves the overwhelming smell of wetness everywhere. I'd moved away from Seattle years ago, swearing never to return, but the sight of grey overcast still gives me nostalgia. I don't know why.

I was never a very popular girl, for all the reasons there are always a few girls who aren't popular – too weird, too skinny, too intellectual – but if I'm going to be honest with myself, those were just smokescreens I'd thrown up,ex post factorationalization for my own inability to overcome fear. That doesn't mean the boys would've been lining up to ask me out: I was still a socially awkward and only marginally attractive girl; my hair (kept at least shoulder-length at my mother's insistence) was always a mess, my face was plain to the point of being boring and my body had all the curves of a skateboard. But the biggest hurdle was my dick. I was paralyzed with fear at what might happen when any potential partner discovered I had a full package of extras on-top of expected equipment. I used to have a recurring nightmare about it.

And so I was late getting into the sex game. Very late. Not that I didn't like the idea, heaven's no. I spent an embarrassing amount of my youth masturbating to all sorts of porn, hot guys and hard bodies, doing sweaty, nasty, dirty sexual things. But throughout high school I could never muster the courage to put myself out there. It took until college, flunking through Computer Science and flirting with militant lesbianism or at least girl power bisexuality that I found one to break me in.

It was in my phase where I was living on campus, kept my hair shaved to a quarter-inch like GI Jane and adopted men's clothing as a personal social experiment of sorts, trying to see if the grass was greener on the other side. His name was Brad and he would have remained a stereotypical muscle head (blonde, blue-eyed, tall – captain of the football team no doubt) in my mind if I hadn't met him in the parking lot of a downtown gay bar, leaning against a lifted truck, getting his dick sucked quite enthusiastically by a rather effeminate-looking older gentlemen. I only watched for a minute, maybe two, before hustling inside, but Brad had seen me peeping and sought me out. He came up from behind, put both of those huge, strong hands on my hips and whispered in my ear. I don't remember what he said. I do remember practically melting when he touched me.

It started in the bathroom with me on my knees, giving my first, most awkward blowjob. Brad was long but not exactly thick; his penis was pink and slender and the head lacked any flare whatsoever. He was also uncircumcised, which I found to be a turn-off in person. Still, I was shaking with excitement at getting my hands (and lips!) around his dick, too excited in fact – I dove on his dick with passion of a zealot and instantly gagged, pulling away to cough and sputter. Brad didn't take too kindly to that, slapping my face with his cock before poking down my throat again, causing my gag reflex to kick in and me to yank myself away, coughing and sputtering.

As an aside, I could taste the other guy's clammy spit on Brad and it wasn't helping matters.

I found a reasonable depth and agreeable (to Brad) rhythm eventually, covering my teeth with my lips, both hands around the base and bobbing my head back and forth, with the occasional slurp to keep the spit from completely covering my face. Just as I was getting comfortable, and despite him having just cum a few minutes prior, Brad spunked in my mouth without warning. I tried to enjoy the taste, but it was like rancid meat and burned rubber combination, so I spit it into one of the dirty corners of the bathroom while Brad took a piss and left. He didn't ask me, but I followed him anyway, choking down two beers wordlessly while sitting next to him at the bar and wondering how good he'd be at blowjobs.

After a half-hour, he got up and took my hand, taking me to his truck, a lifted red Ford with oversized flood lights and helping me up inside the cab. He started the truck up, pulled out of the parking lot and asked me the first real question of the night, "Where do you want to go?"

My place. Your place. Anyplace. "Wherever is fine."

He turned his head suddenly, looking at me like I was an alien, "Are you a girl?"

If looks could kill, I'd have been dead right there. Brad slammed a palm against his steering wheel and turned his attention back to the road, driving in silence. I wasn't sure how to react to the "success" of my little experiment and the consequences it now imposed upon me, so I just sat there quiet as a church mouse. He eventually came to a stop at a light in front of a Starbucks.

"Get out."

That was the end of me and Brad.

After that, I was a bit put off men in real life, switched my major to Gender Studies and filled my days with advocacy of breaking down social norms. But I still dressed like a boy while masturbating like a madwoman, night after night, discovering and nurturing kinks I never knew I had. This led me to the next guy, Mark.

I "met" Mark on a counter-culture web forum dedicated to all things off the mainstream. I dropped broad hints about my background and he let loose specifics, including that he was attending the same university and we met for coffee one Saturday morning. He was in his mid-twenties, a career student working on a PhD in some obscure field I'd never heard of, tall like a bamboo shoot with hair that straddled the line between sandy and brown, grey eyes and delicate fingers. He was the first guy to accept me for what I was.

But the sex was... unique. Oh, I certainly gave a competent blowjob by this point, having spent many a night practicing on various toys, and Mark enjoyed it. But his understanding of reciprocation could've used work. With my mouth full of cum (which, thank god, was nowhere near as disgusting as Brad's), Mark hauled me to my feet, wearing only my Nirvana t-shirt and 'sensible' blue panties, rubbing my cock through the thin material before fishing her out the side. That felt good.

Then he cupped her in his hand, told me not to move no matter what and whacked her with a ruler, hard. That didn't feel so good. I screamed. He hit her again. And then again. And then a half-dozen times in rapid succession before spitting and tugging on her with merciless strokes. The endorphine rush of having my whipped cock jerked off made me cum within seconds, while the pain had me in tears. I slowly sank down to my knees, whimpering as my dick drained. Mark started jacking off over me, quickly building to a climax and wrenching my tear-stained face back before unloading on it, finally calling me a good slut.

I went home and toyed my pussy harder than I ever have in my life, cumming at least four times that night. After that, at probably four in the morning or some other ungodly hour, I called Mark's number and left a message saying I never wanted to see him again.

Subsequently, I took the semester off from trying to date, switched my major over to English and, during the summer, took the lightest course load possible, full of fluff classes. It turned out worse than studying all hours of the night like Math or working my ass off with non-profits for Gender Studies' credit because I was constantly bored. Completely bored. Towards the end of the summer session, I'd transitioned my hairstyle to a dumb cowlick/faux hawk combination and started wandering the streets at night. That's how I discovered The Spot.

The Spot was located off the main drag, away from the side streets and underneath a box girder bridge. It was wet, muddy and smelled like rotting sea animals, but it must've held some attraction to the group who gathered there night after night. Probably the lack of street lights and housing, along with sparse traffic, in spite of the multitude of cars parked all over nearby. It was the perfect place for the nightly revels.

Anonymous men in the darkness, barely exchanging words before they engaged in licentious acts: touching, groping, stroking, jerking, kissing, licking, fucking, sucking, slurping, swallowing. It was there I spent night after night, mostly watching – insofar as one could watch in the absolute darkness – but sometimes participating in the carnal carnival.

That was how I found Duane. Actually, it was bit more embarrassing than a simple meeting. I was on my knees trying to fit two dicks in my mouth – both were small, but the guys were squirmy and as one got in, the other would slip out – when I saw a face illuminated by phone's artificial light. It was hard to ascertain details from the corner of my vision, but from what I could see, he was gorgeous. I was sure I was staring at him, because he stared right back at me and I knew, in that instant, that I had to have him.

But sucking two dicks at the same time makes that a little difficult. Therefore I cheated, taking one in either hand, swapping between licking the head while I stroked the other, alternating, rubbing them against one another, pushing the tips together and licking them from side to side. It didn't take long for the first guy to cum, spraying hit seed all over my wrist and bare forearm, which allowed me to focus on the remaining dick, cupping his balls in my hands and deepthroating him, once, twice, three times, he's out.

I spit his cum into the bushes and stood up, ignoring the hand grabbing my shoulder to walk to where Gorgeous Boy was on his phone. He looked up and saw me, nudging the guy next to him and I panicked. I had no idea what to say or how to be seductive; the beauty of the Spot for me was that I didn't have to be that kind of person. I could just be "Davey" and get what I needed from whomever.

Fortunately, he led the way, his cock already semi-hard in the cold night air as I squatted down and threw subtly to the wind, taking him deep into my mouth and tonguing his balls at the same time. He grabbed the back of my head and started gently swaying in and out, with a steady stream of dirty talk coming from his mouth. He called me a fuckboy, a tramp, a queer, a faggot and I hung on every word of it, giving him the best blowjob I've ever managed in my life. And when he came, it filled my mouth and I didn't even hesitate to swallow.

He didn't waiver either, kissing me right after. I breathily asked him his name; a violation of the Spot's informal rules, but he only smiled and told me it was Duane and would I like to step into his abode? Did I ever!

His residence at the time was a run-down motel barely one step removed from being pay by the hour. The sink spat instead of flowed, the toilet never stopped flushing and the TV's volume was stuck at maximum. I didn't care, I just needed a place with lights to see him, fully, every inch of his body and face and it sufficed for the purpose. Even under lights, he was beautiful with his smooth, light brown skin and eyes approaching amber in hue, slender but toned musculature and the poise of a man ten years his senior. My panties were annoyingly wet and altogether too constricting for this.

I can't give him enough credit for his reaction to finding out I was a bit more than he expected: just a look of predatory hunger and a lick of his lips as he pulled my hair and threw me face down on the bed, yanking my panties down to my knees without even bothering with my hoodie. Duane wasn't a gentle lover by any means. He pounded my pussy like it was a punching bag, ignoring the blood on his cock, pulling my hair with one hand and choking me with the other. It hurt too bad for me to cum, but it hurt too good for me to tell him to stop.

He didn't finish in my pussy though. Instead he pulled out, spread my ass with both hands and literally ordered me to bite the pillow. That definitely hurt worse, a kind of searing pain that brings visions of hellfire and brimstone to the mind. I bit down. I screamed. I cried. Duane kept going, finishing inside me with a slap of my ass.

He treated me rough, rode me hard and put me away wet.

I was addicted to him from that day on, hanging out with him constantly. He was more than just the perfect lover for me. He was interesting, working by day on his computer engineering degree and his graffiti art by night, extremely bisexual, whip smart, sarcastic and crass. He dressed like an Oakland gangbanger most of the time but could rattle off every one of the hottest up-and-coming local bands and get us decent tickets for free to about half the shows. He seemed to know everything and everyone around Seattle and everyone knew him.

I idolized Duane.

And when he fucked me – oh my God! – the rush was too intense to bear sometimes. His favorite technique was to pin me down, licking and sucking on me until I couldn't take it any more then spread my legs wide, lifting under my knees, and fucking me with deep, fast strokes, biting on my nipples and kissing me in turns. I'd never felt like such awomanbefore in my life and it was mind-altering.

After forcing an orgasm out of me, he'd sometimes turn me over, pull my hair and call me a bad little boy, driving his dick in and out of my ass gently, tugging on my nipples and licking my neck until I couldn't stand it any longer, then pull out, yank the condom off and cum all over me, my back, my ass, my legs, my face, my tits, my stomach, anywhere was fair game. Other times he'd catch me unexpectedly – just hopping out of the shower, trying to cram through another lesson, fixing dinner while over at his place – get on his knees and suck my cock like every cock dreams of being sucked. Then he'd swallow, stand up, kiss me on the forehead and leave. On rare occasions he'd even let me fuck him, which I was never totally comfortable with but still enjoyed, seeing his face and hearing his moans as I slowly glided in and out of his tight little ass.

But like any good thing, it couldn't last. Duane was a wild child, far from exclusive to me alone and with his model looks and delicious dick, I was beyond certain he had others on the side. I knew he hated condoms but after the first time, I insisted he use them. Every time. It was the only disagreement I had with him, ever, and I'm sure he didn't use them with others. On top of that he dabbled, recreationally, in heroin, which he pronounced "hare-ron," with all the risks that comes with the lifestyle.

His test results came back positive: he had the Bug.

I shouldn't have been surprised, but I was. I shouldn't have spent the next two days crying into my pillow, avoiding him, but I did. I knew I shouldn't blame myself, but I still do.

On the third day I refused to cry. Instead I rededicated myself to learning everything about the disease; reading books, magazines, websites, newspaper articles. I realized my impressions of the Bug were wrong: there still wasn't a cure, but it wasn't the eighties anymore: the Bug could be managed and someone infected could have a full and happy life.

That knowledge reinvigorated me. I drove to his house at twice the legal limit, weaving in and out of early evening traffic like I was in a stolen car, running out into the drizzling rain and pounding on his door loud enough to wake the dead. It took almost ten minutes for him to answer and he looked horrible when he did – he'd gone a drug binge when he couldn't get in touch with me and was still in the process of coming down. I called in sick to work and stayed with him, feeding him, doing his laundry, helping him to the bathroom and excitedly telling him how he could beat the Bug.

He was unenthusiastic.

I tried. I really did. I moved him into my place over my roommate's protest and tried to live a normal domestic life but he remained one of the walking dead. He skipped his medical appointments, he refused to take the drugs and finally, after two months, he simply left.

It took me two days to track him down, another two days to work up the courage to speak to him. I talked to him in the doorway, fat drops of rain soaking through my clothes. I told him, my eyes blinded by tears, if he wanted to die, that was his choice but I wanted one last thing from him, something permanent: a baby.

He slammed the door in my face. That was the last time I ever saw him.

Not a day goes by that I don't think about him, that I don't curse getting those results back and not being sick right alongside him. I've been a hollow shell since the day he slammed the door on me and I'm not sure I'll ever get back to normal again, but at least I'll never feel unloved.