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In the worst months of my depression I would spend weeks away from home, traveling the country by thumb and by bus, crashing in flea-bitten motels, wandering the streets of cities and towns without ever really knowing where I was or where I was going. All I knew was that I had to go. I had to move. I had to be anywhere other than right here. I may have been running from myself, but sadly, my self turned up everywhere I did, and I was forced to move on again.
During this period in my life, I would attempt to kill this nameless, gnawing emptiness inside me by feeding it whatever pleasures came to hand. Booze might drown it, temporarily, but it would always come back, a roaring hollowness. Drugs might make it woozy, leave it stumbling behind for a time, but it would find its feet eventually and it always caught up with me. Good food might sate it, but never for long. Fancy hotels and live music in lounges might occasionally lull it into a torpid slumber, but it would soon wake and open up again, yawning, threatening to swallow me.
There came an evening when nothing seemed to work. The darkness within me was spilling out and threatening to snuff my light forever. In a moment of flailing desperation, I grabbed the phone book under the phone (another grimy, noisy, roadside motel room) and flipped it open to a random page.
Through blurry eyes I picked a number off the page and dialled.
It rang 17 times. I remember counting.
The voice that eventually came on the line was husky, raspy, half-asleep. I couldn’t make sense of the clock, some terrible, functional art thing hung on the wall, so I apologized while they gave me the gears for waking them up. I kept mumbling apologies, but it was a real, human voice on the other end of the line, I was talking to someone, and I couldn’t hang up. After a while, I realized she wasn’t bitching at me anymore. The line wasn’t dead, either. She was listening.
I think the hitch in my voice is what did it. Some buried maternal instinct, gone dormant after children left home, shook itself awake. Old and decrepit, grumbling as it went, it nevertheless began feeding coals to the furnace in a dead heart. What glowed there couldn’t be called warmth, not yet, but it was something. Cobwebs curled and blackened and fell to wispy ashes in the chambers of her heart.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t know if I have the will to make it through tonight. This is my last attempt at finding a reason to carry on. I can’t fight it anymore. I’m tired of running.”
I rambled on, following this tenuous thread, attempting to stitch together some barely cohesive patchwork quilt of my life, my struggles, my months of wandering, looking for an answer to a question I couldn’t even formulate in the hopes I might wrap it about my shivering sense of self worth before it succumbed entirely to the numbing cold.
I trailed off, choking back sobs. This isn’t a place I’d ever pictured myself. Staring at a smoke-stained ceiling, telling a complete stranger of my losing battle with depression. I don’t think I was looking for sympathy. Just… someone to notice. A spark of hope. Something I could cling to, use as a weapon to fight back the blackness that kept encroaching.
She said, “Look, son, I’ve been alone the last 12 years. It ain’t so bad. You take up some bad habits, you watch too much TV, maybe some porn when you get the itch, life goes on.” She paused to cough. I could hear her fumbling for her cigarettes. “Point is, you’re young. What the fuck have you got to be so broken hearted over?” She sucked air, blew it back out over the receiver. The way the sheets on the bed smelled of tobacco, it was like she had blown smoke into the room.
“Nothing,” I said. “I have nothing. It’s not a broken heart, it’s nothing. There is nothing. I am totally and completely empty. I’m not up. I’m not down. I’m nowhere, with nobody, doing nothing. I want to feel something! What the hell is life for, if there is nothing to brighten the constant fog of futility?”
“Fuck,” she rasped, and heaved a heavy sigh. It sounded like a sirocco in brown blades of grass. “Melodramatic asshole. Did you wake me up just to carp about how tough life is? Get a bandaid. People suffer, and if you’ve got the freedom to be calling up strangers in the middle of the night, you’ve got a great deal more than some folks.”
There was a rattle, perhaps of an earring, as she moved to hang up the phone.
“Wait!” I couldn’t let her go. Not like that. I was actually feeling… something. Not better, no… but she was saying things that made sense.
“Is that it?” I asked. “It’s that simple? I’m just a quitter? I’ve bitched out?”
“Kid, don’t waste my time. I’m not a shrink. I need my beauty rest.”
“You said you’re alone.”
“You don’t have to be. Neither do I. Maybe this is happening for a reason.”
I let it stretch out, too afraid to say more. Did it stretch like a cat, self-satisfied and oh so certain of itself? Or did it stretch like the truth, never quite sure when it would break? Perhaps the wizened little gnome in charge of her heart sensed an opportunity and began frantically stoking the coals of romance. Perhaps she figured her life couldn’t get any worse, so what the hell. Either way, after a nearly interminable wait, she said:
“You got my address. I like red wine, and lots of it. And grab me a pack of Parliaments on the way.”
Click. The line went dead.
I looked down at the phonebook. It had fallen closed during our conversation. I dropped it on its spine and let it fall open where it may, the same way I had before. I couldn’t even remember which name I had picked. I glanced over the page, trying to compare the addresses I saw with a mental map of where the motel was.
Fuck. It was hopeless. Defeated, I collapsed onto the bed and fell into a fitful sleep.
The phone startled me awake. I glanced at the clock. It still made no sense. Useless piece of shit. I threw the phonebook at it, knocking it off the wall, and fumbled for the phone.
“Just making sure you’re still breathing, love. You change your mind? A lady don’t like to wait.”
My heart lifted, sort of. Picture a half-inflated hot air balloon struggling to lift a boulder, dragging it bumping and thumping along the ground. It wouldn’t look like much from the vantage point of now, perhaps, but it was enough for me then.
Is it possible, when we’ve reached our lowest point, that everything looks like up? Is it possible that sinking as far as I had may have been of benefit to me? I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt that telltale lurch in my chest. It felt like falling in love, and it hurt. Layers of old scars cracked open, oozing raw emotion. I smiled for the first time in months. Perhaps the smile was a little grim, but I would rather be hurting than empty.
“No.” It was all I could think to say. No, I hadn’t changed my mind. I’m just a fuckup.
“Good. But I’ve changed mine. I don’t want you over here. The place is a mess. I got your number and the name of your motel from the operator. What room are you in?”
“Don’t do anything until I get there, hun. Don’t move, don’t think. Mama’s gonna fix you right up. And maybe in the process you can fix a thing or two for me, eh? Leave the lights off.” She vented that same long, hot breath into the receiver, reviving that same weird sensation that she was already there, smoking right next to me. For the second time that night, a click, and the line went dead.
I took her advice. After unlocking the door, I turned off all the lights and lay back down. I didn’t move. I just lay there, wondering what was going to happen. How old was this woman? Her voice could’ve belonged to a twenty year old who’d started smoking in the womb, maybe, or an ancient old crone. Her attitude, the way she called me kid, and her reference to being alone for 12 years, put her more on the wrinkly side of that scale… but perhaps not so wrinkled as to be undesirable. I hadn’t gone so far as to purchase sex, yet. Surely whoever she was would be better than the soulless business transaction of hiring a prostitute. I became sidetracked wondering why I had never explored that avenue of relief. You’d think I might have ventured down that path at least a little ways before giving in to depression and thinking of ending everything. Or did I instinctively know that there was no relief to be found there?
When the door opened, my heart began to race. I had a momentary glimpse of a feminine silhouette, outlined briefly by streetlights, before the door closed behind her. Not slim, but nicely padded. I wouldn’t complain. Her hair was teased up, very 80s, and glinted a frosty blonde. A golden flicker of earrings (I had been right, apparently) and that was all I could see. My nose told me more: she smelled like black cherries, fresh and sassy. She had applied a bit too much perfume, and it wafted around the room like an echo of her movements. It was overwhelming and summery, but not unpleasant, given the musty, fetid odor of the motel.
She found her way to the bed by the furtive light that was trying not to get caught peaking around the edge of the curtains. I made to sit up but she pushed me down, stripped herself naked with quick efficiency, then found my belt buckle and quickly divested me of my trousers. She had me hard with a few quick tugs and a rapid swirl of her tongue. A condom dropped into place like the beam from an alien ship. I had to stifle a laugh; it glowed in the dark, neon green.
Then, without further ado, she straddled my hips (the springs protested, but only meekly), and lowered herself onto me.
She had been quick to get to the starting line, and had whispered something like, “I’ve been dry as a desert for twelve years, I’m not wasting a sudden flood,” but now that she was poised on the cusp of consummation she took her sweet time, dropping inch by delirious inch, until my cock was buried to the hilt in her warm, musky swamp, gripped as if by the jaws of a crocodile.
I squirmed out of my shirt, saw vaguely a pleasantly round face graced by a full, sensuous mouth, now biting her lower lip as she lifted her hips, and wide eyes nested in laugh lines, all limned by dirty street light. The curtains fought valiantly with the voyeuristic glow from outside, but couldn’t entirely maintain our privacy. That was okay by me. I liked what I saw.
Then she dropped back on her haunches, squashing our sexes together with a wet slap, disappearing back into the shadows as she did so.
So it went, alternately rising into the dusty light, revealing bits and pieces – a curl of hair fallen loose, like coiled straw, a quivering chin as she fought to hold back a cry of pleasure, a curve of cheek or throat – and dropping back down, disappearing into the dark, chasing the sound of a baker vigorously patting loaves of damp bread, splat, splat, splat.
She gained momentum, and it was wet, hurried work. She did it with an air of serious concentration, hands pressed against my chest, slapping her ass up and down as her tits wobbled in and out of the light. They looked like big, juicy pears, thrashing about on a tree in a storm. I put them in my mouth, nibbled and sucked, and she moaned out loud, a drawn out rasping groan that ended in a sharp high shout.
Her cunt flexed and spasmed. A gush of warmth spilled over my belly and thighs. Grabbing her thick labia in one hand, she bunched her pussy lips together, which pushed her swollen clitoris up out of her shadowy folds. The perverse light eagerly rushed in to lick it. The grip of her hand also made her pussy tighten on my shaft, and the tip of my cock began to throb as I neared the edge of orgasm. With her other hand she spanked her clit with a fury, a rapid flurry of spirited smacks that she orchestrated with the grinding of her hips as she pressed herself down on me.
Splashing and barking and suddenly smelling like a seal at the beach, she came again and again, squirting sometimes as high as my chest, anointing me, the bed, and the space around us with the happy flood of her long awaited twelve year release.
I couldn’t hold out any longer. My balls huddled together, hugged each other tight, and cried, “Look out!” I blew my wad into the depths of the neon green condom, letting loose a sudden chortle as I imagined it immediately beamed up by aliens.
She collapsed, briefly, and pressed her warm and generous breasts against my chest. Her hair spiked my face, held firmly in place by something that smelled like peaches but couldn’t mask the scent of cigarettes. The tangled orgy of odors in the air gave up trying to sort themselves out and collapsed onto the bed around us, exhausted yet satisfied.
I counted five deep breaths while I held her close. Five warm, soft breaths that tickled my neck, followed by long, rattling sighs. Then she shuddered quietly in my arms. Perhaps she coughed, or cleared her throat. I don’t recall. Too soon she fell still. She pried herself loose with a slurping sound and climbed back into her clothes. She paused at the door long enough to blow me a kiss. She was already sparking up a smoke. And then she was gone.
“Thank you,” I whispered, and fell asleep, glad, for a change, to be roiling with conflicting emotions.
On the topic of strangers, I received a letter from Maya, who wrote to describe her first time meeting someone she now sees semi-regularly for no strings attached enjoyment. But that first meeting with a stranger could have been her last.
Ten long, agonizing years of disenchanting sex. My love life has been unexciting, uninspiring, unimpressive; a damn waste of time. Here I am, a woman in my prime, and since my divorce, I’m finally emerging from my shell. The desirable place between my thighs has reached an aggressive peak of constant arousal. How do I suppress this driving need without getting tangled up in feelings, mired in emotions? All I want is sex. No more, no less. No strings. No attachments. For me, trying to become me again after so many years of being his, these restrictions are a necessity to protect my still fragile sense of self. But how to accomplish it?
I don’t desire a partner; what I want is nothing more than someone to fulfill my sexual needs. More, I want it in a dangerous, romanticized, possibly cliche way: A stranger, one I know nothing about, other than the way he feels sexually. Someone to open my mind and show me the wonderful world of crazy, mind-numbing sex, without trying to get at my heart in the process. The kind of lover my girlfriends talk about, the clothes-ripping, sensual, animal fucking you see in the movies. Finding this “friend” is now my top priority.
Locating a willing participant shouldn’t be hard. But will we click?
I sign up on a dating web site and immediately find someone who catches my eye. His tag line clearly states he’s not interested in anything serious. Obviously he’s only into sex, but it’s his picture that catches my attention. Tall, attractive, licked in tattoos, and smiling. Kind eyes, beautiful eyes that look right into my soul. I am instantly attracted and message him right away. Like Russian roulette, I don’t know what will happen, but I take the shot anyway.
“Hey, love your profile. Wondering if you’d be interested in helping me fulfill my deepest desires and fantasies…”
I’m blushing, my heart is racing! This is not like me at all. I have knocked aside the lid and leaped out of the box! Within minutes he messages me back. Right away I can tell he has a domineering side. He says he’s interested in my proposal, but he doesn’t hesitate to lay down ground rules. They’re acceptable; it’s like he can read my mind and he knows what I crave.
The rules are:
We are not to know anything about one another. No names. No occupation. No address. Nothing.
We will meet in private, out of the way places. When we are done, we will go our separate ways.
If we happen to meet in public, we will not acknowledge each other in any way.
So exciting, a stranger… sex with a complete stranger! All I have to work with is a picture and a few words. We converse back and forth about our fantasies and desires and I have to admit, I feel comfortable with him. Maybe I’m too eager. The thought of a person I don’t have a clue about thrills me; if I’m honest, it scares me, too. That’s what’s turning me on, that freaky excitement.
After a few more messages we decide to meet up. Tonight.
Back woods behind a local high school. Late at night.
The pair of us are to walk the trails until we find one another.
One more rule:
No words exchanged unless words of pure lust.
I am soaking wet thinking about the idea, but also terrified. What if he hurts me? What am I doing? Am I crazy? But I have to take the chance – I have to break down this barrier. So we agree, and I begin to get ready for my woodland adventure.
My heart is racing with heat and anticipation. This situation could go one of two ways… either I end up badly used, hurt, or dead… or it could be wonderful, amazing, the realization of all my sexual fantasies. I focus on, hoping for, the second option. I decide to adorn myself in easily removable clothing. Best to be prepared. I argue with myself, debating whether or not I should tell a friend where I’m going, what I’m doing, in case I go missing. In the end, I decide to keep my dirty little secret to myself.
Mentally prepared, dressed, smelling like vanilla (and pheromones!) I head on my way. My palms are sweating and my heart is fluttering. More than once, I almost turn around and head right back home, but I gather my courage and keep driving.
When I arrive at my destination, it’s dark, the sky is full of stars, and the crickets are chirping. It’s a beautiful, exotic setting, and the whole scenario is already making me wet. I see no other vehicle there, so I figure I’m the first to arrive. There’s the trail; I head towards it.
With only the blue moonlight guiding me I make my way through dense, primal forest. The air is warm and fresh with the scent of pine. I jump and startle at every noise. I must be fucking crazy! Why am I doing this? Turn around and leave no, before he arrives. No, I have to go through with it! If I don’t, I will never forgive myself.
I’m so nervous that I feel like I’ve been walking for hours when I a silhouette, black on black, materializes out of the darkness ahead of me. I stop dead in my tracks. It’s him. It has to be him. Please be him! Now I’m scared, but it’s too late to rethink this, he’s moving towards me. He’s tall, far taller than average, and next to my petite stature his size is extremely overwhelming. Though it’s dark, my eyes have adjusted enough to see he is the most amazing looking man. So much better than his photos. He’s gorgeous, and the fact I have to look all the way up his beautiful body to get a glimpse of his face makes me breathe heavily with lust.
This is it, it’s happening, I’m here in the woods after dark with nobody to hear me if I’m in trouble and I have this beautifully terrifying man standing in front of me. Fucking grow a pair woman! You set this up and you can’t chicken out now!
There is a moment of silence. It feels like centuries. I break the quiet with a timid, “Hello.”
His deep, sexy voice tells me to be quiet, reminds me there is no talking.
Okay, he’s pushy. Actually, I like that. A lot.
He suddenly steps forward and I jump back a little. My breathing is getting heavier. I’m freaking out, but I’m so excited that I’m getting wet. He’s walking a circle around me, observing me. I can feel the heat of his nearness and hear him breathing and his smell is so alluring. What is he waiting for? Is he sizing me up? Did I come all this way for nothing?
He completes his circuit and stands in front of me. I’m playing with the zipper on my sweater, nervous, wondering if I’m supposed to make the first move. Something tells me he’s more in control of this than I am. It’s a thrilling sensation, like falling. I’m already over the edge.
He stands right close to me now. My tits are pressing into his hard stomach and chest. My god, he’s tall and beautiful! His hand slowly comes up and pushes my long black hair off my shoulder. He bends down, slowly, and places a soft, sensual kiss on my neck.
There it is! My kryptonite: my neck! Still nervous, scared, I close my eyes and try to take it in. His lips are kissing slowly down my neck. I feel his warm, calloused hand engulf mine, and he’s guiding my hand down my zipper, releasing my sweater from my body. I let it fall to the ground. Gaining confidence, I reciprocate and remove his leather jacket. Okay! This isn’t so bad; he doesn’t seem to want to hurt me. His gentle touch is warming me up.
He leans down again and we kiss. Small, sensuous kisses, slow and gentle. My hands find his hips. I pull him in, pressing my kisses harder. I can feel him harden through his pants, pressing into my upper hip. He’s enjoying this, too, this may actually work! I’m feeling better, much better. My panties are soaked. This is the hottest thing I’ve ever done.
Suddenly I reel backwards. My hand just encountered a gigantic utility knife on his belt. I go from hot and bothered to terrified and wanting to run in an instant. This is it. I should have followed my instincts and turned around before I got here. He wants to hurt me.
He grabs the handle of the knife, sensing I’ve found his secret, and draws it free from the sheathe with a menacing rasp. It’s too dark to see his face. I can’t tell if he’s smiling. He’s not saying anything. I whimper and start moving backwards. Oh my god, this is how I am going to die! You stupid woman!
The blade is huge, and I catch glimpses of it as it flashes in the darkness. He’s turning it over and over in his hand, watching the glinting moonlight.
“Please don’t do this… please let me go…”
There is a moment of silence before he steps forward.
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
For some reason I can’t move. My feet are planted to the cold hard ground. Like a fool, I cannot run. Why can’t I run away?
Something in me believes him. Trusts him, and it’s keeping me from fleeing.
He places the knife on my shoulder. My heart hammers in my chest. He runs the blade slowly down my tank top strap. My breath comes in rapid gasps and I’m starting to sweat. This is fucking crazy! Why am I not fighting back or running away? Why the fuck do I not scream?
He hasn’t taken his eyes off me. He stares deep into my eyes, assuring me with his calm gaze that he’s not going to hurt me. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he slices my strap and the lace falls around my breast. Despite my fear, my body reacts; this is so fucking hot! He drags the blade across my collar bone to the other shoulder, deftly cuts the other strap. My top falls down, revealing my other breast. He closes the blade and tosses it to the ground a few feet away.
Slowly, he walks around behind me. I’ve never felt so vulnerable until this moment. I can feel him behind me, smell him, feel his breath on my back as he reaches from behind and pulls the rest of my sliced-up top down to my waist. His huge hands make their way to my chest and he cups and fondles my already hard nipples. Waves of fear and exultation wash through me, fighting for control of my body. He’s kissing my neck again, biting my shoulder and fondling my tits. Exultation wins. I can’t help but throw my head back and start to moan. It feels so amazing!
He pulls my skirt down and it drops to the ground. Thank god I’ve worn thigh high boots to protect my feet from the dirt. Suddenly he shoves his finger into my mouth, and I begin sucking it, gently soaking it with my saliva as if it were his cock. He takes his wet finger and starts to rub my clit up and down in small gentle strokes. I can’t control my breathing, or the noises that escape me, or the pulsing in my slit. His finger is thrusting in and out of me. I want to talk dirty and tell him how much I love it but I remember the rules and catch myself before I flat out beg him for his cock.
He moves to my front and I can no longer help myself. I tear at his clothes. I want to see him. I want him naked and vulnerable as I am. Shirt, belt, pants, and boxers are off within seconds. I have never wanted anyone so badly. As soon as I pull his boxers down his giant cock comes springing out. I wasn’t expecting it to be so big! It’s almost intimidating, but it’s beautiful.
My turn to make him moan. I get on my knees and put his gorgeous member in my warm mouth. He gets harder and harder with each stroke of my lips and tongue. His hips start to move and I can tell he’s loving the attention. I don’t want to stop.
He gently holds my hair back and glides his pulsing cock in and out of my mouth. He can’t wait any longer. He pulls out of my mouth and grabs my hand and pulls me towards a tree, pushing my back against the trunk. We kiss hungrily. I’ve never been so excited. I am loving every moment of this.
He makes his way down my chest with warm, erotic kisses; circles my nipples with his warm tongue; gently bites the peaks of my breasts. He lifts my leg over his shoulder with ease and drives his tongue into my soaking pussy. His tongue swirls around my clit, plays up and down my slit. My moans fill the musk-scented air and become uncontrollable and I experience instant, beautiful release.
Panting, trying to gather myself, stand on my own two feet, I don’t hear him put the condom on. Before I can react he grabs me around the waist, lifts me high into the air with his strong arms. I wrap my legs around his waist and he slams me back against the tree. I feel his hand exploring my slit again, rubbing the head of his hot cock up and down. Then, with one deep thrust, he plunges his throbbing cock into my dripping pussy. The sensation is like nothing I’ve ever felt before: with each thrust I can feel the bark of the tree grinding into my back and shredding my skin, but I don’t care, the pleasure far outweighs the pain. I hold on tight as his strong body thrusts into me fiercely, until I hear his breathing get heavier. I want to cum with him! I let go completely and we climax together, moaning, panting, and growling.
His head rests on my chest and he holds me against the tree, catching his breath. His height definitely has its advantages, and his huge cock fills me to the brim. Slowly and so gently, he lowers me to the ground. His softening cock slips free. We spend a few minutes gently kissing one another, saying thank you with our lips.
My back is sore and I’m sure there’s blood, but I don’t care. He turns me to inspect my back and gently kisses my wounds. The pain is worth the pleasure, by far. We dress without haste, helping each other with buttons and zippers, searching through the dark to find our scattered clothing. Since my tank top is now useless I tuck it into my sweater pocket and zip up my hoodie. My legs are not quite working and I find myself stumbling around. He takes my hand and leads the way, following the trail in the dark.
Still there have been no words exchanged. Only glances and smiles…
We make our way back to my car and I see his van parked nearby. He walks me to my door, passionately kisses me again.
I can’t believe I actually did it! Other than my scraped back from the tree and a sore cunt from outrageous sex, I’m alive and well! Better than ever! I am so thrilled and so damned proud of myself.
We part ways without a word and, as agreed, we go our separate ways. I wonder if I will ever see his beautiful cock again, or feel his tongue on my clit. The whole drive home I keep thinking about him. It’s making me wet, and my pussy is pulsing.
I get home, head inside. As I’m closing the door behind me, my phone goes off. It’s a text message. From him.
Same time next week?
You fucking bet, buddy! Thanks for fulfilling my deepest, darkest fantasy of fucking a stranger.
To this day I still don’t know his name. Even so, we still get together once in a while and have amazing, speechless sex.
Have you ever slept with a stranger?
What were you looking for?
Did you find it?
Would you do it again?
Write to me and tell me about it.