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 facto rationalization 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

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