I travel for work. I love it. It’s an excitement I feel I was born for – new discoveries, self-directed adventures, exploring on my own terms.
I feel more confident as a tourist than I do in my hometown. I feel free to be whatever version of myself suites in that situation without accountability, judgment, or fear of being seen (or known).
It was my last evening in Music City and I had certainly been quite the little explorer. After several days and nights of partying, I found myself emotionally checked-out, slightly angsty, and full of fatalistic party-girl passions. One thing is for certain, I wasn’t looking for yet another random hookup. But I was however, committed to checking out the east side of the city. So onward I went, ubering solo, to a new, yet-to-be-explored-by-me, part of Nashville.
The line was long and the outside tables were filling. What’s a gal to do? (When you’re solo, you have to think about things like this. If I had gotten a table without a waitress, how would I have held onto that table, while standing in line for another drink?) Since mamma don’t play with running out of cocktails, I ordered two drink and quickly found a little high-top round.
Directly next to me, I noticed two gentlemen sitting, quietly talking, while curiously checking me out. In the most adorable southern drawl, 35 seconds after I secured my table, he asked; “Are you waiting for someone or are you just really thirsty?”
Three new friends, Four fun hours, eight delicious drinks, nine simple kisses, fourteen question/answer gaming, thirty-two laughs and one ill-conceived shot later, he and I ubered back to my Airbnb.
There are times when I pretend, if only to myself, that these hook-ups are romantic. I light candles, or open some wine, or make out on the couch with some records playing softly – role-playing in the make-believe that, even if only for the night, this isn’t just about sex.
And then there are times, when the angst and the emotional numbness overpowers and all I want is to feel everything but nothing, engaged in a different kind of role-playing. Where rough sex is the master – the only thing in the world that will wake me up and pull me out of the darkness, back into myself.
The latter is where I found myself that evening, despite my hippie dress and pink lips. The stirring inside felt less like a warning from Melisandre – “the night is dark and full of terrors” – and more like a subconscious hunger, a challenge to accept.
And so I did.
I don’t always like rough sex, but I seldom like it sweet. It could be because I’m rarely sober and never in love. Or maybe I just need to embrace fantasy life as a potential reality. But none of those thoughts and questions mattered that night as he flipped and turned and touched and hit me in ways that were so hot, and almost – ALMOST the right level of pain.
But not quite.
It’s risky and risque’ behavior…. trusting a basic stranger with the most vulnerable of places and spaces and asking him to hit you harder, touch you deeper, pin you down firmer. But that’s how the night progressed. I was pushed into submission in a way that felt empowering and freeing and releasing– courteously coming with immediate and tangible results – a system I know far too well based on punishments and consequences and rewards.
With every smack on my ass, every slap to my pussy, every pinning of my arms and pulling of my hair, the room was filled with erotic noises and dizzying distractions, the kind I needed to connect to myself again, the kind I needed to feel. something. real.
It was intense, bordering violent, but then calming and somehow kind. I fell asleep in his arms after he brought me to orgasm.
My hit-me-harder, comrade-in-arms, held me gently as I slept.