Rhythm pumping in a nightclub somewhere near Barcelona. Sweaty bodies with no names, no personal ties, no responsibilities but to have fun.
I ditch my constantly churning mind, absolve any worries, and give my body and soul to the music. My current flavor of the month, a sweet enough American guy who dotes on me but wouldn’t know existentialism if it bit him in the ass, waits for me back in Germany. (Later I will feel guilty for my exploits, because he’d had my car spruced up and detailed and presents it to me with pride when I arrive home).
For me, the night is young. I’m being whatever the moment demands of me. But not a good girl. Oh, anything but that.
My girlfriends have long headed back, but I’m like an animal let loose from her cage, heat-seeking, not ready to end the party. Just one more drink. Just one more song. I know I’m getting action. It’s just a question of who from.
A guy with a cheesy grin who I vaguely recognize as one of the other Soldiers on the trip with us seemingly appears from nowhere in the crowd. As my veins now run with nothing but Smirnoff vodka, I let him lead me without even the slightest of refusals. He wouldn’t be my first choice. But I’m blissfully tanked, and haven’t had any other takers. I don’t even pretend he has any real audacity to judge my willingness so quickly.
Face it. He knows a slut when he sees one, and I’m all too happy to oblige and prove him right.
He takes me to a pebbled beach just outside of the club. I stretch out like a cat. I wear denim capri pants that look painted on they are so tight, platform heels and a summery pastel camisole top. We kiss sloppily. In some nearly vacant corner of my mind I recall that he arrived with a wife in tow, pregnant too. But my reasoning is hard to latch onto at this point, and I easily cast it aside, only thinking of the present.
The rocks are irritating and the beach is a bit too public, even for me.
We move on, searching for a quick spot to fuck. This is the most banal of urges — the need to pump his unsatiated cock into a wet and willing host who also craves release. Pulses pounding. Nothing more.
Good, yeah, a dark back alley. This could work. Hurry though. The sounds of cops in the background fuel our urgency. We can hear them talking loudly somewhere nearby.
He pushes me against the rough brick wall. I stand there. His free whore for rent. I hurriedly help him unzip the back of my capris. I didn’t wear them for this purpose, but wow, I’m prepared like a naughty Girl Scout. The perfect quick access portal for us as we fumble about. With one swift movement, he unleashes my rear from its confines.
"Nice ass," he says, summing up his view of me, as if he’s commenting on a football pass on television. He deftly cups my buttocks, runs his hands across the smoothness of them, squeezes, and then jerks my thin thong aside. No time for anything else. Mmmm, he plunges inside, hard, ramming until he comes. As he does so, he pulls up my shirt, gropes and pulls on my tits.
He tells me it was fun and even thanks me.
That night a black guy who’s a local there, who I don’t even know, is kind enough to flag me down a taxi. Were he to know I was so eager for a good touch-my-toes kind of workout, would he have propositioned me too? Took his turn with me in the back alley too? Who knows.
I arrive back at the hotel safely, and, still awake, search for another married man I know who had put the moves on me the day before. I awaken him, crawl into his bed and fuck him for the second time that weekend. I look over to see that his friend hasn’t missed a beat of what we were doing, in the dark from his vantage point. I’m sure we gave him a good visual he could capture for a rainy day.
The next day I see my first fuck from that night. He says hello. I feel disinterested. His wife stands next to him.
I squint into the sun.
"Oh, hello. Hot day isn’t it?"
Yes, it’s good to have a pussy and the free will to use it.
I am a reformed slut, and I admit that without a shred of the guilt that I guess society would expect me to feel after 15 years of fucking all sorts of men, women and groups, in places exceedingly public and private.
15 years of party girl fun and a lot of uninhibited experiences later, I’m in love, and I’ve given my heart and my pussy to this one special man who means the world to me.
Mostly, I don’t regret a moment of it. If spreading my legs and arching my back to satisfy the needs of 10 guys at a time from whom I was getting a whole lot of my own mutual enjoyment is bad — well, then I’ve been a VERY BAD GIRL.
I’m not suddenly perfect or virginal, and I know that. I am who I am. And I won’t deny that I don’t still hunger deep inside for those mind-blowing sensations and the rush I used to get from that all powerful drug called sex, especially the rough kind or the one-night-stand-with-handsome-strangers kind. I still have my own private visuals that I keep to myself, as I frenetically massage my clit to that climactic end. I’m just trying to detox these days though, one step at a time.
However, don’t mind me. Stay a while and enjoy my reminiscences of good lays past.