None of that was pleasant, exactly, but I didn’t really mind it. He was puffing, and he was a little sweaty, and his perspiration smelled like old liquor and cigarettes. There was barely enough room for the both of us on the bed, even stacked on top of each other. Ralph had a bed in his cramped sleeper berth. Relationships were full of worry and guilt.
I wasn’t interested in a relationship with them, you see. And most of the time, it was better if I didn’t see the men after that one time. For a few moments, those men gave that to me, and I was grateful.īut gratefulness only goes so far.
Sex was an oasis of calm in which I could lose myself in nothing but sensation and pleasure, leave behind guilt and worry and terror and anger and everything I hated about myself. I saw them as a brief respite from my chatty mind. Sometimes men got the wrong idea about what had happened between us. Then they knew where I lived, and I didn’t like that.
I’d long since learned that was a bad idea. I didn’t take men back to my place anymore. We were both drunk, so we’d stumbled back to his home on wheels, a huge eighteen-wheeler that he’d had to help me climb up inside. Ralph had picked me up at the bar about a half hour ago. We were in the sleeping berth of a truck parked behind the truck stop off the interstate. I was having sex with a trucker named Ralph.
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