Hold

Miami was wonderfully sexy, and now I'm in Richmond. Time moves more slowly here, people sit on porches, they make eye contact, which is mostly a godsend. However, there is this ever-present air of climax nearly achieved. I had a great night in Miami (also got my first blow job in a public bathroom), but I want to keep going. I don't want to wait.

Sexsexsexsexsexsex. I haven't got off on my own since the beginning of my trip. That probably has something to do with not having much of a private space and not wanting to jerk off in a stranger's shower. But now it's become kind of a conscious vow; I will only get off if it's with another human being.

It was a beautiful Thursday in Richmond, and I felt restless. Let's not sugarcoat it – I wanted to fuck. I'm one of those guys who tends to overthink things, including natural urges. I think about the reasons behind the urge, if those reasons could somehow manifest themselves into other urges, how those urges will shape my life, how I can shape those urges, how my childhood has influenced these urges, if I'm remembering my childhood correctly, and if there's a best way for me to act on those urges. It probably doesn't help that I'm writing an article about career in the animal reproduction industry for my web writing job.

Should I go searching in the bars around Richmond? That could be a good area, but I'd be going alone, since my friends here don't seem ecstatic about the idea of bar hopping. We are all alone in some ways, but the idea of being a stranger drinking silently in a crowd and overthinking pick up approaches for pairs of girls already surrounded by three or four guys who they already knew didn't feel pleasant. How much better if I already had someone to meet for drinks? I went to Richmond's CraigsList.

I responded to about five posts in fifteen minutes. Some were more family friendly than others. In a few that asked for a guy willing to go down, I gave all the details. I told the real or imagined girl how I'd start slow, kiss the inside of her thigh, and lick her lips to taste her. When I could feel her wetness and spread it around with my tongue, I'd suck her clit and finger-fuck her. I wouldn't stop until her legs clenched and quivered around my face – oh yeah, and please pull my hair while I do all that. For other posts that seemed to be looking more for intellectual stimulation and company, I gave a quick snippet of how I was a clean 23-year-old traveling up the East Coast. I didn't have any expectations beyond being able to take a nice, cute girl for drinks and possibly dinner, which was also true.

I got a response to one of my family-friendly posts within about 15 minutes. She was a 26-year-old named Kayla B. - she asked me to tell her about myself. I told her everything about the last few months in a few quick paragraphs. I told her about my love for running, my first tattoo, my dreams of becoming a writer. She responded back, saying that I sounded cool and that she'd be down to meet for drinks. However, before all that, I'd have to go to a site and give them a credit card number to ensure that I wasn't a sexual offender.

Hmmm – my SuperBall and my brain began to battle. I looked up the site, determined that it definitely could be a scam. But what if Kayla B. was a real girl determined to rock my world? I finally emailed her back and said that I wasn't comfortable with giving out that information, that if she was worried for her safety, then we could meet in a public place and have her judge me for herself.

In about fifteen minutes, she responded back, suggesting another site that didn't require a credit card. My SuperBall threw a mean left hook at my brain, so I created an aol email and signed up for that site using that email and a false name. The site promised to send an email that never came, and my brain elbowed my SuperBall into submission. Kayla B. had always responded to my emails somewhat indirectly, and she had never told me a thing about herself or sent pictures. I called her out for being a spammer and never got a response back.

A few days later, that same feeling of horny restlessness, I respond to a 27-year-old's post that says she needs to get laid “like yesterday.” Fifteen minutes later, I hear back from Kayla B. Here is that conversation:

Kayla B: hey,

thanks for emailing me about my ad.. let me know a little more about you and i'll tell you more about me..

kayla.

Me: hi hi hi no problem? That me - are you bot? Hmmm that me. Sound interestings?

Kayla B: hey again,

you sound pretty cool and i'm definitely interested in meeting up with you.. i gotta work tomorrow and will get home around 3-4 and it would be awesome to meet up after that.. we can grab a drink and see how we connect.. to get my number just go tohttp://www.casualmeetup.com and look up
"sexcbebe5940" .. my number will be right on the first page.. they never charge you or anything, they just verify to make sure you aren't a rapist or anything, you know a girl can never be too careful

Me: Good little bot - will you poop on my face real nice? Poop in the mouth!

Kayla B: hey you haven't phoned me were you able to get on the site i gave you, the last guy i met from craigslist used it and they never charged his card or anything..

if you really don't have a credit card or something, i guess we can usehttp://www.amateurmatch.com/?ainfo=MTY3NjV8MXwxNTU2&atcc=11988&skin=38, my account name is the same there

Me: how many times will you thwart my poop in the face? I demand brown! you betta eat ya fiber gurl.

Kayla B: unfortunately if you can't verify on the sites i gave you i really can't meet up, you know a girl has to be safe and a guy without a credit card doesn't seem very safe..

And so I had to let Kayla Bot go. She, a painfully polite girl who talked to all guys in the same way, couldn't give the kind of love that I was looking for. Perhaps one day she would find her Bob Bot, and their back and forth spam explosion would be beautiful. I also realized that I had spent over an hour arguing with a spam program, an hour of my time in beautiful Richmond. I had spent too much time worrying about whether or not I'd get laid and gradually becoming blind to my surroundings. The weather was fine, people were friendly, and there was an amazing Island park a few blocks from the house (more about that last part in a later post).

The house I was staying at was called Red Love to honor a gang of friends who had first started the place. The back yard was like a cracked out artist's studio – stones, wood, bamboo, leaves, tools all waiting to be rearranged again and again. I learned about bike chariots, stilts, and dumpstering (the last one involved “expired” bread and raspberries for the best damn French toast that I've ever had). Most of all, I learned how to sit and enjoy – no book, no computer, no cell phone, nothing in my hands to fiddle around with. I can still only do it for about ten minutes at a time, but it's a start.

This became evident when I tried out a board swing in the back yard – it was just a plank with ropes hung from a tree branch and lashed around either end. I was just in a yard, swing back and forth, staring at the sun-dappled leaves above, and not getting laid. And yet millions of years of evolution had conspired to produce this perfect event. Photo tropism, climate, elevation, wars, elections, births, deaths, architectural blue prints, the combination of nutrients in that patch of soil in Richmond, Virginia.

Similarly, nature, nurture, the interaction of genotype and environment, and your unusual, sometimes stupid fears combine to make you you. The conditions or events that you worry about may never come to pass. It's almost always the unexpected that will knock you on your ass. Still, you can't decide on your fears – spiders, snakes, snipers, strangers, suffocation... spicy foods? These fears will shape you whether you like it or not. Pick your shape.

It's not a mystery why I've been so horny. It's not so much that I haven't jerked off in a good while or that I recently got out of an exclusive relationship. It's the fear that in the not-so-distant future I won't have anything left to work with. It's that imaginary or real, dull ache in my SuperBall. It's that real or imagined lump in my vein that I do my best not to feel for every time I take a leak.

Hurry! Find a different woman in each town – hell, why not every night? Sexsexsexsex – but when it really comes down to it, I think I could be happy with learning how to sit still and maybe just being held.