She thought about sex all the time. In the shower, going to sleep, on the street, buying groceries, at school, at work. Her body ruled her mind. She thought that if she actually got it, she would never stop. Her body always felt the way a body feels just before it is touched. She lived in constant anticipation. He would see her and want her and push her hard up against a wall and kiss her. He would touch her and she would feel his hardness against her and she would feel powerful. She made it happen. She made him excited. He wanted to fuck her. It was what she needed and it filled her senses and daydreams and her loneliness.

She went to bars sometimes. She met them sometimes. The ones who wanted to fuck her. The ones who wanted to fuck anyone and she happened to be on the bar stool next to them or the ones who had the talent to sniff out the ones that just wanted to please them. The ones that wanted blow jobs in their cars or in dirty alleys. And she gave them. What they wanted.

These encounters didn't bring her any satisfaction. She knew it didn't matter that it was her. She thought she might want it to matter. She thought that if it did, she would feel the way that other people felt about sex. She thought that a guy might actually make her come. But when you screwed guys you met in bars, they didn't really care if you came and, even if they had cared, she wouldn't have anyway; she never had with a guy. She thought it might be nice if they tried.

Sometimes she thought about what it would be like to be someone's girlfriend. To kiss the same one all the time. To have sex with the same one. And she knew she couldn't do it because there wasn't one and even if there were, he wouldn't want her to be his girlfriend. The one he always kissed. The one he slept with every night. She would keep an eye out for him, just in case he existed. And while she was looking, she would take what she could get, or be taken from. It didn't matter.

She had an imaginary lover. His name was Jason and he was with her when she masturbated with her shower attachment or with her vibrator. Sometime she called out his name. Sometimes she cried after she came. It was so separate from sex. Orgasm and sex were like laughing and sneezing; they really had nothing to do with each other but could apparently happen at times. She wondered how it happened for other people. It seemed so easy. She knew that sometimes people looked at her life and thought it was easy. She found those people pathetic.

She waited for them to call. The ones she met in bars and fucked. The ones who didn't remember her name just moments later. The ones who took her telephone number in case they needed it one night, late, when they couldn't find someone better. She knew they just thought she was better than nothing and that was ok. She did not have anyone to call when she needed it. Sometimes they gave her their cell numbers. If they didn't call within three days, she deleted the numbers. It was like deleting them. Sometimes it made her feel better.

She saw a psychiatrist. He told her she had an attachment disorder. He told her she made the same mistakes over and over because she was not aware of alternatives. Alternatives? Why would she want those? He told her that she didn't need to have meaningless sex while she dreamed of orgasms with someone who wanted her. She didn't think she wanted to hear that so she left. When she received his bill, she carefully placed it under the coffee grounds in the trash can.

After seeing the doctor, she grew to realize that she liked thinking of sex all the time. She even liked the familiar loneliness and self-loathing that overcame her when they didn't call. It was comforting and confusing. She wasn't sure she wanted them to call but the silence stung her.

She talked to her friends about guys and sex. They all seemed so light-hearted about it. They shared graphic details about what they did with boyfriends and strangers. They laughed and laughed. She laughed with them but didn't know what was funny. She told stories about the greedy bar boys she fucked.

Her friends thought she was uninhibited and envied what they thought was her ability to have sex without any feelings. She thought her friends were stupid. They were her friends because they went to bars with her and encouraged her to let drunken boys tear her best panties and wipe their cum on them when they were done. She encouraged their own exploits so they would keep letting her go out with them. She didn't really have friends. The same way she didn't really have sex.

She was a student. She studied chemistry. It was easy for her. To make a little money, she watched people's pets when they went on vacation. She liked to go through their drawers. She discovered that everyone had a sex drawer. They were all alike. They held condoms, lube, dirty books, handcuffs, sometimes whips and dildos. They almost always had at least one vibrator. She liked to use other people's vibrators. She washed them thoroughly before, but not after. When the pet owners paid and thanked her, she liked to think of how they wouldn't know she would be with them the next time they used their toys. It was some of the best sex she had.

Every so often, a guy tried to talk to her. He wanted to know her name, he wanted to know what she liked, he wanted to have sex with her but not right away. He liked the way she stared off at nothing sometimes. He was curious. She hated guys like that. She stared at nothing until they walked away. They were sometimes angry and they sometimes called her a bitch. Usually they just said it in their heads.

She was a late bloomer. She hadn't kissed anyone until she was 18, when most of her friends were having sex often and indiscriminately. She thought she was a freak. She didn't tell anyone about her lack of experience. It embarrassed her. The same way she was embarrassed now. She didn't know why there was no in-between.

The first time, she was 21. She did it just to do it. She was afraid she would never do it if she didn't do it then. She intentionally got drunk at a fraternity party and screwed the guy who held her hair back when she puked. She didn't tell him she was a virgin. She began her sexual life with a drunken idiot as a drunken idiot with vomit on her standard issue black camisole.

He finished in about a minute and promptly passed out. She put her clothes on and walked out of the bedroom that smelled like unwashed socks, down the stairs, out into the night.

Her habit began that night. She went to fraternity parties, to dorm parties, to campus club parties. She went anywhere boys would be. She had standards. They had to be reasonably attractive and they had to tell her she was pretty or hot or beautiful or whatever word they used to make her feel good for a second or two. She developed somewhat of a reputation. There were one or two guys she saw somewhat regularly because they knew she was a sure thing. She liked this because she believed it meant she was good in bed and that was the most important thing.

In October of her senior year, she realized she would lose the never-ending supply of guys she had access to as a student and, on that basis, decided to get her Ph.D. She looked younger than she was and continued to screw undergrads as well as grad students. Even though she was one of the only girls in her chemistry classes and the guys practically came in their pants when they saw her, she kept her sex and student lives separate. She'd fuck a grad student from the English department, but she maintained her cover as just another science geek when she was in class. She didn't worry because those guys didn't go the places she went.

She got into trouble sometimes. As a graduate student, she taught several undergrad courses. Once, as she was teaching a seminar, she saw a group of boys laughing and looking at her. She realized that she had had sex with one of them a few months back. It bothered her for a moment, but went right back to her discussion of amino acids. That week, he came to her office hours and tried to hook up with her again. He even offered to take her to dinner, which they never did. She was lucky if she got a drink or two. She turned him down. He probably just wanted a better grade. He was one of the ones who called her a bitch as soon as he left the office.



She wasn't close to her family, didn't have any real friends, could never fool herself into thinking she had a boyfriend. She didn't even have a pet. She felt weighted down 98% of the time. She drank to give her courage and to think picking up boys was a good idea. It also made her forget for awhile. She was well aware that she was not normal. She didn't want to be so lonely. She just didn't know how not to be. She didn't think it was possible after so long of being her.

She thought about going back to the psychiatrist. He had talked about putting her on medication. He thought she was depressed. She thought about brain chemistry. Her neurotransmitters were fucked up. Medicine might help. She didn't like to mess with chemistry. She could not think that it could fail her.

Chemistry was her salvation. Equations, experiments, teaching. Symbols, answers, logic. She suppressed any creativity that tried to emerge from her. She sang in the car. She had a pretty voice -- the kind that indie princesses only wished they had. She thought sometimes of learning how to play the guitar and doing open mic nights at one of the local bars.

She remembered playing the violin when she was younger. It had been particularly easy to learn. She had liked playing. She entered competitions and won them. She couldn't remember why she stopped. Maybe because it made her stand out. She quickly dismissed the idea of learning guitar and playing in public.

Night time. Alone with herself. Jumping out of her skin. A drink? Yes, it would calm her. What to wear? Jeans, black camisole, sandals that showed off her dark red toenails. Mascara and lipstick. Ready.



About the author:
Lauren Becker lives in Oakland, California and is thrilled and baffled that her very first submission was deemed worthy of publishing by Word Riot. She may be reached at ljb921@gmail.com.

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