When I disappeared into the desert, I was determined to have sex again. It had been so long I was worried I wouldn’t remember how. I was also concerned about the whole “use it or lose it” thing, afraid that, er, lubrication would be a problem, as my gynecologist had warned me it might. In the end, it wound up being close to a year and a half, the longest I’ve gone without getting laid since I began keeping track. Decades, in other words. I don’t know how I made it those many months with my sanity intact.
So yeah. I finally got laid.
There was a guy — another DPW guy (hey, that’s all there is out there!) — who I’d been kinda flirting with. It had been ages since I’d needed to “work” at sex so I wasn’t even sure that I was flirting. It would be more accurate to say I was enjoying this guy’s company. And he seemed to be enjoying mine. I’d noticed him when he initially arrived in town; he was tall and attractive, in that outdoorsy sort of way that you rarely see in NYC.
Over the weeks of the pre-event build we engaged in witty banter and word play. Then, on the Sunday night the Gate opened and after a long evening of drinking a bunch of us wound up at the Ghetto. Er, Doomtown. I got up the courage — yes, liquid, I know — to say to him, “So, I don’t like hearing no, but do ya wanna make out?” He said, “Sure!” and we scrambled up the stairs to the fancy deck overlooking Black Rock City, a romantic vantage point, even if we weren’t actually looking at it. We made out on the couch like a couple of teenagers for a not-very-long time before I invited him back to my trailer. I’m sure I probably said something along the lines of, “Wanna go have sex?” We stumbled the short distance between Doomtown and Commissary Camp, climbed into my box and ripped off our clothes. I can’t quite recall who ripped what off of whom, but the job got done.
The sex was athletic and energetic. I got spun around like a baton! And all the metal signs I had shimmied into my windows to keep out the sun wound up rattling and falling. We both laughed a lot and he expressed plenty of enthusiasm. One of his best lines, blurted while he was between my legs, I believe, was, “Wow I have missed this!” Which led me to believe that it had been a while since his last lay as well. It was fun.
I woke up to a morning wood quickie, he got back into his Carharts, and we both went about our day, a bleary-eyed Monday and the first day of Burning Man. I don’t quite recall when I saw him next but when I did, I said something like, “That was fun. If the timing works out, I’d be up for doing it again.” He agreed.
The timing worked out just over a week later, the night of the last Ghetto party. I’d had a long day of rolling around nudging loiterers to leave, enjoying a few beers along the way. By the time the party happened, I was pretty happy. I was equally pleased when, if I recall correctly, he seemed into it. I can’t remember who had the perverse idea of leaving the party for a quickie and then coming back.
We stumbled in the direction of my trailer and managed to get about half undressed. It was a frenzied fuck, more hilarity than horny. I think. It’s all a little blurry. This time it was me slipping back into the Carharts and we bumbled back to Doomtown. I was pleased to be sportin’ a “freshly fucked” look; my hair was a total mess. But he disappeared shortly thereafter, which struck me as a little weird but whatever. I danced late into the night and went home alone.
The next day, a bunch of us were hangin’ out after work, having a few beers, and I took the opportunity to ask him, “So, are you socially inept or just an asshole?” Without missing a beat — or sounding surprised — he answered, “Probably both. Why?” I told him that our mid-party interlude felt sorta like hooker sex, that without any kissing at all maybe he should’ve left me $250 on my nightstand. “Yeah, my ex-wife complained about that too,” he admitted, somewhat sheepishly. “Well, you might wanna work on that,” I told him.
Social ineptitude or assholery notwithstanding, we continued our flirtations over the two weeks until Line Sweeps. One evening in the Saloon he informed me that he was going home to bed. “Are you telling me this just to let me know or would you like me to join you?” I asked him. “Both,” he replied. We walked back to my trailer together and tried to watch a movie before passing out. We had sex in the morning – cute, cuddly sex — but still, no kissing.
Another week went by and it was Mutiny, a long day of drinking and debauchery. Still somewhat shy, I could sense him sort of orbiting around me and there were a few moments of semi-PDA. Long after the sun had gone down I somehow wound up as the sober-est driver, transporting a truckload of crew from Frog Pond back into town. I don’t know how we managed but there was an impressive session of exhausted intercourse. Yet, once more, no making out.
Back in Reality Camp, he stayed with me a few nights but nothing more happened. We slept in separate beds. After expressing an ambivalence about dogs he was really great with the puppy. And he continued to say lovely things. Aside from the fact that we were going to be living on opposite coasts, in the end, the lack of romance — specifically any kissing, at all — was a deal breaker for me. It was one thing to do most of the “work,” meaning making the first moves. Even without his ever being the aggressor it was evident that he was interested. But I really, really enjoy making out. So without that, I couldn’t see the point. The few times we fucked were most definitely fun and it was awesome to get back into the saddle, so to speak. It was like ridin’ a bike. At this point I’m just looking forward to my next opportunity!
Editor’s note (actually, writer’s note): My apologies to this particular gentleman if his feelings are hurt or whatever. He knows how I felt cause I told him, a few times. It’s up to him to either change his anti-kissing ways or, better yet, I suppose, find a woman who shares his aversion. Best of luck to both of us!