Call me Zoe. That’s my name this week, this month, in this city. I tend to change it to fit my mood, my current path, much like I change my hair. You could call me a nomad. I’ve lived on the East Coast, in the upper Midwest, northern New England, the Southwest, even the deep South. Well, spent time would be a better description. “Lived” connotes more permanence, more rootedness, than my life has seen since I ran away from home at age sixteen.
I’ve hopped rides on boxcars, slept under bridges, warmed myself in front of campfires on riverbanks hidden behind brush so thick you’d need a machete to find me by land. I’ve spent time in hobo communities in large cities and small towns. I inhabited a yurt during a cold northern winter, the smoke smell permeating my skin so deeply that it lingered for weeks after I moved on. I get by on the occasional hourly job and the kindness of strangers.
My hair has been long, butch short, shaved on one side, and every color of the rainbow. I’ve collected quite a bit of body art along the way – some quite creative, others just crap. I’ve been all natural and shaved everything. I enjoy being a bit of an enigma.
I live for my art, which is my writing. It connects me to the earth and nurtures my spirit. I don’t ever plan to publish – the opinions and reactions of others are of no consequence to me. They are personal, and the mere act of their creation is sufficient reward.
I’m a highly sexual person. I’ve been free and open from a young age, blissfully devoid of hangups and curiously inquisitive. I crave the rush and even the intimacy, however fleeting. Sex doesn’t define me, but when my mood swings in that direction, there are no inhibitions and few barriers.
I’ve fucked men, women, non-binary people, trans persons. Fucked – I like that word - raw, honest, stripped of any emotion. Two or more people sharing pleasure, nothing more, nothing less. My partners have been hobos like me, artists, writers, musicians, laborers, baristas, white-collar managers, teachers, cops, you name it. I even spent several months on a yacht with a very rich man (I have no idea where his wife was).
Sex is like food. You can go on a diet, you can even fast, but eventually hunger takes over, and the beast must be fed. On occasion, when the circumstances seem right and my needs dictate, I’ve combined business and pleasure. No, I’m not a professional. I occasionally do what I must. But most of the time it’s not transactional, only transient.
I’m carefree, but not careless. Condoms are a staple of my gear, not least because I’ve never had health insurance. When the free clinic is your primary care doctor, you don’t take a lot of silly chances.
My wanderings have brought me here to San Francisco. Surprisingly, in my fifteen years of nomadic existence, I’ve never passed through here. The city suits me. It’s beautiful, with only the thinnest veneer of respectability concealing the grunge beneath. An eclectic mix of smart, intense, laid back, and just plain weird people inhabit this burg. The weather alternates between brilliant and melancholy, much like my own mood. The police rarely hassle you, no matter what you do or where you choose to sleep. Live and let live.
Fucking here has been fun. Lots of variety, cool people, groups, parties, and mildly drug-enhanced orgasms.
I’m sitting alone at a table outside the Ferry Terminal. It is a beautiful sunny day, and the eating area is crowded, with lots of people milling about on the sidewalk just beyond. The bustle of the city is all around, and the noise mingles with the call of the seagulls and the occasional horn blast from a departing ferry.
The breeze feels good across my shoulders. I am sipping a coffee, slowly. My notebook is open in front of me, as is typical, but I have taken a pause from my writing to observe the crowd. I am aware of a pair of eyes on me and glance over toward a nearby table. Four men, whom I judge to be in their late thirties to mid-forties, are eating lunch and talking amiably. They are dressed business casual, no jackets, sleeves of their crisp dress shirts rolled up on this warm day. I’ve discovered him among them, and he averts his gaze as soon as our eyes meet.
I size him up – very Marin County, yet I find him handsome. Probably takes the ferry to Sausalito and drives his BMW home to his wife and three adorable children. Finance or tech? It hardly matters. What matters is he checked me out. I suspect I know why. I’m everything his conventional life lacks. More than slightly unkempt, arty look, attractive in a winsome way. Plus, I give off that vibe. Hungry men can smell it. I’m uninhibited, with a hint of dirty girl, and just might be available.
I continue to gaze in their general direction and note his furtive glances increasing in frequency. As he gestures when talking to his friends, a wedding band flashes on his left ring finger. Check.
It’s been a while since I’ve had cock, and my stomach is growling.
I begin to draw him in with direct eye contact. It takes about ten minutes, but eventually he doesn’t look away. A bite of the lower lip, a brush of my hair behind one ear, a shy smile.
His companions rise from their table. He says something to them; whatever it is, it’s enough to make them leave him behind.