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.

He sits and slowly – slowly – sips the rest of his kombucha. Our eyes are dancing freely now. The only question is which one of us will make the move. I know the better path and wait him out. He will come – pun not intended but entirely appropriate.

The details of our small talk are of no consequence. We both know it’s just a formality, and he doesn’t seem to treasure banality any more than I do. There are only two things left – when is the suggestion made, and where will we consummate this temporary relationship.

He’s not used to this game, of that I’m fairly certain. No doubt his wife is beautiful and the sex more than good enough, but not nearly as exciting as the prospect of fucking someone whose appearance and demeanor ooze uncomplicated, uninhibited eroticism. That, and the lure of the forbidden.

It falls to me to close the deal. I’ve already texted a friend to inquire whether I can borrow her room for the afternoon. She responds that she would be happy to share and tells me where she will hide the extra key. That taken care of, I tilt my head and in my most alluring voice ask if he’d like to take a walk.

“Where”, he asks, knowing damn well what we are both up to.

“Oh, nowhere special, just a friend’s place,” is my reply.

It’s an easy fifteen-minute walk. I don’t inquire how he’s managing to skip out on work because I don’t give a damn. Right now, all I want is to taste his cock and take him into my greedy little body. There is an awkward silence between us as we enter the building. Yeah, never before unfaithful, this one.

I find the cleverly hidden key (under the fire extinguisher) and we walk up to the third floor. Once we are inside all his inhibitions seem to fall away. I guess crossing the threshold was both literal and metaphorical for him.

We are almost immediately naked, and he kisses me like a starving soldier. I return his passion measure for measure – however temporarily, I need this intimacy as well. His hands, his tongue, his mouth are all over me – I mean all over. He licks my skin, strokes, pinches, sucks. He opens me up and his fingers and tongue work their magic. I squirt all over him, all over my friend’s room.

I kneel and take him down my throat. He isn’t particularly big, but he is incredibly hard. His precum tastes sweet. I feel his cock swell in my mouth, but I’m not nearly finished. I stand and kiss him deeply. I reach into my bag for a condom, slide it over his raging manhood and tumble back onto the bed, pulling him down. He wastes no time burying himself inside my cunt and I scream as another orgasm tears through me. I begin to scratch my nails across his back before catching myself, and so I am reduced to emitting a string of filth as he slams into me over and over.

He rolls me over and I ride him. I like it in this position, and we lock eyes as my cream pours out over his cock and balls.

I lift myself off him and remove the condom before lowering myself onto that glorious cock once again. Some things call for calculated risks. This feels incredible.

He is aggressive. This is what he doesn’t get at home. He pushes me off, positions me on all fours, and fucks me from behind. He reaches around and tweaks my nipples, rubs my clit, pulls my hair. I’ve unleashed an animal.

Several more orgasms rip through me before his cock begins to swell again. Gentleman that he is, he issues a warning. My response is a plea for him to unload inside me. I want his seed, consequences be damned. He erupts like a volcano, and the feeling of his cum hitting my cervix sends me over the edge one final time.

We collapse in a sweaty, panting heap, and laugh, cuddle and kiss. He tells me a bit more than he should. A warm feeling infuses me. I am incredibly content – I could get used to this. But it only lasts a few fleeting moments. We both have places to go. He showers quickly and thoroughly, making sure to wash all of myself off him. He dresses and I walk him to the door naked, snaking my tongue into his mouth one last time before sending him out of my life and back to his vanilla one.

The door closes, and with it this little chapter.

I’m still aflutter. I lie on the bed, his cum leaking out of me and I pleasure myself to climax as I replay our tryst and imagine him at home jerking off furtively in the shower thinking of me. There is a puddle on the bed. I will have to find a way to make it up to my friend. Somehow, I think she’ll understand.

I hear rustling and the turn of a key in the lock. She enters the room. A devilish smile crosses her face as she remarks on the mess I’ve made and that I am. My legs are still splayed, and without a word her dress slips off, she kneels before me and begins to suck the stranger’s cum out of my leaking pussy. I push up into her face and release again, and she slides up to share a cum kiss and some cuddles.

Several hours later, I am on the street again, the taste of two lovers in my mouth. I am exhausted, happy, and yet curiously melancholy. Fog is rolling in, and I feel a familiar tug. I love this place and could see myself settling down, but tomorrow I will strike out again, for parts unknown. A new name, new place, new me, carrying with me yet another memory.