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BYT ran a series of true life sex stories in 2010. To celebrate NSFW day we’re re-publishing one of our favorites. -ed.

In an effort to catalog the mass sexual dysfunction in the District of Columbia, we bring you BYT Below The Beltway: 1 week. 1 person. 1 city. Total Anonymity guaranteed.

A 28-year-old heterosexual male hill staffer who firmly believes that “when you’re guarding against intimacy, the sex can’t be disappointing”



She asks if this is a date and I lie and tell her it is. The conversation over dinner goes well enough –  she tells me we’re drinking too much. I joke and tell her we should drink more and tell myself that I have to drink more.

In short order we’re back at her place, on her couch, our legs lying over each other, asking each other questions. She tells me about her college, her pets, shows me her tattoos and shows me the spots she still wants to ink. I start biting her wrist while running my fingernails up her arm. She closes her eyes, says nothing, but the hairs on the back of her arm start to rise.

Her kisses are wet and open and fast and I like the taste of cigarette tar that comes from the back of her throat. I kiss her for what seems like dozens of minutes, far longer than people in relationships ever kiss. I move down to her neck and bite down on the spot where her neck meets her shoulders.

I move to her shoulders, feeling her skin and bone under my teeth and across my tongue. I move quicker, down to her breasts and take them into my mouth. I look up and see her neck arching back. I scratch across her stomach with one hand and pull on her arms with the other.

We’re up off the couch, on the way to bed. I stop her, push her against the wall and go down on my knees. I strip off her jeans and rush my face to her cunt. I use my hands to spread her thighs just a little bit, just room enough for what I want. I press my tongue deeply against her and breath deep. Then I slide her panties down while running my teeth across her hipbones.

Minutes pass, and we’re finally on the bed. She takes me into her mouth. Since my last relationship ended, there’s been a share of casual sex, but rarely oral sex. It feels like a treat and her short hair sweeps nicely back and forth as she continues. I reach down and place my cheek on her palm, slowly moving her up towards me.

She’s on top of me, and loud, but she never quite says anything. I try to encourage her, I tell her how smooth and wet her cunt feels on my cock – beginner’s stuff, really. She doesn’t reply, maybe can’t. There’s music playing in the background and I happen to know the album, so I realize that we’ve been fucking for quite a while. I can feel cool sweat on her back and on her chest and a charge runs through me. I flip her under me and push deep, feeling her now against the tip of my cock. She takes my thumb into her mouth and then I trace it across her clit. I pull out to come across her stomach.

I collapse next to her and both of us are breathing, hard. I wish I smoked.



We have sex two more times, once in the middle of the night, initiated by me, and once in the morning initiated by her. Neither time approaches how good it was at first. I try not to let it disappoint me but it does. After she leaves, it occurs to me that I wasn’t trying nearly as hard the other two times, and realize that she wasn’t interested in making up for it.

I don’t think I’ll see her again. When you’re guarding against intimacy, the sex can’t be disappointing. There’s already so much disappointment hidden behind everything else.


I’m drinking with friends tonight and enjoying the small measure of good weather D.C. is allowing us. I get a text from a girl, a grad student I met at a house party a few weeks before. We’ve hooked up a few times now, but every time it feels like the last time. I find her incredibly hard to read and I’m not sure if it’s because she’s so guarded or if she’s just blank.  My friends tease me about it as I leave the bar.

This time it’s different. Part of it is the alcohol but part of it is just that I’m happy to see her and for the first time that she’s not high on pot, she looks happy to see me.  We smile while we hook up, but that doesn’t last through the sex.

We start to claw at and squeeze each other. I won’t know it until later but I bruise her shoulder badly. I wrap my hand around her neck as we fuck and she doesn’t stop me. I squeeze but only lightly; I want to keep it clear that this is just a move, not a committed fetish. She seems to enjoy it, but she’s largely quiet, and probably doesn’t know quite what to say.  It’s clear that we’re pushing past some of her previous bounds.


In the morning she rushes out to move her car before getting ticketed. I’m hungover from bourbon which is the worst kind of hungover to be. Last night was fantastic, and I finally don’t have to guess whether I’ll see her again.

I spend the day reading while trying not to move. I call my ex-girlfriend, whom I haven’t seen in months, and I ask her if she’ll get drinks with me. She says yes.



I’m nervous. I order a Belgian beer while I wait to see her again. I think about what I want to say, splashing around with the words in my head. Finally she comes in. I see her and I forget them. The bar disappears behind me while inside I feel like someone is pulling my stomach toward my spine.

I apologize. I stare at her legs. I tell her I was a fool, and that every day I don’t spend with her I stay a fool. I count the freckles on her nose. I tell her how empty all the things I loved to do with her now feel. I look at her long fingers as they run back into her hand, her thin wrists, the pale skin that sits over her veins. She tells me she’s seeing someone. Someone I know, someone I like.

It should hurt to hear. It doesn’t. She likes him, but she loves me. I love her. Neither of us say it. Both of us know it. I tell her I don’t care, and she tells me how much she still thinks about me. I realize, very clearly that I am in a unique moment. If I push now, very hard, we can be together again.

My mind feels overwhelmed. I try to maintain the conversation, reminisce with her about how things were, while I try to imagine, furiously, just what it would mean if I took this chance. I’ll hurt her and I’ll crush him. He probably thinks I’m already an asshole who doesn’t deserve her. It occurs to me that at least right now, he’s right.

We walk after drinks, through the quiet streets of Capitol Hill. I tell her that I’ll probably be leaving D.C. soon, and she looks sad and relieved at the same time. We start to talk about the trips we took and the films we watched. We kiss. I forget just how soft her cheek feels against my hands and how comforting her arms feel around me. Our kiss doesn’t break. I press my fingers against the back of her neck, feeling the muscle on the sides of her spine. I do it because I know how much she loves it. I wonder if he’s figured it out yet.

She feels guilty. We hug and she goes up the steps to her house.



I call her the next day, knowing she won’t pick up. I leave her a message telling her how nice it felt to see her again and how sad I was that things didn’t work out, and couldn’t work out now.

She calls me after work and says she really appreciated my message. She has some things to say, can I see her in person tonight?


I run my tongue up along her jawbone, then up the side of her neck. I move my mouth up to her ear and breath the shallowest, lightest breath I can. I feel the goosebumps on her arm as I move my hand down to pull at her wrists. She kisses my neck and moves up to my ear. She tells me I have no idea how much she wants me.  It melts me, completely, and makes me feel manipulative at the same time. I pull back and hold my head in my hands. I tell her we should stop. She pulls my head close again, and slides her tongue into my ear. I. STOP. THINKING.

It’s a feast of the best surprises, remembering all the things about her I forgot. Her perfume, the taste of her sweat, the way her nipples stick out against the soft fabric of her cheap bras, the moan she makes while I press down on her stomach while I run my tongue across her clit, the way she digs her fingers into my skull when she comes against my mouth.

I reach for my cock and sweep it across her cunt, feeling how wet she now is. She looks at me and asks me if I slept with anyone else. I pause for just one second but it feels like minutes. Yes, I tell her. She asks me if I have a condom. I start to think again. We can’t do this I tell her. You will fucking hate yourself in the morning.

You’re right, she tells me, as she rolls to her side. I can tell she doesn’t have to wait until morning.

We lie next to each other and I hold her in my arms. She says that she should head home. I agree, but I tell her to just lie with me a little while longer. Of course, she says. I spend five minutes trying to remember everything about how it feels because I don’t know when I’ll ever feel it again.


I send her an e-mail telling her that I won’t interfere in her life again, that I want to give her a chance to see her new relationship through. She writes back and sounds happy. I feel remarkably calm about everything. I know I’ll see her again, that we’ll be together again, I just don’t know when.


I text the grad student. When you’re guarding against intimacy, the sex can’t be disappointing. There’s already so much disappointment hidden behind everything else.