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Non-Fiction #4: The Japanese Ruskie
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Non-Fiction #4: The Japanese Ruskie If this is your first time reading the Sickfucks blog, please refer back to the first post. ----- It's time to talk about Sacsha. Do I want to talk about Sacsha? Not particularly. Some people don't even deserve to be remembered for the fantastic sex you had. Sacsha would fall under that category. If I wasn't busy cataloging my every sexual specimen over the past five years, I'd leave him out entirely. I met him first on HotOrNot, my pick up place du jour five years ago, when HoN wasn't full of mouth breathers. He was from Seattle and I was still stuck back in my home town on the Olympic Peninsula. I'd recently quit my job and was ready to cross the water, tired of small town life and wanting to get away. I'd also recently had a relapse; I've been sick with a rare nervous system condition since I was young and that summer, it took a turn for the worse. I decided I needed better medical attention and better opportunities, so I started looking for my "out" to finally get away. His eagerness was almost overwhelming; he was forming firm plans to make the three hour trip before I could even find a way to protest. My thoughts were as chaotic as ever, having just ended an abusive relationship, and my brain slipped into autopilot like a comfortable pair of shoes. I had no idea what I was doing, but I was going to do it. I needed a ride to Seattle and I needed some dick, so, pay off, right? I packed up a meager supply of clothes in my beat Ralph Lauren duffle bag and hit the road. He picked me up on the corner of my block and we immediately drove out to Lake Crescent. A hiking and photography enthusiast, Sacsha wanted to do some local stuff before heading back to Seattle, and I knew the best spots. Funny enough, I don't think he took a single snap, busy as we were with finding places to smoke or dry hump against a tree. Looking back, I feel sorry for us both. Normally I'm a pretty charming person, but with the weight of my actions finally sinking in, I had a lot of thinking to do. It triggered a debilitating shyness. The way he scooped me up, the way we made out from the trail head to the top of the Falls...I can't help but be sad knowing that maybe we could have walked away friends, instead of two disconnected individuals, one of whom used and disposed of the other. Sometimes I think my frustration with how it turned out is more about leaving someone with a less than impressive impression of me than the resentment of having been treated poorly. At any rate, we got back to his place on Eastlake, my mind such a mess that I don't even remember the drive back. Most of the details are scarce these days, in fact, whenever I look back at that time, it's as if a mental cloud obscured any short term memory I might have had. I don't remember if we laughed, if we had a meaningful conversation. What I do remember is the little self satisfied smirk on his face. Every time he showed me off to his friends, every time he shoved me down on his dick. It was reserved; an almost sheepish "I'm doing this because it's the first time I've been allowed to get away with it" grin that underscored how proud he was of himself. If I ever saw it again I'd slap it right off him. And I remember the pride he had surrounding his heritage, knowing that I had a fondness for Asian men. I'm sure it was a drill he ran with many women before, the trips to Uwajimaya, the mochi, pork tonkatsu and Battle Royale. I don't know whether to be cynical or see it as his effort to show me a good time. And the Oxy. I remember that. I wandered into the kitchen for a cup of coffee and there he was, snorting lines of crushed up OxyContin. Taking it for cocaine, I initially flipped. I calmed down after finding out it was pills. Sadly, I also found out it was the only thing keeping his cock alive. Later, once he quit the Oxy, the hour-long boners were gone, in fact, he could barely keep it up. Unsurprisingly, my interest dwindled around this time. We had sex soon after reaching his apartment. His roommate's boyfriend was there, but that almost seemed to egg him on, as if he was proud of his prize. We fucked for at least an hour straight, my screams echoing up and down Boylston Avenue. I specifically remember "tapping out", nearly throwing up from having my ass fucked so raw, and us both laughing as he demanded that I still take it, his dick pinning me to the bed. At the time, his attitude was still hot. I might detest the sight of him now, but I really was my type. Slender, tall for an Asian guy. Just the right amount of forcefulness in bed. I got a thrill when he'd spontaneously bend me over one knee and spank me with whatever was handy. Sad he had to ruin it by not snorting anymore. I think even D.A.R.E. could have agreed he was better off on the Oxy. We hung out for about three days, one of which was his mother's birthday. His family was gathering for lunch at a local noodle house and for some reason, he decided to drag me along. I suppose he didn't feel comfortable leaving me there and wasn't ready to stop having sex with me yet. He spent most of his time instructing me not to sit too close to him, lest his family think we were "together together". I should have laughed in his face, but in my effort to come off as too cool to care, I let it slide. I should have been hitting on his brothers. They were fucking gorgeous. Eventually, he dropped me off with my parents, who had moved to South Seattle. I was to stay with them a few months while getting roommates, finding a new doctor, and finding a new job. Sacsha and I occasionally saw each other, mostly when he wanted sex or I wanted weed. That August, he simply stopped answering my phone calls, a coward's move that left me more confused than pissed. When I spoke to him by email later, he told me he just thought we were "too different" and that simply cutting me loose was the best way to avoid drama. I don't know if I was more insulted that he felt he had to coddle me, that he was using the threat of drama as an excuse, or the "we're too different" bit. When it came down to it, Sacsha just thought he was too good for me. Apparently, taking pictures of luxury cars for a living and having grown up on the East side is enough to foster a serious superiority complex. I'll admit that Sacsha never did get the best out of me, and had he, he might have treated me completely different. But even if I'd been as boring as paste, that doesn't mean I didn't deserve at least a goodbye. He later married (to a woman that looked frighteningly like me... if I had Down's Syndrome) and subsequently divorced, I'm willing to bet because of something assholish he did. Or maybe she just was as disappointed as I was in a deflated six inches. That shit should come with a warning sign. |
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