Lesbian Sex in Hotel Rooms of the Pacific Northwest: A Travelogue

Pacific Northwest: Cloudy Puget Sound

Hot Fun in the Summertime in Puget Sound

Hot Fun in the Summertime in Washington

You have to love the grayscale to love living here and I’m here for love. I love my wife. She was born and raised in Washington State and she loves it here and loves her people who live here. I love them too now. I was planning on making my soggy escape from Seattle, WA to Austin, Texas right before I met this little blue topaz against a monochrome backdrop two decades ago. A gleam in the rough of 308 days of cloudy…and not rude, but not very friendly people.

Tacoma in June

Tacoma, WA in June

The people here are called “the Seattle freeze.” Is it the Scandinavian roots of this still mostly white city or the weather? Both? Many people are depressed/repressed here, but hey, they all have fantastic baby-faced skin into middle-age. I lived in Boulder, Colorado before moving to Seattle, where people looked like raisins by 35 but smiled more and danced to even mediocre local bands. I wound up here because the last guy I ever hooked up with (but shouldn’t have) talked me into it. My reclusive, nature-loving self only made a pilgrimage to the concrete to meet lesbians.

I prefer warm spectrum light and stroking my sweet heart illuminated by it whenever I get the chance: our 2700K light bulb on rheostat, or candles, one of those rock salt lamps you see in new agey places, a backlit gold glass art piece on my nightstand, and the tiny orange-hot glow of incense. It has to be Nag Champa or Dragonsblood. Their scents just go with a woman and mine in particular. Rolling around making love inhaling this all in are the most rhapsodic moments of my life. I look at the hue of her vitamin D deprived body. I’d call it “blanched Caucasian.” I’m not a superficial one when it comes to love. I’ve fallen in love with women who aren’t “pretty” many times because I loved them, not the reproductive sexual advertisement a woman’s looks are supposed to be. But I do appreciate beauty and all kinds of women are beautiful to me. I think it’s the dark-skinned women of the world who are especially so. Latina’s rolling their Rs off their tongues. The searing hot sun-protected Nubians. The Afro-Euro-Indian Brazilians are world-renowned. And I have a special thing for women from southern India, with their almost Africa-dark skin and shiny, silk jet black hair. The possibly carcinogenic Hydroquinone is a big seller in India and China. The white supremacy of this offends me as a lover of right over wrong. The stunted, obtuse sense of aesthetic offends me as a lover of artistry. And I’m offended because I look like death warmed over for 10 months out of the year living in the PNW. But my milky little Pole, born of coal miner’s stock, is absolutely darling. Our running joke is that it’s the sturdy legged, pasty Polacks who are the most desirable, beautiful, and exotic women of the world.

Buck ass naked and clasping each other in a disheveled, dopamine saturated embrace, she falls asleep in my insomniac arms in my haven of a bedroomChurch East of The Sandias, New Mexico painted to pretend I’m living somewhere outside of Albuquerque or Flagstaff. That’s where I’d be if I wasn’t here and wasn’t full of lust for and emotionally enslaved by women because of my homosexuality, living in an off-the-grid “earthship” in the desert with some scruffy guy. I’d absorb the energy of the sun with blue belly lizards by the Sandias. I’d have the harsh desolation of raw naked earth, unclothed by vegetation I love so much. I’d have the late summer monsoons with their schitzo lightning storms, shapely high contrast skies, rainbows, and psychedelic
bedroomsunsets that make you grieve the ashes you will be soon. And I would have thoughts of the daily lives of the ancestors at Bandelier, hoping radioactive dust doesn’t blow there from Los Alamos. But I wouldn’t have her. I do have her and my Sedona-red bedroom with limonite-sandstone-yellow and Havasu-aqua accents, colored from paint I bought at Lowes.


I do love aspects of living here and traveling around here. There are moments of greatness in this hazy gray blur. In these moments, there is the most extreme green living under the forest canopy. The moss, ferns, and vines are electric, somehow even in the rain. Everyone who electric_greenhikes here knows what I am talking about. The water can catch light and look like quicksilver, even under a humdrum sky. There are flowers accelerating like they are late for their Amazon.com job in spring, glorious water and mountains right at your feet, and one of the most beautiful 360 degree views in the world on top of Mt Constitution on Orcas Island. The fall color that happens after our short Indian summer is lovely. The most spectacular trees are the non-indigenous maples planted at all of the strip malls. I tell my wife we should start a fall leaf-peeping tour bus, like they have in New England, to take people around to all of the Walmart, Lowes, and Pet Smart parking lots. But the natural alders, dogwoods, maples, vine maples, and larch in the mountains are gorgeous too, different from, but rivaling, Vermont.

Our sex life is very predictable. And we like it that way. We’ve talked about roll plays, having an open relationship, threesomes with other women, spankings, etc. Yawn…we relish in the simplicity of us. But fucking her in hotel rooms on our little local road trips is always a nice variation on the theme, mesmerized by her incredible softness, curves, wetness, taste…but a quite planet caught in the gravitational pull of her warm sun heart.

Some describe living in the Northwest as like gambling. Most of the time it sucks but there is just enough pleasure to keep people hooked. After working up north for a week, we spent a night in the Tulalip Casino. I felt happy and roused rising in the elevator looking at ads for red-rare prime rib and men in a mixed martial arts embrace. Native Americans seem much better off in this state than in other places like the Midwest, where the conditions are atrocious. People care as much about the almost Third World-like conditions there as they care about the Third World. High suicide rates, rape rates, violence rates, drug and alcohol abuse rates. The human condition is fragile. Civilization teeters on an edge. You can’t just break an entire culture like that and expect it to bounce back.

It was 5 o’clock in the afternoon and I was addicted and winning, playing her kisses, rolling her full breasts in my palms, feeling her spin me with her tongue. She is better at oral than anyone in the world. I know because I’ve slept with all of them in my imagination. She tells me I’m not the only one who has told her this but she’s my jackpot now. In between our sexual Jiu-Jitsu, a closeness emerged in the distance between us. For some reason we fell in new love. A hand hold was like a kiss, and a kiss on the mouth was like a kiss between the legs, and an orgasm was beyond an orgasm. I peered past her topaz blue eyes. She willingly showed me her hand and she kissed me with Chihuly chandelierthe kiss-of “I know your every move and thought so well baby.” She’s not my best friend. We are too different that. She loves to gamble. I hate it. But we agree, there’s no risk in our love but sickness and dying. Next, we ate and drank, still warm and wet between the legs, passing as straight if not for the looks. A giant Chihuly, smugly fancy cocktails, and her love protected me from the world’s sadness.

After a week in a cabin outside of Winthrop, on the drier side of the Cascades (the side I like better), we entered a cheap motel room where I put down my backpack and placed my gun on the counter (no I don’t use it). It’s not that I like guns. I hate them. I just don’t like the idea of being a Methow Valley, Washingtonlesbian couple, in a little remote cabin in the woods alone, in a world where people are murdered by men. Hell, I’d bring it everywhere if it were safe and practical. I wish I had it when some enemy, screaming homophobic epithets, aggressively swerved his car at us on a highway outside of Bend. Those pricks in Eastern Oregon let off the violent and ridiculously guilty Bundy family. I’m sure the guy thought “How dare they be dykes driving in a car in my area!!!!!” I guess the pickup truck and bicycles gave us away? It’s only one of two times I have ever seen my wife actually afraid. Protecting yourself from abuse or death is the most sacred of all human rights. But it’s not a right to endanger others. Guns=accidents and accidents with guns=death. And gun accidents are way more likely than the Dirty Harry fantasy so many white men who carry guns live in. If that weren’t true, that little Beretta Tomcat would live in my pocket.

We were relaxing in the motel room and then we heard it…

snoooooooooore in/ snoooooooooore out

snoooooooooore in/ snoooooooooore out

snoooooooooore in/ snoooooooooore out

snoooooooooore in/ snoooooooooore out

snoooooooooore in/ snoooooooooore out

“Oooohhh nooooooo. We are staying in a motel with the thinnest walls and ceilings in the continental United States, under the loudest snorer of the good ol’ boy race.”

In this order…we chatted for a while, laughed (she’s funny), played Hanafuda cards, made love, ate cookie dough Haagen-Dazs ice cream, watched Saturday Night Live, and stuffed wades of toilet paper in our ears before trying to go to not-optional sleep. They should have used this man to torture terrorists instead of waterboarding. And my poor wife has legitimate misophonia, which makes my compulsive midnight snacking a relationship controversy we have, but that’s another blog post.

Then I came up with what I thought was a most brilliant idea at the time. I looked at the dialing directions on the courtesy telephone and I dialed the code of the room of Mr Megaphone sinuses. I felt a pang of guilt but working people work hard for their few days of vacation and they do not deserve to have them wrecked by you! The public is not your wife who loves you and tolerates this hell. I don’t love you or any man for that matter. Get a snore-guard for Christ sake!

The loud, clearly audible telephone ring felt like a creepy phone call in a horror movie when I heard it clearly through the paper ceiling. He woke up immediately and I hung up right away, my work here done. What unfolded from this point on was a terrifying display of rage I personally felt was out of proportion to the situation. EEErrrg, grrrrrr, aaarggg, @#!!$$@!!!#$#@#$, STOMP STOMP STOMP, in what sounded like lead diver’s boots. He yelled at his wife and then called the front desk. “Someone called my room! Did you call me?! Then who called me?! Can you figure out who called me?! You tell me who called me!” It was the second time my wife ever looked scared.

We peered over the edge of the sheets clutched tightly in our clammy fists, our wide-eyed peepers shifting back and forth, blinking nervously. We started to feel some relief as the Rage-a-snore-us calmed down. Then…..

snoooooooooore in/ snoooooooooore out

snoooooooooore in/ snoooooooooore out

snoooooooooore in/ snoooooooooore out

snoooooooooore in/ snoooooooooore out

snoooooooooore in/ snoooooooooore out

At least we got laid that night.

Vancouver, BC

This would be considered a gloriously sunny day in the PNW: Weather reporters here say “partly sunny” not “partly cloudy”

Hastings St heroin addicts, Vancouver, Canada

Source: Daniel Lobo

Recently at a restaurant in the hip part of downtown Vancouver, Canada, I ordered a cocktail knowing it may be a bad decision. Because I never have just one cocktail. I always have three or four. I don’t drink a ton but when I do I drink to get drunk, as subtlety is a bore to me. I realized at the time I could be forgoing something better than the warm relaxing first hit of alcohol in my bloodstream. The restaurant was ok. Alcohol is always great. We were happily living it up just a few blocks from the gauntlet of heroin and fentanyl addicts on Hasting St. What greater testament to the human condition than the “Downtown Eastside” of Vancouver. Hordes of addicted, wasted, filthy, mentally ill, depressed, and desperate people, living in arguably the most beautiful city in North America, in one of the wealthiest countries in the world, with publicly funded education and health care. And even publicly funded heroin injections and recovery programs for addicts.

We took a cab back to the hotel. I was laying on my back in a bed paid for by the company my wife was working for. Warm from Vancouver’s icy rain in our room with an awesome, but cloudy view, she climbed on top to straddle and kiss me. I’m supposed to be bored with this after so long together but I’m not. I was licking and mouthing her like a bonding wolf pack. My alpha pulled off her belt and cinched it tightly around my wrists at first just for a laugh, then because we liked it. She forced my arms up over my head, pinning the belt with her palm against the wall to keep them there. I started to enjoy the pain of the leather digging into my wrists. I don’t even know how, but she managed to keep me restrained with one arm and pull off her pants with the other. Her knees were on either sides of my ears, mounting me in abandon while I was licking her out enthusiastically. “She’s not being shy tonight.” But she is still shy about this sometimes, after all these years. Even my wife, the most self-confident woman I have ever met. There is no point in making poetic analogies about licking pussy. There is nothing else in the world that feels like or anything that pussy tastes like other than pussy. I won’t even try. But it’s so erotic to me. The intimacy of it is a window into a woman. A window into the naked, unconcealable insecurities that lay there. A window into the vulnerabilities that lay there. A window into the hot animal lust that lays there. A window into the yearning for love, support, and fulfillment that lay there, a window into the complications that lay there. A window into all of these things at once.

I was taken off my leash and allowed to flip her on her back and get her off a couple of times. She started to try to work me over and I realized it just wasn’t going to happen. I can’t have an orgasm if I’ve had more than 2 drinks. Cosmos ruined what could have been the perfect 10 sex night. But it was still pretty great (cont.)…

Bryce Canyon Utahsaguaro cactuskodachrome basinGeorgia O'Keeffe From the Faraway Nearbycalifornia oaksThe Painted Desert, Arizonared chiliesmalibu state parkArches, MoabThe Valley of Fire, NevadaVenice Beach, CA
I tickled her back as she effortlessly fell asleep because she loves that. I laid there bathed in my sleep-oppressive brain chemistry, exacerbated by vodka and triple sec. I thought, “I love you. Tonight, is for you. I want to be for you. The only lover I want. I cannot repay you enough for your giving, radiating love. I will try to stop bitching to you about living in this cold, achromatic sky world, whipping off filthy muddy dogs after hiking in rain-soaked detritus. I will fall asleep eventually. I’ll lay here and travel in my head to giant prismatic sand castles of Bryce canyon and elderly saguaros and Kodachrome Basin and Georgia O’Keeffe and California Oaks on rolling drought golden hills and the Painted Desert, and red chillies, and chaparral and sage incensed Malibu State park, and my favorite cliffs outside of Moab, and Amerca’s first album, and walking through the Valley of Fire to escape sleazy Las Vegas and the beautiful immigrant rainbow of half-naked bodies smoldering on Venice beach, by the hot dusty city I grew up in and used to spit on but miss now.”dog in rainOther posts like this:

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