My last night in Korea, I asked The Good Christian if I could borrow a shirt to wear for the night; I thought I’d send him a thank-you after I left:
Hello from Zanzibar! I got a bit of a sunburn on the diving boat, but other than that, life is marvelous. Wish I had someone to play with on this gorgeous guesthouse bed in a really beautiful old house! I couldn’t resist snapping a few shots immediately when I arrived… and it was only after I took this that I realized it was Sunday AND there was an actual internet cafe (a rarity) down the street – kismet! Hope you’re all having brilliant weekends.
Last post before I depart! I thought a travel sex story would be fitting.
I’m not someone who loves Valentine’s Day, nor am I one who scorns it. For me, it just comes and goes like the tides. There is one Valentine’s Day, however, that is forever etched into my memory, and thinking about that particular day will always make me smile.
Two years ago, I was travelling in the Philippines; I was sitting at a bar my first night on Cebu, and I started talking to the gentleman next to me. Our conversation flowed so easily that it felt like we’d known each other for years; we skipped the small talk and jumped right into deep conversation about our travels, life philosophies, families. We laughed and talked for hours, then agreed to meet the next night. I arrived that night with a huge group and dragged him from the bar to our table… then proceeded to ignore all the people I came with to talk to him. I felt so drawn to him – to his laugh, his easygoing nature, his penetrating questions and openness (maaayyyybe to his extraordinary body as well).
We met again the following night – same place, same time – and as we were chatting on a porch underneath a full moon, a photographer asked if he could take pictures of us “while we were flirting and the sparks were flying.” Yes, of course, we said, laughing. As he walked away, I put my hand on Neil’s leg and said, “Just so you know, I am flirting with you.” He smiled nervously and we continued to talk until I absolutely had to go. He walked me out; we were both planning on heading to another island around the same time, so I asked him to come north to meet me when he got there. Sadly, he said, he was heading south, but he’d keep in touch and maybe we could meet up for a day before I left. I grabbed his hand, leaned into his ear and tipsy-whispered, “No – you need to come up north so I can fuck you.” He kissed me lightly on the lips and said he’d try to make it. We said our goodbyes; I didn’t sleep a wink that night thinking about how his strong hands would feel running down the length of my body.
Fast forward a week and a half. I have just arrived in El Nido; I’m walking back to my hotel, and who should cross my path but the one person I’ve been wanting to see this whole time? We hug, we laugh, we beam at each other. He tells me that he was warned not to go south because there was political turbulence, so instead he came north, hoping to run into me. Looks like the stars aligned! That night, we had dinner on the beach, the surf literally touching our toes. We ate freshly-caught fish and drank fifty cent beers by candlelight and talked like children do when they have a secret language. The wait staff finally had to tell us that we had to leave – they were closing. We looked behind us to see that they had taken all the other tables and chairs off the beach and we hadn’t even noticed. I looked him in his clear, blue eyes and asked if he were going to take me home with him some night that week; he asked what I thought about tonight? I kissed him in response, and we walked uphill to his hotel, me in bare feet. We got a bit lost along the way – the good kind of lost.
We spent the next three days going on adventures (sightseeing, kayaking, snorkeling, making out in secret caves), eating amazing food, and fucking like bunnies. My last day in El Nido happened to be Valentine’s Day. That morning, I got a massage, bought a dress (a rarity for me), tweezed and shaved my travel body, and told him to come to mine before dinner. As an avid fan of Dan Savage, I knew it was best to fuck first – so when he arrived, I was only wearing a sarong, which quickly got flung aside. Even with the air conditioning on, we were soon covered in a slippery layer of sweat, which we’d earned. We relished every inch of each other’s bodies and slid all over each other in the heat of the tropics until we were starving and exhausted.
Time does seem to sprint by when you’re enjoying yourself, so I remember the night in flashes: We’re sitting at an Italian restaurant overlooking the ocean, devouring pizza and sipping on cocktails. We’re dancing at a club, our bodies jumping and bouncing to pop music along with a packed crowd, rum and cokes in hand. We’re outside, dancing in the ocean to cool off, spinning and dipping. We’re sitting on an old, overturned, wooden kayak, making out like teenagers. He’s facing me toward the ocean and putting his arm around me and asking if I’d ever come back to El Nido – and if he were there, I’d be back in a heartbeat. We’re walking back to his hotel at 3:00 am to fall into a deep sleep in each other’s arms – but not before taking silly pictures with each other on the balcony. We’re waking up at 6:00 am to the sound of church bells, and I have to go.
I’ve had interesting Valentine’s Days before and since, especially while traveling, but I can’t imagine any topping that night – a night that felt perfect. A night that capped off a magical movie-like travel romance in an idyllic setting. A night when the stars aligned.
As most of you know, this is my last Sinful Sunday for a good long while. I will miss posting, but much more than that, I will miss seeing all of your stunning and creative photographs. Will try to check in when I can and perv on all of you to the best of my ability. Lots of love!
I’ve mentioned this briefly in a lot of posts over the last six months, but here it is again for good measure: I’m leaving South Korea.
After seven years of living in this beautiful country that has become my second home, I’m packing a few boxes to ship back to the US and selling / giving away everything else in my apartment. I’ll be leaving the country with one backpack, four crossed fingers, and a thousand memories.
Seven years. Typing these words leaves a lump in my throat. I’ve developed some of the closest relationships in my life here, and although the world is getting smaller and my friends are only a Skype call away, it’s not quite the same as hopping on the subway or walking down the street to meet someone for a beer spontaneously. In the past few months, I’ve felt like George Bailey at the end of It’s a Wonderful Life because when you part from the people you love, you tend to tell them how much you love them. There’s a Korean word, 정 (jeong), that describes how I feel about Korea – it’s indefinable even in Korean and has no matching English word – but encompasses feelings of love, attachment, affection, community, and giving. Korea sometimes feels like a big family, and I appreciate that more than I can say.
I’m nervous about going home… I’m expecting the reverse culture shock of coming back to the US to be much more difficult than the original culture shock of moving to Korea, especially given the current political climate! That being said, I have a LOT to be excited about – seeing family and old friends, forging a new and more meaningful career path, probably moving to a new city. I’ll be traveling for six months (in Africa, Spain, and the UK) before I arrive in the US and definitely looking forward to grand adventures! My future is uncertain, though: Will I be able to find a job? Where will I end up? Will I have to have roommates again in order to be able to afford living in the US?
Also uncertain is the future of this blog. I don’t use my phone to do anything blog-related for privacy reasons, and as I’ll be backpacking, I’m not taking a laptop or iPad with me. I don’t know how often I’ll have access to internet cafés or if the ones I come across will be places I feel comfortable posting in. I will try to post / check into Twitter when I can in the next six months, but it’s likely that posts will be few and far between.
So before I embark on this journey, I’d like to say: I feel so incredibly lucky to be a part of this blogging community. Writing this blog has given me an outlet to uncage a creativity I didn’t even know I had, and I’m grateful for that every day. The ways in which sex bloggers support and encourage each other inspires me and fills me with joy.
I’ll be coming through Barcelona, London, Edinburgh, and Bristol this summer; if you happen to live in one of those places or know a trustworthy person who does and will provide a sleeping space on their floor in exchange for some good storytelling, please shoot me a message on Twitter or an email (@teachershavesex / email@example.com) and let me know! As you can imagine, traveling for six months is going to be pretty expensive, and even hostel dorm rooms add up!
I’ll be posting one more Sinful Sunday and one more non-fiction story before I take off; for now I just want to say thank you so much for reading (and for posting the hundreds of gorgeous photos and pieces of writing many of you do that put ideas in my head!). May your 2017 transitions be positive and peaceful ones, and I hope all of you will experience your own grand journeys this year, even if they happen in your own home.
Having absolutely no brilliant ideas for this week’s Sinful Sunday photo and only a short time while The Good Christian ran home to collect a few things, I thought I’d snap a quick shot of my… new haircut. Hope y’all are having a glorious weekend!
After dessert – a decadent raspberry custard topped with chocolate ganache and served with port – Cal handed over a small, meticulously-wrapped box, which he seemed to pull out of thin air. Maybe it was the intoxicating effects of the port, the strength of which still lingered on hir tongue. Les accepted it with both hands, wondering where Cal had found the paper containing real leaves and the ribbon which felt like velvet. Sie looked at it carefully, turning it over in hir small hands, marveling at the care that had gone into it. Cal’s eyes twinkled. “Open it,” he eagerly instructed.
Sie peeled the tape off, careful not to rip the paper, and took off the lid, lifting layers of multi-colored tissue paper away from the interior to reveal a handful of small, plain, white envelopes containing what felt like cards. Each one of the twelve had a single word printed on the cover: the first said January. “What are these?” sie asked, delighted at the attention to detail, the smooth surface and crisp corners of the envelopes.
“Each month, you get one card with an instruction on it. You have one month to carry out the order; if you succeed, you receive a reward. If not, a punishment. That simple.” Les’s eyes widened and the corners of hir mouth drew up slowly as sie started to think about all the possibilities. Knowing Cal, there would be nothing simple about this – it would be challenging, but exhilarating.
“Put them away for now,” he said, standing up and walking around to help Les with hir coat. Hir face formed a momentary frown, at which he laughed. “My darling,” he said, “January first is but an hour away, and the clock is ticking. I believe we have an engagement to be at. You owe me a dance and a midnight kiss.” Sie smiled and slipped hir arm into the sleeves before putting one through Cal’s arm. They strolled out into the cold air, still glowing from each other’s company, and held tight to each other as they walked to a friend’s party.
They danced to song after song, alternating the lead to songs that would always remind hir of New York – Gershwin, Porter, Berlin. At midnight, showered in vibrant confetti, they kissed each other, relishing the pressure and taste of each other’s lips. Sie trailed hir lips to his ear, and whispered, “I can’t wait. Can I open the first one now?” “You’re so impatient!” he chided playfully. “But yes, of course you can.”
Sie ran over to their coats in staccato steps, digging the box out of hir deep coat pocket, and gingerly took out the first envelope. Sie slid a finger underneath the flap and pulled out a small white card containing the following sentences:
Put the Njoy plug in first thing when you wake up in the morning. Keep it there all day and come to my office five minutes before I get off work. I will leave my office each day at 4:53 exactly. When I arrive back to my office at 4:55 one day in January, you will be there, hands on my desk, wearing nothing from the waist down except that plug, waiting for me.
Les’s heart stopped at the idea of being semi-nude in Cal’s office. Sie knew his coworkers; they often had happy hour cocktails together. What if someone else came in? What if the timing was off? What if…? Cal looked closely at her expression, wondering momentarily if he’d made a mistake – but then he saw the fear in hir eyes replaced with lust, and an unmistakable blush spread across hir face. What if he spanks me? Sie thought. What if he replaces that plug with his fingers? Sie quickly thought about the heft of the metal plug and how it would feel inside of hir for an entire day. What if he demands I get under the desk and lick his cock from base to tip, over and over, until he’s shivering? Sie closed her eyes dreamily and thought about the potential. Cal leaned in and brushed his lips against hirs. “This is just the beginning,” he said, almost inaudible against the chorus of Auld Lang Syne. “I started with an easy one.” He slid his hand around hir waist and up hir back in a reassuring way; they spent the next few minutes in silence, both contemplating their adventures ahead and feeling no need to make resolutions.
… you didn’t think I was going to write that and then not take a picture of it, did you?
Photo courtesy of Rebel’s Notes
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I’ve been waiting to post this for a long time; it was inspired by this Girl on the Net post. When I saw that the Wicked Wednesday prompt was “Follow Your Heart,” I thought: it’s time. It’s non-fiction and not very wicked, but I can’t think of a more appropriate prompt for this piece.
At the time I met Banger*, I was deep into lesbian territory. I hadn’t been physically intimate with a man for four years and wasn’t planning on it anytime soon; however, when I opened my door and saw him standing there one cold February afternoon, I felt my heart leap in my chest. He was my type: Tall, bespectacled, bookish. At least – he was the type I’d had before I stopped dating men. I panicked and reacted to how handsome I thought he was by being overly cheerful and energetic. I didn’t really know what to do with my sudden and strange urges; it had been so long since I’d had them.
Over the next year, I developed a massive crush on him, but never said anything; he was always dating someone, and I was supposed to be gay. We became close friends and confidants; we worked together, shared an office, and lived in the same building, so I saw him all the time. We’d go out for kimchi stew or barbecue together and chat; a couple of times we went to a noraebang (private room karaoke), just the two of us, drunk on rice wine, and sang songs late into the night. He made me giggle. Not laugh – giggle. The kind of laughter you share with someone when you have inside jokes or find something hilarious that no one else would laugh at. We could be silly together and really honest with each other because we weren’t trying to get into each other’s pants. It was brilliant. Spending time with him was so easy – a breath of fresh air.
He went home for vacation that summer, and I found myself acutely missing his company. I could feel a kind of dull ache inside of me at his absence. When I went home for Christmas, he kept in contact with me the whole time I was gone. The night I got back, there was already a message on my phone welcoming me back to Korea and asking me to dinner. We spent the next three nights on his bed, watching 90s movies and drinking boozy hot cocoa. It felt like those times in uni where you’re trying to be physically close to a crush without admitting you like like each other, because what if the other person doesn’t feel the same? The second night, I asked if I could put my head on his shoulder. I couldn’t even remember the last time I had cuddled with someone, and it ignited something in my body that I was wholly unprepared for. My insides exploded with an unstoppable force, and my panties were literally soaked by the time I got back to my apartment. The next night, as I was stroking his arm, my brain stopped working and my body took over; I grabbed his face and kissed him, and it felt like everything fell into place in that one moment. My lust was a champagne bottle uncorked.
I went away for a couple of days after that; when I came back, we spent hours making out and exploring each other’s bodies before falling asleep. At first morning’s light, I told him that I desperately wanted him inside of me. I hadn’t had penetrative sex with a man for five years at this point; I thought I would need to take it a bit slow or that it might even hurt, but because I was so highly aroused, it felt so. fucking. good. Like eating an ice cream cone on a scorching summer day. Like the first time you try ecstasy and you find yourself floating in joyous spacetime. Like the first day of spring after a long, hard winter.
He called me; he asked me to spend time with him; he held my hand in public, and that’s when I think I fell. I moved to another city shortly after we first hooked up; it was hard going from seeing him every day to seeing him twice a month, especially now that we were being intimate. I found myself feeling lost in the behemoth of all these feelings I hadn’t felt in years – overwhelming waves of love and desire. I had a real libido for the first time in forever. I was drowning in hormones, and I didn’t know how to get to shore. I felt crazy. Suddenly I was being cautious with every word I said to him, scared that if I said or did the wrong thing, all of my joy would vanish. He would disappear like a magician into the void of a magic box. I tried to stop myself from feeling, tried to put tape over a waterfall, but I had already contracted emotional ebola and I was bleeding out.
Over the next couple of months, we had the most incredible sex I’d had in a decade, and I experienced orgasms I couldn’t even believe were real. We fucked everywhere in my apartment, cuddled next to each other on the couch to watch videos, and only came up for air to go out to eat and build up our energy reserves so we could make love again. If oxytocin is sex vodou, he was a houngan and I was ready to dance with snakes. He brought me back from the dead.
My friends were baffled. They said:
“I’ve never seen you this happy.”
“I’ve never seen you this way!”
“I’m surprised at how… mushy you’re being about this.”
“I never expected to hear you being so sentimental.”
“I’m impressed – not because it’s a guy, but because you like him.”
“It’s kind of nice to hear you say that you feel something again.”
And suddenly, I wanted to know what we were. Not where it was going – I knew he was moving back to England in the summer – but I wanted to know that he had romantic feelings for me like I did for him. That I wasn’t alone. That I wasn’t crazy. I told him that I had real feelings for him and that it was freaking me out. He said he hadn’t had romantic feelings for anyone in years and didn’t know if he could. I, meanwhile, was feeling ALL THE FEELINGS ALL THE TIME, and it was so completely isolating. I tried meditation, breathing, yoga, sleeping pills, processing with friends. Nothing could take away the anxiety of loving someone when I didn’t know how he felt about me. My pain started to become stronger than my joy, but I held on because the high was so powerful.
When I told him that I felt like I’d changed from someone he actually cared about to someone he was just sleeping with, his response was, “Yeah, I guess that’s just part of the changing nature of relationships, you know?” When I asked if I could say that we were dating, he responded, “I don’t know. I mean, you can say whatever you want, but I don’t know.” When I said that that had hurt me, he said he was sorry I felt hurt.
We kept having these amazing weekends together, but I was in pain all the time. It’s hard work loving someone who doesn’t love you in the same way; it takes everything from you. Confidence, dignity, pride, joy, sanity. Laughter. Self-worth. I knew that he cared about me a great deal; he wasn’t good at expressing that with words, but he showed it by doing things like serenading me with a song sacred to my heart that he learned just to play for me, or by choosing to spend his last weekends in Korea with me. But I was in a different place. I understood for the first time why people want to give up everything to be with someone. Why they’ll move half a world away. I wanted so much to spend my life loving him despite knowing deep down that we probably wouldn’t be compatible in the long run, and that was unnerving. He told me shortly before he left that he loved me – and I truly believe he did – but continued to introduce me as his friend, which was confusing at best and devastating at worst.
The day before he left, he asked me: “What now?” I don’t know, I said. I wanted to say that I wanted to be in a long-distance relationship with him while continuing to date other people here, but the idea of him saying no to that was too crushing to consider. So I just said that we’d keep in touch, keep loving each other, and hopefully one day down the road we’d meet again and create a second chapter in our story.
We tried to be friends after that, which in hindsight seems like the biggest mistake ever. His responses to me became less frequent and shorter; we still talked, but it wasn’t the same. I finally told him right before Christmas that I was deeply in love with him and that it was too painful to try to be his friend. That I needed a break. We talked for a long time and hashed things out – then emailed a week later and talked for hours again and hashed more things out – and in the end, he said he was still attracted to me, but didn’t know if that translated into romantic feelings. That he just assumed I was over him. That it would be logical to have romantic feelings for me, but feelings aren’t logical. That he didn’t know if he could be emotionally supportive of me. I got angry about it all and my anger hurt him; he thought I was diminishing the ways he cared for me just because his feelings weren’t as intense as mine. He loved me – just not in the way I wanted to be loved. We left the conversation on a positive note, and agreed that the friendship we’d had before was worth working on.
It took a long time and dating other people (and a thorough reading of More Than Two) to wade through the layers of love and loss I felt… but I made it to the other side, and when I did, I came out stronger. Not that defensive kind of stronger where you swear you’ll never let anyone in again, which is where I was before I met him, but the kind of stronger where you learn how to open your heart and love completely, accept and really feel your feelings, and vow to work on knowing what you want and how to communicate that. Where you breathe deeply and let your walls crumble to the ground around you in tiny pieces. Being that vulnerable and crawling through the darkness that came after were both transformative experiences.
I started writing this blog while I was seeing him because I wanted him to be proud of me for doing something creative; it has since turned into something I’m proud of myself for doing. I’m grateful for that. We’re still friends, and the friendship feels easier now. My heart feels so much lighter when I talk to him. He lives with someone he’s dating now; that was hard to cope with at first, but a month or so ago I suddenly found myself feeling genuinely and deeply happy for him out of the blue. We should all get to love in life and be loved in return – even the people who have hurt us.
*Not his real name, obvs. This is what a few of my friends started calling him after I initially and hesitantly told them I was “bangin’ a dude.”