A very happy St. Pat’s weekend to you all, and more importantly – a very happy Eroticon! Hope everyone is having an amazing time and I wish I could be there with all of you. xx
Memories are jigsaw puzzles with loads of missing and misshapen pieces. I don’t remember what we were drinking that night (…were we drinking or smoking? Probably the latter…) or how we all got together; I remember vaguely what their apartment looked like, but have no idea what neighborhood it was in. At some point, we – myself, a classmate from a writing class, his roommate, and a coworker on whom I had an immense crush – decided that playing strip Trivial Pursuit would be a smashing idea. This is something I did often in my early twenties – strip board games with coworkers. It was a surreal and exhilarating time, y’all.
The idea is this: Get an answer wrong, take off an item of clothing. Get an answer right, put one on. Play until someone loses all their clothes; everyone else is a winner. I’m not a competitive person in general; once in a while the small and fierce competitor in a tiny, cobweb-covered corner of my brain comes out swinging, but I don’t think I tried particularly hard this night.
We continued playing until most or all of us were naked; the next thing I remember is my coworker going off with the roommate to his room while I straddled my classmate on his kitchen floor, my arms and legs wrapped around him, riding his dick while he fingered my ass. I wasn’t even really attracted to him, though he was a good-looking guy; I was just mega-horny from being naked with my coworker. Hearing her cries from the next room filled me with an even more eager lust, and I used my classmate’s cock to get off.
Not too long after – actually, who knows how long? Time stands still when you’re stoned – they came out of the roommate’s room. My classmate and I were still sitting on the floor, though not fucking anymore; my coworker came over to me, grabbed my hand, pulled me up, and walked me over to my classmate’s bedroom. She dragged me in and locked the door behind us (to the sounds of muffled protests), then pushed me down on his bed. Er – his mattress on the floor, in any case. She spread my legs and went to town on my pussy, and I entered a dream-like state. I don’t know if I came; I do know that it felt fucking amazing and that I wanted my face in her cunt. I wanted my hands and mouth all over her body, really. She told me later that I tasted like chocolate chip cookies (I wish!).
Being tangled up with her in the dark, my heart pounding – kissing her and tasting my juices on her lips – was enough to confirm that yes, I was straight-up-and-down-the-line bisexual. She wasn’t the first woman I’d slept with, but she was the first woman I had strong feelings for that I had. She was also the first married woman that I had sex with.
That night – that life – seems a million miles away. I see it through the prism of highways and oceans, fractured and foggy. I kept in touch with my classmate and stayed with him in New Orleans while I looked for an apartment there, though we never had sex again; his roommate died young, which was devastating. My coworker, whom I eventually came to love, got divorced and remarried and divorced again; the last time I saw her, she was preaching the gospel of Ayn Rand, and I haven’t spoken to her since.
I still love a good game of Trivial Pursuit more than any other board game; I don’t play very often these days, but when I do, my clothes stay on.
Image taken from Pixabay (StockSnap)
We never expected them to be so red or so lustrous. Walking along a burnt and dusty road, grateful to have finally left a trail of children behind us, we crested a hill overlooking a cerulean lake and noticed clusters of bushes littered with scarlet berries. Neither of us had seen coffee cherries before and could only guess at what they were based solely on the fact that we were in a coffee-producing region.
Once we arrived at our guesthouse, the owner offered a tour of their coffee processing facility for a small fee; we gladly took the opportunity to learn more. You rolled a cherry between your fingers before pressing it just hard enough so that juices seeped out slowly. Watching your nimble fingers wheeling the berry until its seed poked out its shoulder, glistening and coy, I ripened. You abruptly opened your mouth to make a joke about popping cherries, but thought better of it almost as soon as the thought had formulated.
We were disappointed by how the scent of coffee beans isn’t intoxicating until roasted, fascinated by the silky slime of the beans in their natural state (much like a skull sliced open to reveal a brain), delighted with the contrasting colors of the sloughed-off skins against their innards. Having a tactile experience – any tactile experience – breeds my desire for more, and by the time I’d run my fingers through a scattering of beans left to dry, I was ready to feel all of your textures. The cartilage maze of your ears, the soft spirals of your hair, your layers of blood-warmed skin covering taut muscles.
The countryside sleeps early – farmers who are used to a cock’s awakening have an internal clock that knocks them out as they lie – but we were buzzing all night. Unable to sleep, we crept through rows of pale moon beans until we reached the shores of Lake Kivu below. We’d intended to sit on the sand and canoodle a bit, but as soon as your lips touched mine, everything was on the table. You slipped my Cool Max T-shirt and sports bra over my head, not put off by days of hiking stench; I slid my much-too-short pajama pants off your long legs, and we edged our way to the water.
We inched in together, but I was the first to submerge, diving in fingertips first, coming up to smooth my hair back and wipe the parasite-infested water from my eyes. My breasts shone in the half moonlight – incentive enough for you to swim over to me to cup them lovingly in your massive hands. You kissed my neck and I encircled your cock in my curling fingers, stroking it to the music in my head. We glided deeper into the water, and I wrapped my legs around your waist. You stood deep enough to allow you to grip my hips and pump my body along the length of your cock, the buoyancy of the water aiding your effort. I tried to hold on, but your seal skin made me feel like a drunk girl on a mechanical bull. My hips bucked this way and that, my hands fishtailing all over your back.
A sudden breeze chilled me; I flopped backward into the water, dolphin-kicking away toward the beach. You followed, grabbing my ankle and dragging me back. “Not so fast,” you said, wrapping your arms around me in a vice grip. “You owe me one more kiss.” I leaned in, soaking, til my lips were just grazing yours, and I breathed into you. “Bring me back up that hill and I’ll give you much, much, more,” I replied, my promise fluttering in echoes, bouncing off the silent, drying beans which were winking at us under the moon.
The Engineer and I both hiked the same trail in Rwanda, but not together; this is a fantasy of what I would have liked to happen had we been hiking in tandem.
I close my eyes and think of scratching. I see the pale skin and broad shoulders of my first love, the one who faced his back to me whenever we fell asleep together (his parents let me sleep in his bed with him when we were high school students, which I still find shockingly progressive) and asked me in a plaintive voice to scratch his back, followed by a relieved and happy sigh.
I feel my nails – always bare and cut short, but no less sharp – dig into the haunches of a dozen lovers, carried away with scraped-out longing for my legs to spread wider so they can be deeper inside of me.
I smell pine needles as bark scratches against my hip bones and hands while The Texan fucks me hard against a tree just off a hiking trail. We can see a hiker walking by 150 meters away; we don’t stop.
I taste a lover’s cunt in my mouth as she begs me to scratch her, to bite her, to just fucking mark her in any way I can and god make it hard. Make it hurt good.
I hear the sharp intake of my sub’s breath as he feels the tips of my steel claws, not knowing what they are or what I’m going to do with them. I scratch them lightly up the inside of his thigh and punctuate his scrotum, walking up his balls with the tips. I press them harder into him until he cries out – and then I press a bit harder. I tell him to turn around and drag them slowly down his back, his ass, and hope that the marks vanish before he goes home. Claws leave beautiful, precise marks – and you don’t need to press very hard to leave evidence.
I love having any kind of marks on my body, and scratch marks are no exception; when someone accidentally scratches me during sex and apologizes, I press their nails harder into my body and whisper, “I’m your canvas. Paint me red.”
“Babe, can I talk to you about something?” asked The Engineer in a small and hesitant voice on the phone yesterday. As this particular tone is normally reserved for times when he’s feeling anxious, hurt, or insecure, I automatically said, “Yes, of course.” And then he dropped something completely out of the blue on me: He’d just gone on Twitter to delete his account, and he noticed that Twitter had recommended my blog account to him as a potential account to follow.
He knows that I write a sex blog; I send him what I write about us before I post it, and though I’ve told him that he’s free to read it, he’s chosen not to as he doesn’t want to read about my past partners in graphic detail. He’s been careful to respect my privacy, so being confronted with my Tweets freaked him out a bit – and completely fucking unnerved me. Not because it’s him, but because… how the fuck did my blog account show up on his Twitter?!?!?!?!? It left me wondering: Since I’ve been using the same browser for both my personal and my blog email (a mistake which I have since rectified), is Twitter trawling my personal email account for contacts unbeknownst to me? Who’s next? My close friends? My family? My coworkers?
I got my first smart phone after I started writing the blog; I remembered early on in blogging that Cammies had posted a Tweet about how Twitter automatically sent out a suggestion to follow her blog account to every contact on her phone when she used it – it was at that point that I knew I would never, ever use my phone to do anything blog-related. I use strict privacy settings on my browsers, I don’t use Facebook at all because I’m anxious about my privacy, and… for some reason I didn’t bother to check the privacy settings on Twitter when I signed up for it. I’ve since marked that I don’t want my account suggested based on email, but I’ve also found out that Twitter makes suggestions for accounts to follow based on physical proximity, meaning that I was likely suggested to The Engineer because I was blogging at his apartment when I went to visit last fall. And if so… does that mean that anyone who opens Twitter on their phone at my house will see my blog account recommended to them? That seems super fucking creepy and invasive.
As you may know if you follow sex news, teachers are routinely fired for being normal human beings with personal lives. I love that there are sex bloggers who are completely out, but if I want to continue being an educator of young people, that’s not an option for me. Since I started writing the blog, I’ve always felt pretty safe about avoiding being discovered by people I don’t want discovering me, and well… I don’t feel safe anymore. If you blog anonymously, what do you do to protect the privacy of your identity?
*First of all, GOD I HOPE THIS IS A PORN TITLE. Second of all, I know the post title has nothing to do with the content, but since this week’s Wicked Wednesday theme is pirates and I’m not writing a piece of pirate-themed erotica, this was the least I could do. 😀
Photo courtesy of Tits and Test Tubes
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When I was teaching in Korea, I noticed a large cultural difference in terms of how students would address creative questions. This became very apparent when I asked my university students the following question:
“If you could travel back in time, when and where would you go?”
In the US, students might answer that they would go see ancient Egypt, dinosaurs in the Jurassic period, or Woodstock. My Korean students, however, would always – without fail – tell me that they would revisit a time in their own life in order to change it (usually to study more or take a test over!) or return to an age when they had more free time. It’s because of their answers that this idea popped into my head.
If I could go back in time, where and when would I go, professor? That’s a hard question. Maybe you want me to say something about some big historical event or a famous person I might meet, but to be frank, there are moments in my life I want to go back to. Missed opportunities. Moments of regret. No, not the chance to study abroad or take more advanced classes. The chance to have more lovers. You’re blushing, professor. No need; I am just answering your question.
Let me give you an example. You always ask us to give examples to show our answers, right? So here’s mine. Last summer, I took a trip to Europe with Jun to celebrate our last year in university; you remember me talking about this before. We were at a hof one night in Zurich talking to a small group of Swiss women; Jun wasn’t feeling well and went home early, but I stayed. I was left with two women, both so beautiful. They had shiny hair, soft skin, perfect teeth. They were young like us, and we talked about the difficulties of expressing our thoughts in English. Well, to make a long story short – we all drank many beers, and these girls started kissing each other. I had never seen that before; there are gays here, but they hide. I watched them, so surprised – and so… well, it was exciting.
One of them took my hand and leaned in to my ear; she asked if I would come back to their apartment with them. I had never done sex with one person, and here were two girls asking me to come with them! Professor, I was so scared that I couldn’t. I was afraid that I would be bad at it. That they would laugh at me. Now, I regret that. So to answer your question, professor, if I could go back in time, I would say to those two Swiss women, “Yes. I will come with you. But I am inexperienced, and I need guidance.” They would say to me, “Yes, we will help you.” They would take me home and teach me everything.
I would give them as much pleasure as they wanted, and I would touch them the way they wanted me to touch them. I would lie back and let them touch me and kiss me, wondering about my luck. I would have – what is the expression you taught us? – seized the day. Professor, I don’t want to say too much, because you seem uncomfortable. But in my mind, I live that night every night. If I had a time machine, I would make a girlfriend in my first year instead of getting high test scores. I would kiss many girls on my trip. And I would enjoy my time with the two women I dream about every night.