Puno, Peru, 2006
I’m making out with a British guy who I met on an island in Lake Titicaca against a wall in a surprisingly bright dive bar. I’m drunk on pisco and he’s got this lovely, moppy hair that I can’t help sinking my fingers into. I’m pressing him into a mural and so ready to go back to his… until these two girls on the dance floor catch my eye. I come up for air to look them over more thoroughly; one has short, choppy, platinum hair and a great smile, and the other is this dark-eyed goddess who sways gracefully. I tell the Brit I’m going to get another drink, but then wander over to the women and start dancing and flirting with them instead. I don’t know how it happens, but suddenly the goddess’s arms are around my waist and my hands are sliding up her arms and I’m licking her lips and my body is throbbing and she smells amazing and god I want my face in her cunt. Apparently she’s not with the woman she came with, because when I ask her back to mine, she smiles and nods. We buy individual cigarettes from a street vendor on the way to my guesthouse; this is when I find out she’s Candian – exotic. I’d never been with a Canadian before (P.S. I love you, Canada.). We drunkenly explore each other’s bodies, tangled limbs and hair falling everywhere and tongue barbells clinking against each other. She tastes salty and sweaty and I cannot get enough of her juices in my mouth. She goes back to her guesthouse after, and I’m left wishing I’d had more sex on this trip and relishing the feeling the metal balls of her clitoral piercing on my tongue.
Bali, Indonesia, 2013
I’m in a gay bar near the beach and bemoaning, once again, that there are no lesbian bars – a frustrating phenomenon all over the world. After a couple of cocktails / watching a fabulous drag show / getting to know the lovely blokes next to me, I spot a small group of women hanging out against a wall at the other end of the bar. I saunter over to them and ask where all the ladies are; “We’re right here!” they say and laugh, and I feel at home in their presence. I start chatting up a small butch woman; soon we’re dancing and making out, and shortly thereafter I invite her back to mine. As we walk toward her scooter, the guys I was chatting with hoot and holler at us, and I give them a big grin. The vibrations of her scooter on bumpy back roads prime me for deeper pleasure, and I try to stay quiet later that night as she fucks me; she is an unregistered guest, after all. She won’t let me reciprocate, but she spends the night, and in the morning she spoons me and works several fingers into me. I grind backward into her hand while touching myself until I come in waves, pressing my face into a pillow. We walk out together; the guesthouse workers shoot us curious looks, and we look straight ahead.
Bujagali, Uganda, 2017
Having spent the first month and a half of my Africa trip without a single travel sexperience, I could barely contain my libido. When I spotted a muscular Aussie sitting alone with a computer at one end of the hostel, I struck up a conversation, keeping my fingers crossed. He had a ton of stories and a wonderfully dry sense of humor, and we had good rapport – in fact, it was the easiest conversation I’d had all trip. We both had other people staying in our dorm rooms, however, so I casually asked him if he’d still be around the next night; yes, he said. I like to think I was breezy the next night when I approached him, but he could probably smell the “please please please fuck me right now”-ness on me. We stayed up chatting until the other guests had gone, at which point I sat next to him and asked if he’d like to continue the conversation elsewhere. I presented a challenge: that we fuck on every single bed in his dorm room (To everyone who stays in dorms and is grossed out by that, #sorrynotsorry). No problem, he said; he used to be a professional athlete and had a LOT of endurance. We vigorously and joyously boned in a different position on every bed, working up a hell of a sweat, and I came again and again and again. It was that perfect one-night stand where you get along well and the sex is great, but you don’t like like them enough to want to see them again. Sweet, sweet relief. The hilarious part came two weeks later when I had another one-night stand with a German cop (it was bad, you guys), and over post-coital beers I found out that he’d happened to have met this Australian guy the very same day.
Which is to say: It’s a small, small world.
Normally I try to write a piece of fiction for Wicked Wednesday prompts, but this particular prompt is so intertwined with my real sex life that I couldn’t help but write non-fiction! More coming on this theme…