He Thinks of Everything

The Engineer picked me up from Gatwick holding a handmade sign on which he’d written a pet name for me; he stood in the arrivals hall for thirty minutes holding up this 8×11 piece of paper while I went through immigration*, chauffeurs and business associates staring at it with confusion and amusement.  I’d told him not to bring flowers because I wanted to jump into his arms.  “No problem,” he said.  When we arrived at his car, there they were, in the boot instead.  “You told me not to bring them in,” he said when I protested.  On the way to his, he went old school as we listened to a mixed CD he’d made of all the songs that were important to us.  “I got you a sim card,” he told me on the way home, “So you can reach me when I’m on the road.”

At the entrance to his flat were a pair of purple fur-lined slippers for me; they fit perfectly.  I dropped my bags in his room; he showed me the shelves he’d cleared for me, and we flopped onto his new bed to make out.  We shared the contents of our shag bags and laughed over the fact that I’d brought a lot of things with me that he had bought, so he could return them… and we could find other things we liked.

In his lounge, a pot of my favorite flowers sat on the dining table and a huge bottle of Bailey’s – which he loathes, but I can’t get enough of – was perched on the bookshelf among other bottles of booze.  DVDs of a couple of my favorite horror movies were placed into his collection; he’s not a horror fan, but thought it would be fun to watch one with me.  In the kitchen: a French press and a bag of dark roast (despite the fact that he’s not a coffee drinker) and two different jars of cranberry sauce in the cupboard.  “I know you wanted these for Thanksgiving, and I wasn’t sure which one to get,” he told me.  In the bathroom, a bag full of bath bombs so we could take hot baths together on cold days and a bottle of massage oil for our weary fuck-exhausted muscles.  He thought of every detail to make me happy and comfortable.

When we fall asleep at night, I’m the big spoon; I wrap my tiny body around his giant frame, and for some reason it feels right. Sometimes he falls asleep on the couch, his head in my lap.  I stroke his hair and whisper, “Let’s go to bed, honey.”  When we wake up in the morning, he pulls me toward him and holds me tight for a few minutes before diving deep under the covers to spread my legs and lick me, waking up my center and my hunger.  He gets ready for work while I drift back off; before he leaves, he comes in, leans down, gives me a kiss with his full lips, and whispers, “I love you, Hummingbird.”

Last night, when he came home, I was sitting on the kitchen counter wearing a zip-down vinyl dress, fishnets, and his red silk tie, mug of mulled wine in hand.  “Cup of wine?” I asked quietly as he walked toward me, bathed in candlelight.  “No,” he said, never taking his eyes off me.  In between kisses, I let soft words dance into his ears: “We still have some toys to play with.” He retrieved a couple of floggers and a bottle of lube from the bedroom; when he returned; he turned me around and gave me the beating I’d been longing for before putting me back on the counter, sliding my copper-colored lace panties down over my legs, and hitching the dress up so he could plunge his lubed-up cock into me.  I wrapped my legs around his waist and breathed deeply as he moved in long, slow strokes, building up anticipation for when he pulled me off the counter and bent me over it, pressing my hands to the tiled wall and sinking his fingers deep into my hips.  I came twice standing there, my hair spilling out of its band, and once more in his bed – our bed – after he carried me there.  Lying underneath him, I unzipped the dress, exposing my pale breasts and belly, the red tie pointing down toward my swollen cunt.  I held him to me, whimpering in his ear, calling him “mi amor” in hushed, desperate tones.  He was sweating by the time he came; I inhaled the scent of him, and my body unwound.

The duvet glittered with my juices after they dried – a visual presence of our lust.  When I’m gone, he’ll still hear my whispers in his ears, and they’ll hold him in their arms until he can make it across the ocean into mine.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

 

 

*Imagine the immigration officer’s delight when I declared that not only was I here to visit a romantic partner, but also that I’m currently unemployed.

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Small World

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.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked
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…

 

Reunion

Paul stepped out of his Toyota Corolla with a concrete foot and a stomach full of moths.  He paused and looked up at the tall, grey, nondescript walls of his high school and stared at a waving American flag in front of the main entrance, lost in thought.  Would anyone remember him?  If they did, would it be as anything other than that kid that everyone called a fag?  Why did he even bother to come back?

Morbid curiosity, he supposed.  He tried not to wish various maladies and misfortunes on the countless people who’d treated him like shit when they were teenagers, but his revenge cortex couldn’t help it.  Lebanon, Missouri was closer to Kansas than it was to St. Louis; as soon he graduated, he hightailed it to Northwestern University and stayed in Chicago thereafter.  It was the first time he’d even crossed the border back to Missouri in twenty years.

Straightening his tie, he walked toward the school uneasily; he opened the door with a heavy heart and was relieved when the first person he saw was the girl who’d played Marion the Librarian to his Harold Hill.  He gave her a huge smile and warm hug.  She was thrilled to see him, too; almost immediately, she grabbed his shoulder and pulled his ear toward her.  “Paul,” she whispered – “He’s here.”  Paul knew who Loreen meant, but he didn’t want to create hope where there was none, so he played dumb.  “Who’s here?” he asked, painting a quizzical look on his face.  “You know who,” she scolded, lightly punching his arm.  It was true, then.  Dean.  Dean Walker – the wrestling champion who took their school to state finals senior year.  Thinking about his sweaty smell as he walked past Paul down the hallway after practice still gave Paul a raging hard-on.  Dean had been in his spank bank for decades.

Wrestling, Wrestlers, Olympics, Olympic

He continued chatting to Loreen as they walked into the gym and grabbed beers; while they caught up on their lives, he restlessly scanned the room until he saw Dean talking to his old teammates.  His eyes lingered on Dean’s shoulders – not as big as they used to be, but still strong and toned under his fitted T-shirt.  He gulped and remembered fondly one late afternoon that he’d gone into the locker room after school to use the bathroom and had found Dean coming out of a stall; Dean turned around when Paul went in and followed him back into the same stall, looking Paul square in the eye for a moment before Paul willingly dropped to his knees and pulled down Dean’s shorts, taking his freshly-showered, now hardening dick into his mouth.  He eagerly relished the texture of every vein and ridge and the moan that Dean didn’t mean to make when Paul squeezed his balls just so.  After Dean had shot his salty load into Paul’s mouth, he pulled his shorts up and walked out, leaving Paul on his knees; they never spoke of it again.  In fact, they never spoke again.

Feeling uncomfortable as his cock started to stiffen under his trousers now, Paul excused himself momentarily and started walking toward an exit.  He couldn’t help looking toward Dean as he strode – and Dean looked back at him.  They made fleeting eye contact before Paul stepped out to inhale lungfuls of fresh air.  Standing against a wall, he closed his eyes and tried to think of anything that would make the blood leave his cock. He started when he opened them and Dean was next to him.

“Hey, Paul,” he said.  “It’s been awhile.”  Paul squinted his eyes a bit, befuddled by this sudden friendliness.  “Y-yeah,” he stammered, “It has.”  The last word came off like a question as his brain tried to comprehend what was happening.  “I got a new truck,” Dean said in a way that suggested they were old fishing or hunting buddies.  “You haven’t been around in a long time – want to see it?”  “Sure,” Paul said, drawing out the word.  He followed Dean to a silver behemoth at the far end of the parking lot.  “Chevy Silverado,” Dean said proudly, tapping the hood twice.  “She’s real comfortable for a truck and even has heated seats if you can believe that.  Want to go for a test drive?”

Paul opened his mouth, but no words came.  Dean opened the passenger side door and offered up the seat to Paul.  “Hop in,” he said.  “She’s a beaut.”  Dean drove them west on 64 until they came to the gravel parking lot of an abandoned diner, which he pulled into, treading on a linked chain that meekly attempted to keep cars out.  He turned the engine off and turned to Paul.  “I owe you something,” he said, his voice deeper than normal.  “I don’t – ” Paul started, but Dean interrupted him by sliding a large, rough hand around the back of his neck and pulling him in for a kiss.  Now Paul really thought he was dreaming, so he made the most of it and kissed Dean back with the ferocity we reserve for fantasies.  Suddenly, Dean was taking apart the clasps at the top of Paul’s trousers and pulling his cock out of his boxer briefs, licking around it before taking it into his mouth and then into the back of his throat as Paul grew thicker and longer.  Paul was so taken aback that he held his hands up at first, motionless – but as Dean’s head movements became rhythmic and he started groaning, Paul placed his hands on those shoulders he’d spent so much time thinking about during meetings and held on.  Feeling Dean’s tongue slide along the length of his cock and his strong hand gripping the base was almost too much to handle.  He felt his core tighten and his legs tremble; “Fuck,” he muttered, “I’m going…” his words trailed off as his face screwed up and his whole body clenched, then released.  His breath slowed as Dean licked every last drop of cum off of him.  He closed his eyes.  “I wasn’t expecting that,” he said, his head tilted back, feeling body-drunk.

Dean put his arm around Paul’s shoulders and rested his chin next to Paul’s ear.  “We’re even now,” he said.  “But maybe don’t make it such a long time ‘til you come back to visit.”  He started the engine and turned the truck around, back toward the school, and drove silently while faded music played on the radio.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Good Call

The first time was an accident.  Maria had picked up the phone in her room when it rang; when she heard her roommate Edith say hello to her long-distance girlfriend, she almost clicked the button to hang up – until she heard Edith’s girlfriend ask, “So – what are you wearing?”  This should be good, she thought, waiting for Edith’s inevitably quippy reply.

Instead, she heard Edith say, “You know that bra you bought me for Christmas?  The red, lacy number that I never wear because it’s so impractical?”  “Mmhmm,” came a knowing murmur from the other end.  “That, and one end of your favorite dildo.”

Maria almost dropped the phone.  In a panic, she pressed the earpiece to her ear and moved the mouthpiece down toward her neck, afraid to breathe or make a peep.  She listened to Edith’s girlfriend give orders which Edith presumably followed:

“Are you wet?  Good girl.  Slide the dildo in and out until it’s covered in your juices.  Get on your knees; push it deep into your A-spot and pulse it there.  Press your legs together to hold it in place while you put your fingers in your mouth.  Make circles around your clit… painfully slow circles.”

All she heard on Edith’s end were moans and whimpers of assent and pleasure – then a strained pleading to be allowed to come, followed by a tortured groan when she was denied.  When she finally did come minutes later, it was epic – Maria had never heard anything like it before.  Like a house on fire breaking apart, sending embers flying into a black sky, lighting it up with red smoke.  Maria had never felt like that before.

When they finally said goodnight, it was Maria who felt exhausted.  She hung up the phone and turned out her bedroom light; lying on her back in the dark, she slid her hands under the bottom of her nightgown and flung it aside.  She squirmed as she felt slickness warm her inner thighs; when she moved her hand into her panties, she was shocked by how wet she was.  She slid two fingers inside her cunt with one hand while gently rubbing her entire labia with the other, up and down, thinking about the orders that Edith obediently followed.  Her hips bucked and her breath caught as her orgasm had her.  She turned her head to bite her pillow, curling into a ball, afraid to make noise; she fell asleep in her underwear, which stuck to her.

Phone, Communication, Connection

It was the first thing on her mind when she woke up the next day; she knew she had to come clean.  Edith had been her best friend for years; there just weren’t any secrets between them.  Dreading the conversation, she rolled out of bed and slouched into the kitchen for coffee.

When she sat down at the table, she noticed how perky Edith seemed – how light on her feet.  Good.  “Ed – I have something to tell you.”  “What’s up?” Edith asked, a spring in her step as she fluttered around the kitchen, grabbing dishes and cups and toast and creamer.  “I heard you last night.”  “Oh, god,” Edith said, her movements suddenly halted.  “I was so loud you could hear me through the walls?  I’m sooooo sorry!”  “No…” Maria continued.  “I heard you on the phone.  I picked up and couldn’t stop listening.  I know it was a huge violation of your privacy – I’m so, so sorry, Ed.”  Her face flamed.  She expected Edith to yell, to slam things on the table, to be furious.  Instead, Edith just looked… curious.

“Huh,” she said.  “Huh?” replied Maria.  Again: “Huh.”  Maria looked at her, completely baffled, not really knowing what to say.  It turned out she didn’t have to say anything.  “Did you… like what you heard?” asked Edith.  Still beet red, Maria looked into her coffee cup.  “Yeah,” she practically whispered.  “It was… it was really hot, Ed.”  The words rushed out of her mouth like air from a tire.  “Huh.”  “Why do you keep saying that?” asked Maria.  “Well – Lora might be into that.”  “What?” Maria asked, her mouth ajar.  “Yeah – she might be into the idea of someone else listening in.  Let me check with her.”

Maria felt her nipples stiffen under her nightgown – from arousal or anxiety she wasn’t sure, but she was sure of one thing: every cell in her body was saying “Yes.”

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Image taken from Pixabay; credit: markito.

Staring Contest

It worked every time – he didn’t even have to try anymore.  Will strode confidently into a Farringdon pub at the tail end of Friday happy hour; he didn’t need the stumbling desperation of one am to convince someone to come home with him.  He sat at the end of the bar, ordered a brown ale, and scanned the scene.  Some nights he had to wait thirty, forty minutes for an approachable woman to show up; tonight, he spotted her within ten.

She sat at the opposite end of the bar and started scrolling through her phone, looking a bit bored and sipping on a cider.  She was wearing a fitted grey suit, and her hair was tied into a knot at the nape of her neck.  He walked around the edge of the bar so he could approach from behind, then walked up to the bar and sat next to her.  He ordered a double scotch, neat, and took out his phone.  Scrolling through old messages, he sighed loudly.  The woman next to him looked over and asked if he’d had a hard day at work.  “Everything feels hard some days, even when it’s not that bad – know what I mean?” he replied.  She did.  He continued: “Sometimes I think about how easy everything seemed when I was young and the only thing I had to stress about was losing a game or looking stupid in front of a girl.”  She laughed and said she agreed with him; she was having one of those weeks, too.

He continued, feeling the hook slide in, the line go taut.  “What did you do for fun when you were young?” he asked.  “Oh, I suppose we just played normal kid’s games – bulldog, Mr. Wolf, oranges and lemons, -” “The one where someone’s head is chopped off?!” he laughed. “That’s terrible!”  “We loved it!” she said, and laughed even harder.  “What about you?”  “I played thumb war with my brother a lot,” he answered.  “Oh, and I was a staring contest master.”  “Oh?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.  “Yeah,” he continued.  “No one could beat me at a staring contest.  Even when my older brother was beating me at every other game, I always had him in a staring contest.”  “Let’s have it, then,” she said.  “I don’t know,” he replied – “are you in the mood to be heavily defeated after the week you’ve had?”  She grinned and said she thought she could handle it.

Her eyes almost matched her suit – grey, but a bit darker.  “Loser buys the next round,” she said, determined to win.  They turned in to face each other, their knees touching.  “Three,” he counted; she closed her eyes tight. “Two…”  She blinked rapidly. “One!”  She opened her eyes wide and stared into his.  He never knew what was going through their minds at the time; he counted in his head to make sure that enough time passed to make it seem like he was making a concerted effort, but little enough time that it seemed plausible that he would blink.  If he was closing in on a minute, that’s when he would graciously lose.

He remembered them all by their eyes: Carla was the one with the deep brown deer eyes.  Meg was the one with the hazel eyes, a refractory of color.  Sara, the one with violet lenses.  A dozen other women whose names he’d forgotten, but whose irises were imprinted on his brain.  He’d started this years ago when he’d heard that you could make anyone fall in love with you via a series of intimate questions and four minutes of eye contact; while he sure wasn’t looking for love, he thought they might be onto something with the eye contact.  He was right.

“Argh!” he exclaimed, blinking almost imperceptibly.  “Really, I swear – I’m good at this.”  “Aww,” she said sympathetically.  “How will you ever live this down?”  “Please don’t tell anyone,” he replied.  “My reputation will be ruined.”  She laughed.  He started pulling the line.  “What will you have, then?” he asked.  “I don’t need another drink,” she said – “I just needed a good laugh.”  “In that case, may I suggest we take a walk?  It’s a remarkably nice evening, and I can work on my stand-up routine.”  She hesitated for a moment, but then said, “Why not?  It’s Friday, after all.”  “That it is,” he agreed, and stood up, gesturing toward the door.  “After you, miss,” he said.  He saw her dangling now, shiny and dripping with water – a real beauty.  She smiled at him and walked toward the door, sashaying her hips a bit as she walked.  It worked every time.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

New Year’s Eve

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.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Over My Head

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!”

“You’re glowing!”

“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.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

 

*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.”

 

Winter Wonderland

Alex pushed her front door open, the cold air blowing porch snow in around her ankles.  She banged her Docs against the step to knock the packed snow out of her boots and hurried inside; Jen followed close behind her, wrapping her arms around her lover’s waist.  They were flushed from one too many cocktails, from stumbling home over half-shoveled sidewalks, from the conversation they’d had on the way.

It was Jen who’d seen her first.  Who had watched her, gliding like an angel toward a pool table, the yellow bar lights swimming around her closely-cropped honey hair adding to the effect.  She stared at the woman’s shoulders, pulled back in confidence – her smile, gleaming and glorious – the ease with which she pushed the cue stick through her hooked index finger as she bent over the green felt, a bit of cleavage poking out of a tight white button-down shirt.  After a minute of trying to get Jen’s attention and being unsuccessful, Alex had followed her gaze over to the beautiful stranger, now shaking hands with the loser of the game.  She leaned into Jen’s ear and whispered, “She’s a looker, huh?”  Jen, still in her reverie, just replied with an “Mmm.”  Their stare lingered a minute longer before Alex said, “Babe? She’s fine as hell, but now we’re just being creepy.”  That was enough to get Jen to laugh and break the spell.  Jen turned toward Alex, cupped her face, and kissed her full on the lips, trailing a hand down between Alex’s breasts.  “Let’s go home,” she said.

On the walk home, past lit-up duplexes and technically-illegal-but-still-used parking chairs, Jen dropped the question into the snowy silence around them: “So hey, babe.  Have you ever wondered what it would be like to have a threesome?  I mean… just wondered, you know?” Alex smiled.  “You mean with someone like the woman you were just stalking?” she asked.  “Well – yeah,” replied Jen.  “I mean, she was hot, right?  What would you think about bringing someone else in just for a night?  Just to see what it was like?”  “I think that I’d like to think about it,” replied Alex.  “For now, let’s just focus on getting home!”  The wind swirled and howled around them, flinging flurries this way and that.  They quickened their pace.

Once they were in, coats, hats, mittens, and scarves lying on a pile on the couch, Alex turned on her electric fireplace; they put a few blankets and pillows on the floor and lay down in front of it, snuggling close together to get warm.  After a couple of minutes of staring into the electric blaze, Alex brought up their prior conversation.  “So – if we were to have this hypothetical threesome, what would you want it to look like?”  Jen felt her pulse quicken and her cunt warm.  She turned to look at Alex.  “You mean, what would I want to happen?”  “Yeah,” replied Al.  “What would you want to do with her?  With me?  Would you want to watch, or be watched?  How involved would you want her to be?”

“Hypothetically?” Jen asked.  Alex nodded.  “I’d want you to direct the scene.  I’d want to start out with the two of you taking my clothes off, then you telling her what you want to see.”  “And what do I want to see?” Alex asked with a mischievous grin.  “You want to see her warm me up.  You want to see her lap at my nipples until I’m begging to have the rest of my body touched.  You want to see her caress my inner thighs, teasing me until there’s a stream of fluid running down my pussy because I’m so turned on.  You want to see her graze my outer labia, making my heart pound, and then lick my clit just once so I’m trembling all over – and then you kiss her so you can taste me on her tongue.”   

“Like this?” Alex asked, pulling Jen’s leggings and boy shorts down, spreading her legs just enough, and lapping once over the inside of Jen’s labia and up over her clit before kissing her.  She loved the lemondrop taste of Jen’s cunt.  Jen closed her eyes and breathed shallow breaths, letting her body take over.  She continued talking as Alex continued to taste her: “You lick me slowly and steadily until I come in your mouth, and then you tell her that I’m hers to fuck; she leaves on a tank top, her nipples hard underneath it, and puts on a leather-harnessed strap-on.  She puts a pillow under my ass and works her cock inside of me, rhythmically pumping; while she’s doing that, you hover over me, kissing her.  Long kisses.  I struggle to crane my neck up enough to run my tongue along you, but you… won…” Jen gasped, groaned, bucked her hips up to Alex’s waiting mouth, and finished – “’t let me.”  She collapsed, hoarse moans escaping her.  “I can feel the heat of your cunt on my face; I can’t reach it with my mouth, so I slide one finger inside, then two.  I run them along my lips, making them sticky with your juices, and suck them clean.  You stand up while I’m shuddering from being fucked and walk around to the back of her, sliding one hand up the front of her shirt to gently pinch her nipple and massage her vulva with the other hand until she’s too close to coming to keep fucking me.”

“Then what?” Alex asked, now sliding her fingers in and out of Jen’s cunt, curving her hand so that her heel would rub against Jen’s clit.  “I told you -” said Jen, a dreamy smile on her face – “you’re directing the scene.”  Alex leaned in and kissed her before whispering, “But you’re the one with the imagination.  Babe, you have the sexiest brain of any girl I know.”  “Thanks, love,” she replied, pulling in Alex for another kiss.  “Let’s talk more realistically about this when we’re sober; for now, I just want to feel you all over me.” “Done,” said Al, pressing her whole weight into Jen, hot now under the blazing light of the fire.

 

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

 

Inspired by the following lyrics from “Winter Wonderland” (which I know isn’t technically a carol, but it popped into my head!):

Later on, we’ll conspire as we dream by the fire

To face unafraid the plans that we made,

Walking in a winter wonderland

Duluth

It was snowing the last time she’d seen Adrian.  She remembered racing him down a street underneath an orange-hued streetlamp, flakes scurrying this way and that from their path, until they were breathless; he pulled her down into a pile of fluff which billowed up in clouds around them.  He held her close, finding it difficult under all their layers of winter gear, but managing.  He could feel her furry parka hood on his cheek as he whispered in her ear that he loved her.  That he would love her until Floridians started wintering in Minnesota – an inside joke.  She started to cry then; he couldn’t see her tears, but he could feel her body shudder.  He kissed her eyelids, tasting salt, his breath warm on her face.

She stood up awkwardly, brushed herself off, and turned toward him.  “You’re going to miss the bus,” she said, looking at her boots.  He got up and walked over to grab her mittened hand; they walked in silence along Superior, the festive downtown Christmas lights mocking her.  She would go back to her family and celebrate Christmas with them, but he had become home for her.  Watching him ascend the stairs of a Minneapolis-bound Greyhound that night, she felt her blood crystallize.  She didn’t think she would ever see him again.

Now she stared out of her front door window, waiting for his car to pull up, feeling lead balls of weight rolling around in her belly.  It had been fifteen years; he’d come home unexpectedly and had looked her up in the phone book, curious to see if she was listed.  Wondering at the fact that phone books were still being delivered at all.  They made plans to meet for coffee, but when her car stalled that morning, she called to ask for a ride.

His rental car pulled up in front of her house – the only car on the street.  Most folks weren’t out now; the roads were bad, and they were experiencing a cold snap.  Taking a deep breath, she opened the door, locked it behind her, and strode quickly through the cold, whipping wind to his car.

With the exception of grey streaks in his hair and a few smile wrinkles, he looked the same.  They both said hello and leaned in for an awkward hug.  She caught a waft of aqua cologne on his neck – the same cologne he had worn when they were in grad school together – and she was transported to his bed, tangled in his sheets, their limbs indistinguishable, pressed against his body which always emitted heat even when the windows were covered in frost.  She could still feel his hands cupping her breasts, his mouth on her thighs, his weight pressing her against the mattress as his body encompassed hers.  They had spent an entire winter hibernating together.  Her labia felt a flood of warmth; she was surprised how quickly a simple scent could have such a strong impact on her body.

“You haven’t changed,” he said to her.  “You were always the most beautiful girl in our classes.”  Her cheeks grew rosy; she searched his eyes.  “And you don’t look a day over forty,” she said, smiling.  Luckily, he laughed.  “How are you?” she asked.  “I’m… coping,” he answered, slowly.  She put her hand over his and said she was sorry to hear about his father.  That she had adored him.  “Your hands are freezing!” he exclaimed, grabbing her hand in both of his and bringing it up to his mouth to breathe steam onto it – an old habit.  “You’re still a radiator,” she said, her heart thudding in her chest.  “And you still burn bright, even on the coldest days.”

He kissed her then, his lips searing hers, finding that she still tasted like cinnamon.  “I’m sorry,” he said, pulling back.  “I don’t kn-…” She interrupted him by sliding her hands from his neck up into his black hair and kissing him back, yearning to kiss the rest of his body, which shook slightly.  “They say it’s too dangerous to drive today,” she said, catching her breath.  “Everything will be ice by tonight; it’s frostbite weather.  Come inside,” she implored.  “I have coffee here.”

“I don’t need coffee to stay warm,” he replied, “but nothing sounds better to me than coming inside.”

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

One Down

Still in a sex haze from a long, giddy night of pot and orgasms that stretched into a morning of devouring all the leftovers in my flat before devouring each other, I lie silent for a minute, listening to the door click behind him as his footsteps run down my stairs outside.  Everything is perfectly still and calm; I can hear birds chirping and see the first rays of sun starting to penetrate the sky.  It’s too early for traffic – and besides, no one would be out on a Sunday morning.  Except him.  Perhaps whistling while he walks; perhaps listening to music.  Definitely thinking about the way I taste.

I reach into my nightstand drawer and pull out a Batman stationery pad, flipping it open to the first page on which I’ve written the beginning of a list:

Double butt plug

Saran wrap fuck

Bound, spread-eagle fuck

Pegging…

The list goes on.  I’d written it after a long conversation we’d had a few weeks prior in which we spent hours talking dirty about the things we wanted to do together.  I had snapped a quick photo of it with my phone, sending it to him as a kind reminder; sure, there were things I had in a mental life-long fucket list of unlikely situations, but he was a rare and beautiful partner: the kind I could suggest any fantasy to, knowing he’d be game.  I wanted to have a special fucket list for us. 

I grab a pen and with a steady hand cross off the phrase “good ol’-fashioned anal” before ripping the sheet of paper out of the pad and neatly folding it into its own envelope.  I write his address on the cover and put it aside for the moment, relishing the memory of sitting on top of him in the dark, his breathing shallow and yearning, as I lowered myself slowly onto his cock. I had slid back up almost immediately for more lube; once that was in place, delightfully messy and slippery, I found it much easier to slip him inside of me.  I could feel every throbbing vein on his cock against my tight muscles; I turned on a wand and sat on him, telling him to hold still while I brought myself to climax.  Once I’d come, my whole body relaxed, and I could start gliding along his cock – back and forth until I felt comfortable.  Until I wanted it deeper.  Until I came again, my whole pelvic floor contracting against him – which is when he lost it, moaning a guttural moan I’d never heard before. One of desperate release drawn out of him like a spirit.

My hunger not quite satisfied, I roll out of bed, throw on some sweats, and settle on grabbing a bagel down the street.  I clip our list onto the mailbox on my way out the door for the mail carrier to pick up the next day and giggle at the thought of her opening it or trying to use the light to see what’s inside.  On the way, I hear dull church bells ring in the distance, and once again I think of him; I hope he’s made it on time.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked