Dirty

This one is for you, my nest.

 

I come home one day to find you out back in the garden; you’d come home from a long day at work, ready to relax, only to remember that you’ve got a ton of stuff to take to the tip, and it has to go in the morning – so you’d better load up the car tonight.  By the time I get home, you’ve spent an hour carrying armfuls of heavy rubbish; you’re sweaty, dirty, and sore.  I float in, cool as a breeze after having been in an air conditioned office all day, to see your back muscles flex as you pick up the last load.  You turn around, look me in the eye, and drop it where you stand.

I chuckle.  “Long day, lo-?” I start asking, but before the words are out of my mouth, your lips are pressed against it and you’re clutching me with soil-crusted fingernails, not giving a shit if you leave streaks on my pale peach blouse.

You are ravenous.

You charge, forcing me to the trellis against the back wall of our building – the one with the overflowing plum-colored bougainvillea – and crush the flowers with my back as my purse slides down my arm and slips to the ground.  “Stay,” you order me, as you rummage for something among pots, tools, and patio furniture.  You find a length of twine underneath a pair of gloves and swiftly tie my wrists together like a boatswain before attaching them to the trellis above my head.

You unbutton my blouse and shove the top of my undershirt under my tits, letting them spill out so you can apply vacuum pressure to my nipples; I’m so taken with surprise that it’s a few minutes before I realize that the neighbors could see this.  All of them.  The thought of it makes my cunt burn.  I want to get on my knees in the earth and take you in my mouth, only I can’t.

As soon as I think it, your belt is unbuckled and your cock is out, popping up from behind the confines of your jeans.  Watching you stroke yourself and not being able to touch you is torture and rapture.  You reach under my skirt and move my knickers to the side so you can gather up my nectar with your fingers to use as lube to stroke yourself with.  I watch you take the flowing juices from my body and use them as your own, wanting to tell you that it’s not fair – if you’re going to smear them on your dick, do it by sliding into me – but I don’t.  Instead, I watch wide-eyed, heart thudding, as you continue to wank with fervor.

Suddenly you stop.  You press your mouth to my ear and whisper, “Do you want my cock inside of you?”  I choke back saliva, and before I can answer, you’re on your knees, yanking my knickers all the way down and my skirt all the way up.  “Well done, love,” you say, taking a hooked finger and drawing silky webs away from my thighs.  I whimper.

You draw up a chair, tell me to spread my legs as wide as I can, and continue wanking.  Deep into your reverie, you stand up and leave me alone outside for a minute, exposed for all the world to see; you come back, work a large dildo into my cunt, and tell me to clamp my legs.  You sit back down and watch me intently while stroking yourself until your pleasure forces you to close your eyes halfway; I try to clench the dildo hard enough to make myself come, but I’m not quite there.  Perhaps you take pity on me seeing me strain – or perhaps you just want to fuck me.  In any case, you stride over, take me down from the trellis, and lead me in by the twine, assuring me that the best is yet to come.

Hooked

The very first thing out of every mouth of every friend of mine here in the States to whom I tell I’m dating an Englishman is, “Ooh – does he have a sexy accent?”*  I often tell friends from Ireland and the UK that the whole bit in Love, Actually about a young Brit coming to the US to get laid is realistic.  They think I’m joking, but there are soooooo many Statesiders who become instantly aroused upon hearing a British accent – even when the word snog is used (that word crawls under my skin like the word “moist” does for some people).

I was never one of these people.  I’ve slept with people from many states and countries with many accents and was never particularly drawn to any specific one… until Banger.  It’s funny how a pattern of arousal can develop because of a strong emotional attachment.  Sometimes, you see someone who looks like an ex, and you immediately want to fuck them.  Or you hear a song that brings you back to a hot encounter, and the first person you see becomes much more attractive.  Or you develop a kink with a partner and every time you meet someone associated with that kink, you feel yourself swell a bit.

Until this guy, I thought English accents were lovely, but not particularly arousing.  But after he left, his voice stayed with me.  I could hear it drifting around my head for months, an echoing will-o-the-wisp.  Being in London last summer was jarring at times; I’d hear someone say something exactly in the manner in which he would say it, and I’d swear it was him, only to turn my head and find out that his way of saying that word or phrase was just common in London.

The sex we had was so exquisite that British accents became an element of my schema of lust – a piece of unexpected kindling.

—

While I didn’t have an attraction to accents for the longest time, I’ve always had an attraction to languages.  When someone speaks to me in another language, especially if they’re fluent in two or more languages (and especially if I have no idea what they’re saying), I feel weak in the knees.  This has everything to do with being a sapiosexual and not much to do with any particular language.  I know this because it doesn’t have to be a foreign language; it can just be a jargon specific to a vocation or field of knowledge with which I am unfamiliar.  When someone starts talking about string theory or calculus or speaks in legalese or medical jargon, it has the exact same effect on me.  I just love a person who loves to learn and knows their shit!  That’s sexy.

 

 

 

*Yes.  Yes, he does.

 

Don’t Move

“Don’t make a sound, and don’t move” said The Texan as he covered my mouth.  He had been fondling me; feeling my nipples stiffen underneath my tank top and hearing my breath start to beat staccato, he must have known that I was awake.  His hard cock pressed into my back, and I ground my ass back against it, making the smallest nodding motion with my head.  Spooned close to me, he slid his right hand down the back of my blue lace knickers and breathed heavily into my hair when he felt how gushingly wet I was.  He pushed my panties down with that hand and rubbed my juices around my vulva, then smeared the rest on his cock before sliding it through my thighs and along my labia, teasing me.  My body tensed; I longed to whimper, to beg, but all I could do was gyrate and dig my fingers into his leg, willing him to penetrate me.

My body quivering, I tightened my muscles and remained as still as I could on my side as he pushed the head of his cock past my opening, pulled it back out a bit to wet it, and drove back in, little by little, until I could feel the ridge of his foreskin riding along my anterior wall.  I pressed back against him and angled my arm back to hold onto his ass, and he thrust into me in subtle movements – enough for both of us to feel the electricity pass between us, but not enough to shake the bed with any discernible noise.  Certainly not with the gusto we were used to fucking with.  Afraid to roll forward onto his sleeping wife, I held my breath, bit my lip, gripped him with the intensity of a rock climber, and came silently in ripples of intense pleasure.  Not long after, he gushed into me, pulling my body tight against his, and bit my shoulder just the way I liked.  He pulled out, leaving a trail of his come along my ass, and pulled my panties up.  “I want you to sleep like this,” he whispered, and cupped my crotch with his hand.  His spunk squirted onto the inside of my knickers; it was so uncomfortable and SO arousing.

I lay there until I couldn’t stand the squishy feeling anymore; getting up to wipe myself, I disturbed his wife, who wanted us to move around so she could cuddle him.  He moved into the middle, and I took one side.  We were all still drunk from several bottles of wine, so falling back into a deep sleep was easy; I remained so for a few more hours, until I awoke to feel him masterfully stroking my thighs.  I turned over to kiss him and stroke his cock – long, deep kisses, long, slow strokes.  I desperately wanted him inside me again; I had never felt so insatiable.  I knew he was feeling the same when he put a finger to my lips.  This time, the expression in his eyes was all it took to tell me not to move, and I understood.  Without a word, I turned back over, and tracing a finger down my back, he yanked my panties down.  We started all over again.

This had been sitting in my drafts waiting to be published for aaaaages; this week’s Wicked Wednesday prompt “Continue” seemed like a good fit for it.  Also… it’s my 300th post!  Woohoo!

Trust

A few months ago, I wrote a piece on blindfolds for KOTW; when I talked to The Engineer about this, he mentioned that while he loves blindfolding me, he wasn’t really into being blindfolded.  He’s a bit claustrophobic, so I think sensory deprivation and bondage generally aren’t comfortable for him.  But then he said: “If you want to blindfold me, you can.  I trust you.”  My heart melted.

Fast forward to his recent visit; I was giving him a long body massage next to the fire one night, and inspiration struck.  I asked him to turn over to his back; I grabbed my new furry blindfold and asked gently if I could put it on.  The atmosphere was relaxed – candles, soft music, wine, warm and loving hands.  I started out by touching his legs, arms, and stomach, and then moved onto his cock – hard as a rock – taking it alternately into my mouth as far as I could and then back into my hands, stroking it and running my tongue along its length.  I sidled my body up his oiled body so that I could kiss him.  Being kissed (especially a deep, sensual kiss) while blindfolded is a singular experience.  It feels so intimate and electric because the sense of touch is heightened.  All of the other senses are heightened.  An ecstatic whimper emerged from his throat, and it was a beautiful sound to behold.

Roused by my memories of Sex and Lucia (if you haven’t seen this movie, stop reading right now and go watch it), I wet a finger and traced it along his lips; I dipped one nipple between his parted lips, followed by the other, which he relished.  I raised myself so I could kneel over his face and gently lower my clit onto his waiting tongue; I’m sure the pressure of my knees against his ears and the resulting lack of sound added to his expanded tactile experience.  He lapped at my swollen vulva, sticky with webs of viscous juices, until I needed him inside of me.  I straddled his cock and slid him into my longing cunt.  Usually the first contact is the most exquisite; especially so in this case.  While riding him, I took off the blindfold and kissed him.  We ended up having some of the best sex we’ve ever had – I felt so deeply entwined with him and completely present in the moment; he told me later that he felt the same.

Sometimes experimentation goes awry; however, sometimes it opens us up to new and exhilarating feelings and experiences.  If you have a partner you deeply trust, try something new with them that you never thought you would like.  You may end up having a pretty fucking great night.

Code

“You ever driven a pontoon before?” asked the man with the faded Sox baseball cap, glaring at Kurt through the unforgiving sun.  “I’ve never been on a pontoon before,” Kurt responded.  The man laughed.  His teeth glowed in the white summer light, unusually hot for early June.  “Well,” he said in response, his breath sucking in, “She don’t move very fast, but she’ll get you where you need to go.  If you don’t mind me asking – why are you taking lessons?”  “I’m going to be in charge of the lakefront at a camp this summer, and we have a fishing pontoon,” Kurt responded, looking out at the shining white poles bobbing all around him.

“You fish?” asked the man, chucking softly.  “I don’t,” said Kurt – “Guess I’ll have to learn how to do that, too.”  That got a much bigger laugh out of the deeply suntanned man, who thrust his calloused hand toward Kurt.  “Fred,” he proclaimed, grabbing Kurt’s unexpecting hand in his.  Kurt, startled, tried to match Fred’s enthusiasm, but found himself shook.

“I’ll show you how to get her out of the harbor; taking her out’s pretty easy.  Getting her back in is a real bitch sometimes, though,” he said without a wink, staring steadily at Kurt.  “I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

He did; Kurt eased the boat out gracefully enough straight back into the water.  Once they were out and had space around them, he started to relax and enjoy himself, getting the boat up to a whopping twenty miles per hour.  They cracked jokes about the speed; once in the middle of clear deep blue, he cut the engine as per Fred’s request.  They cracked open a couple of beers; suddenly Kurt realized there was no bathroom on board.  “Strange question,” he said, cocking his head.  “Where do I take a piss?”  “Where else?” asked Fred, looking at Kurt like he was a Republican in Berkeley.  “Out there.”  Of course, Kurt thought. Why would I even ask?

He walked to the short railing and looked around cautiously, but there were no other boats in sight.  He opened his fly, pulled out his cock, and held it lazily as a rushing stream of urine propelled itself out of his body.  Feeling relief, he glanced over his shoulder and noticed out of the corner of his eye that Fred seemed to be watching intently.  His mind flashed briefly to the yellow hanky he’d seen poking out of Fred’s right jeans pocket; he’d just assumed it was a regular bandana.  But maybe…

He turned around to face Fred squarely; judging by the bulge in his jeans, the hanky was no accident.  “Huh,” he said, much more loudly than he’d intended.  He opened his mouth, then closed it again like a guppy, not quite sure what to say.  No need; Fred was the first to speak.  “Do you, uh – mind if I lay out a bit while we’re out here?”  Before Kurt could answer, Fred’s tank top and jeans were off.  “You go commando every day?” Kurt asked, smiling, taking his own shirt off and visibly appreciating Fred’s thick, sprung cock.  “Just about,” Fred answered nonchalantly.  “’s more comfortable, enit?”  “Sometimes,” said Kurt, lying next to Fred on a blanket Fred had thrown onto the deck.

“Nice being out here in the quiet,” he continued.  “No one watching you.”  “Indeed it is,” Fred agreed.  “So,” said Kurt, flashing Fred a wicked grin and sliding his shorts down over his hairy legs.  “Got any more beer?”  Fred’s dick popped up of its own volition at the very suggestion.  “I’ll take that as a yes,” Kurt said, reaching to cup his balls with one hand while finishing his beer with the other.  He wouldn’t be worried about getting her back in for a while.

Foundation

Although I don’t remember the first time someone put my toes in their mouth (it might have been the boss I had a brief affair with when I was nineteen…?), I do know that I’m forever grateful – it’s something I’ve wanted from every partner since.  There are people who are really freaked out by feet because of their smell or their aesthetic, but I find them to be absolutely beautiful.  Some people who are into feet like their own touched or licked; others like to fondle or worship other people’s feet.  As for me – it’s all the feet all the time.

I wouldn’t consider myself to have a foot fetish per se since I don’t need to touch, see, or think about feet to get off; I just love looking at and touching feet and having mine caressed, licked, and beaten.  I once even had the soles of my feet pierced just for the craic!  I couldn’t dance for a few days afterward, but it was an interesting sensation.  It’s always such a delight telling a new play partner that I like having the bottoms of my feet lightly caned and flogged.  If I’m really into someone and generally like their smell, I love smelling their feet, too, and have never been grossed out by sock lint between toes or football-induced blood blisters*.  I stare a bit too long at high arches and relish the feeling of big, strong hands wrapped around my feet.

There was a time long ago when I was hosting someone from out of state for a dance exchange; he was giving me a massage and started rubbing my feet.  “Oh, no you don’t,” I said – “If you touch my feet, you’re going to have to fuck me.”  I must have taken him by surprise, because he gently let my foot down and told me that he guessed he would have to concentrate on my back.  I was thrilled when I went to visit him months later and, walking upstairs from a wine bar, he pinned me against the wall and whispered into my ear, “I think I’m ready to massage your feet now.”  See?  Intoxicating.

This is why, on the second evening I ever spent with The Engineer, I laughed when he drunkenly suggested sticking a toe in me while we were taking a bath together.  “Go for it!” I said.  “It’s just a toe.”  He did, and it was quite a bonding experience.  Also why I will laugh for ages and ages every time I hear Rachel Lark’s song “Fuck My Toe” (that whole album is fabulous; I highly recommend giving it a listen).  Saying yes to something so small let him know that if he could ask for silly sexy things, then it might be okay to ask for other secret desires to be met down the road.  Kind of like a podiatric litmus test.

All of this is to say that feet are my jam.  My toe jam, as it were.  They are our very foundation.  They ground us, they move us, they carry us up mountains and down canyons and into forests and rivers, and they give us the ability to dance and play and run free.  They connect us to the earth and to each other.  What’s not to worship?

 

 

 

 

*I’m looking at you, honey.

Go Inside

Blindfolds allow me to be immersed in my body.  When I can see someone looking at me – especially a new partner – I feel more pressure to perform pleasure than to experience it.  Don’t get me wrong: There are times I love looking into a partner’s eyes.  When I’m riding The Engineer and have my whole body wrapped around him, then pull back, look him in the eye, and kiss him long and deep, it feels like magic.

But.

There’s something about having a scarf, bandana, or slip of satin suddenly thrown over my eyes that shifts my perspective from pleasure collaborator to receiver of pleasure.  It allows me to fully accept pleasure in a way that I have a more difficult time doing if I can see my partner, especially during oral sex – even better if I’m immobilized.  If the blindfold is used as part of a BDSM scene, it’s a basic show of trust in my top and a testament to whether or not that trust is well-placed (it’s not always; I once had a play partner use a violet wand on me when I was blindfolded without asking first!).  It also lends itself to a much higher level of anticipatory arousal for me if I can’t see what’s going to happen next.

I have a few notable memories involving blindfolds: The first is when my manfriend (I call him this because he was 13 years older than me) grabbed a black silk scarf from his lamp one night, slid it across my breasts, and tied it around my eyes before grabbing my legs and wrapping them around his muscular hips.  The second is the first time I had PIV sex with The Texan (I’ll write about this in detail one day – it was really hot); as I lowered the blindfold over his eyes, I whispered, “I promise I won’t hurt you.”  I wrote about the third memory here.

The Engineer loves blindfolding me as part of our kinky play, and I just bought a brand-new delightfully fuzzy blindfold for us to use.  He’s a bit claustrophobic and has told me before that he doesn’t enjoy being bound or deprived of any senses, but when I told him I was writing this, he said, “I would let you blindfold me.  I trust you.”  I am VERY excited to close off one of his senses and kiss and touch him everywhere.  I think he just might like it more than he thinks he will.

Lake Malawi

I wear a red pencil skirt and a tight black tank top; he says I’m the best-looking woman in the room.  I know it’s not true, but I love him for saying it.  We get drinks and sit back at first, watching all the other vacationing revelers and locals dance together; we aren’t drunk enough yet to join the fray, so we chat quietly to each other while stroking each other’s arms and legs.  A couple of drinks in, I’m feeling better about dancing, so I stand up and stride into the middle of the floor, keenly aware of the fact that he’s watching me move my hips in figure eights and play off of other dancers’ moves.  He stares at me from the bar as I dance with other men, wanting me more than ever.  When I walk over to him and suggest we take a detour to the bathroom, he is so in.  We walk back to where the restrooms are, keeping watch of people coming and going until there’s a lull in traffic, which is when we take the opportunity to dip into the ladies and sneak into a stall.  We put our empty glasses on the back of the toilet; I sit on the lid and unbuckle his belt, eager for what’s underneath.  I unzip his jeans and pull out his semi-erect cock, letting it grow in my warm, moist mouth, making bright red smears on it with my lip gloss.

He slides his fingers into my hair, pulling my head toward him, leaning his own back and closing his eyes with satisfaction as he thrusts in past my lips until he’s rock hard, head tight and glistening with my spit.  In a moment of inspiration, he takes my hands and pulls them up and underneath his belt, then continues to fuck my face in a way I would only let someone do if I really loved them.

I pull back eventually and look up at him, my eyes laughing because the bathroom is now filled with the chatter of drunk 22 year-olds.  I continue stroking him, holding a steady gaze, until we can no longer hear voices.  He zips up and I peek out first before conspiratorially grabbing his hand and tip-toeing back out into the bar.  We continue drinking: beer, shots, cocktails.  At one point we’re at the far corner of the bar – not quite hidden, but not quite out in the open – and he says, “I have something for you.” He unzips and pulls his cock out, then places my hand over it.  “What are you doing?!” I squeak.  “It’s fine,” he slurs. Luckily, everyone else in the room seems to be in the same state we are, so I touch him lightly with my fingertips, trying to block the view with my body.  I’m not as concerned later on in the evening when he pulls one of my legs onto his lap and slides a hand up the inside length of my skirt before slipping a finger under my knickers and into my cunt.  Then I give zero fucks about who can see us.  I tilt my pelvis toward his hand, clenching around his finger.  He laughs and pulls it out before putting it into his mouth to savor my taste.

We leave the bar and walk down the beach toward our guesthouse; there are no lights along the way, so anywhere is good.  We park in front of an overturned canoe; he sits down against the faded wood, drunk enough not to care about having sand all over his bare ass, and I slide a condom down over his surprisingly-erect dick (ah, the beauty of youth) before straddling him and using the strength in my quads and gluts to rise and sink down onto his cock.  I hold his head in my hands and kiss him, my knees stinging from the hard sand, my cunt wanting and wanting and wanting, all charge and sizzle.  A couple of people walk past us on the beach with their phone flashlights on to guide the way; I sit perfectly still for a couple of minutes while they pass, convinced that since I’m wearing a skirt, it’s fiiiiine.  If we don’t move, they can’t see us.  I restart and ride until the sand becomes too much, at which point we stumble 100 meters to our guesthouse and pass out, tangled limbs fitting together like Tetris pieces.

We wake up hungover to a bed covered in sand; we mumble “Morning” to each other with sleepy eyes and knowing smiles, then kiss each other languidly in the blind-striped, mid-morning sunshine.  We gossip about ourselves over a full fry-up and suddenly, I know I’m in deep.  Dangerous waters, maybe – but I’m a diver and I know the risks.  For now, his arms are a buoy, his lips a regulator.  I’m safe.

 

Deep in the Heart

Driving down the 10, Alison held her breath.  She hadn’t seen Jax – now Jack – for at least five years.  They didn’t speak for the first two after their breakup, allowing themselves time to grieve.  Then came a Christmas card, then a catch-up email, and finally a phone call in which they were awash in relief at being able to laugh with relaxed and whole-hearted endearment.

When she diverted to highway 35 after Houston, Alison loosened considerably; the drive along the gulf was gorgeous, and she’d forgotten the raw beauty of rural Texas.  She allowed her mind to wander as she sat in her car on the ferry toward Mustang Island, fondly remembering holidays and morning routines with Jax.  The smell of sandalwood in her hair; the Friendsgiving when they’d accidentally set the kitchen on fire; the way Jax knew the precise moment to slide her fingers in while licking Alison’s clit.  Her ability to make a spanking feel like a reward instead of a punishment.

Still thinking about being bent over Jax’s knee, she started at a knock on the passenger window.  Snapped out of her reverie, she glanced over and inhaled sharply; she might not have recognized him had she seen him in a crowd.  She rolled the window down; Jack leaned gracefully against the sill and said, “Hey – aren’t you my wedding date?”  His radiant smile, now hidden by a shadow of facial hair, was the same.  “Come on in, sailor,” Alison replied; he opened the door and slid inside.  “You look beautiful,” he said.  Alison laughed; she was still in her morning sweats.  Jack, on the other hand, was looking handsome in his fitted suit and tie.  She thought of the last time she saw him wearing a suit – it had been on their last date.  They saw Giselle; afterward, he requested a lap dance in their living room.  She remembered straddling him, pulling his tie between her fingers as she leaned back, letting it fall as she ran her own hands up her breasts.  She rode him on the couch that night, their Feeldoe snug inside him, her cunt smearing the silicone with thick juices and involuntarily pulsing around it.

He snapped his fingers in front of her face.  “You okay?” he asked playfully.  “Great,” she responded, smiling.  “I was walking down memory lane.”  “Oh – I think I’ve been there,” he said. “Right between Regret Road and Amnesia Avenue, right?”  “Right,” she laughed.  This felt easy.  “I’ve missed you,” he said, looking at her with warmth.  “Same,” she said.  As the ferry started nearing the dock, he opened the door and looked back over his shoulder; “See you at the wedding,” he said, and just like that, he was gone.

The day was a blur of sand, ceremony, loving words, champagne.  There were fleeting pangs of sadness as Alison thought about how she’d wanted this with Jax, moments of sentimental longing when their friends exchanged vows, and ebullient exhaustion on the dance floor as Jack spun her around and around.  She’d forgotten how good a lead he was.  As they spent most of the reception catching up with other people, Jack suggested that they take a walk together along the beach to have some time alone.

They talked about work and hobbies; Jack had taken up the guitar and was playing open mics, and Alison had been promoted at the job she’d left San Antonio to take.  “I’m proud of you,” he said, stopping to look at her.  “I know it was a hard decision for you to leave.”  “Jack,” she said, the floodgates being held back by much too thin a membrane, “I’m so sorry.  There have been a million times when I think I should have stayed.”  “We both did what we needed to do in a situation where there was no easy answer,” he said, and grabbed her hand.  It felt reassuring and strong.  His touch gave her an unexpected jolt of desire; her somatic memory took over and her body felt the pads of his fingertips pinching her nipples, his palms separating her thighs.  “My hotel is right here,” he said, motioning up the beach, still holding her hand; “Come in for a drink?”  “I’d love that,” she said, sorrow morphing into stirrings of arousal.

Jack poured shots of tequila – her favorite – and toasted her.  “To your promotion,” he said.  “No,” she replied.  “To your transition – I hope it was everything you hoped for.  You are a very dashing man.”  “Everything and more,” he said.  “I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.”  “Tomorrow?” she asked, flushed.  “If I have things my way, you’ll be waking up here,” he said, and looked at her with questioning eyes.  She tilted her head back, letting the smooth tequila roll down her throat, burning in the best way possible.  She returned his gaze.  “Pour me another shot, and I’ll think about it,” she said, smiling.  “Whatever you say, my little cauliflower,” he answered.  She reacted viscerally to hearing her old nickname spoken by this slightly-deeper but forever familiar voice.  “You – ” she started, unable to complete her thought, her heart racing.  He traced her collarbone with one hand, and her cunt flamed; leaning into her ear, he whispered, “Don’t think too hard.  We’re only here for one night.”

She moved her face to the side, feeling his lips graze her cheek before meeting hers; the feeling of his tongue against hers flooded her with dopamine.  The body continues to react long after the brain struggles to forget, and her wanting overtook everything.  With their breath intertwining and the lingering scent of sandalwood in the air, she settled into her body and let the tension and pleasure build, and build, and build.

**Sometimes when you start writing and think your piece is going to be one thing, it morphs into a completely different thing; this was meant to be much more smutty than it is.  Highly smutty non-fiction about an ex forthcoming!

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.

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…