Echo

It was one of those nights when the city sweltered.  When drops of sweat ran down glasses and dogs would lie in front of cars rather than get up and move.  My roommate and I had just run out of Modelo, and I drew the short straw.  Coming in from the fire escape produced pearls of sticky perspiration that would soon be pasted to the tank top I threw on.  He tossed me the keys as I lumbered toward the door, dreading the two-block walk to the bodega.

I never got used to being in the stairwell of our building. Being in there alone – the utter silence punctuated by rare echoes of slamming doors, the unsettling atmosphere of automatic lights that didn’t always function – kind of unnerved me.  When I turned the first corner and failed to be assaulted by a sudden flash of dull yellow, I assumed that the light was broken.  The second corner of darkness made me think otherwise.  You may find this ridiculous, but when I heard the door open two flights up, my first thought was that a serial killer had cut the lights and was coming for me.

Stairs Stairwell Dark Stairway Steps Stair

Shoving this notion aside, I shouted up, “Careful!  A couple of the lights down here aren’t working.”  “None of them are,” came back a cheerful, semi-familiar voice.  “There’s a city-wide blackout.”  Ah.  Perfect timing.  I stood still and listened to the rapid patter of her light footfalls tripping down the rigid, worn surfaces of each stair.  She stopped on the landing above me.  “Where you headed?” she asked.  “Was headed to the store to buy beer, but who knows if they’ll be open,” I replied.  “Oh,” she said, coming down to meet my voice.  “The blackout might not last for long.  They usually don’t.”  She felt around in the darkness until her fingers grazed my forearm.

“How is your skin so cool?” I asked, awed by how refreshing her grip felt on my melting skin.  “I’m always cold,” she replied with a shy laugh.  “I like how hot you are.”  She drew closer to me; I could feel her other hand an inch from my torso.  “It’s like waves of heat just radiate off you,” she said.  The sheer fabric covering her breasts brushed my arm as she moved even closer; I could feel my cock start to stir under my shorts.  “It is literally 95 degrees,” I said, not daring to move.

“If you’re so hot,” she continued in a silky wolf voice, “Why are you still wearing clothes?”  “I – I mean, I was planning on going outside,” I stammered.  “Stay awhile,” she directed.  The smell of oranges drifted from her lips as she raised onto her toes to find mine.  She felt like buttercream.  Not just her mouth – her everything.  I relaxed as she slid her hands around my waist and her tongue between my parted lips.  I swung her around so her back was against the wall and lifted the skirt of her sundress, dropping to my knees, preparing to slide her panties down – but finding none.  “If you’re so cold,” I said, “Why aren’t you wearing more clothes?”  “It’s the only part of me that’s hot,” she replied.

She was right.  Her labia warmed my tongue; my moist breath floated around her lips as I circled her clit.  She grabbed the back of my head and eagerly held it in place while I lapped at her, her cream smearing my chin.  “Hold on,” she said suddenly, pushing me back and dropping down to grope around the stairs for her purse.  “Ah, gold!” she exclaimed upon finding a condom.  She dragged my shorts down, and my cock sprung out to meet her waiting hands; she took me into her mouth for a wondrous minute before tearing the wrapper open and rolling the condom on me.

She faced the railing and leaned over it; just as I started to slide inside of her (god, that first thrust is always so glorious), we heard a door open above and heavy footsteps start to proceed down the stairs.  I put my hand over her mouth, picked her up, and backed up into the corner.  We stood there silently until the other tenant was out the ground level door.  I pushed her against the wall and gripped her hips as she pushed back onto my dick in long, even strokes, both of us panting and sticky as hot buns.  Her stifled groans echoed throughout the sealed stairwell; I cupped her breasts and steadied her as she rocked back and forth against me while touching herself.  Finally, exhausted and soaking, she tiptoed up and off me, turning to face me.

“You didn’t come,” she said.  I leaned in to kiss her; her cheeks burned, and her hair was plastered to her face.  “Sometimes it takes me a while,” I said sheepishly.  “You feel amazing.”  “Come see me after you get that beer,” she said, squatting down to feel for her purse.  “7C.”  With that, she leapt down the steps into the darkness, rendering me no longer unnerved by the empty stairwell and its echoes.

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

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Pursuit of Horniness

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!).

Chocolate, Chips, Cookie, Sweets, Pastry

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.

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

 

 

Image taken from Pixabay (StockSnap)

Work in Progress

I love butt stuff.  Plugs, fingers, vibrating plugs, rimming, beads, plugs of various shapes and sizes, pegging, and – have I mentioned plugs?  I love them.  That said – anal sex isn’t really my thing.

Having a partner slide a finger into my ass while licking my puss?  Definitely my thing, and my clitoral orgasms are so much more intense when combined with anal stimulation.  I often incorporate beads and plugs when I wank, especially to tip me over the edge.  Riding a partner’s dick with a vibrating butt plug in so he can feel the vibrations through my vaginal wall?  Absofuckinglutely.  I often fantasize about double penetration – sitting on a dick reverse cowgirl style and lying back on that gent while having another fuck me missionary style while other people watch.  Giving languid analingus at the end of a long body massage makes me drip, and putting on a strap-on, making it goopy and slick with lube, and sliding it into a wriggling ass that can’t wait to be penetrated, only to hear a deep groan of satisfaction, makes my heart pound.  PIA, though?  That I could take or leave.

Then again – maybe I just haven’t given it a fair shot.  The first time I tried anal was in uni; we lubed up, used fingers first as a warm up, and… it was good.  Not great, but good.  The second time we tried I really got into it.  Then one night my boyfriend was pounding me hard from behind and his dick accidentally slipped into my ass (yes, this really does happen); it hurt so bad that I didn’t want to try anal with him again.  I tried with another partner a year later, and then didn’t do it again until a decade later when I started dating The Texan, and then only once.  I think that part of it is that I’ve gone on dates and had one-night stands with a lot of men who want to fuck me in the ass, but would never in a million years allow themselves to be pegged – and that just doesn’t sit right with me.  If someone expects me to take their cock in my rectum but won’t even try a finger in theirs to see what it feels like, they’re probably out the door.

Anal sex is not a casual sex activity for me.  It’s something I’ve only ever wanted to do in relationships in which I feel I can really trust my partner to pull back, slow down, or stop if I feel uncomfortable – so maybe now is a good time to give it another try.  A noble goal for 2018.  The Engineer and I are keen (but he also has quite a sizable cock, which makes me a bit nervous), and it’s something we talk about doing often; I’ll make working up to it a goal for our next visit.  “Let’s go home so you can put it in my butt” would probably make a welcome airport greeting, don’t you think?

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.

Tequila, Drink, Beverage, Bar

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.

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

**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.

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

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

The Basics

I know within a few minutes of meeting someone whether or not I want to fuck them. Something in their smile or their posture or the way they greet me either gives me a boner, or it doesn’t.  I usually need to hear a hello or a few words to warm me to the idea of being intimate with someone – but when The Engineer walked into our dorm room in Rwanda, one glance was all it took.  I’d been restlessly horny all day, and I thanked the universe for dropping a tall, handsome man conveniently into my room.

We were the only two in a twelve-bed dorm; he asked if I wanted to join him for dinner, and I fantasized about him in the shower beforehand, sliding fingers through my slippery folds. When, after two beers, he asked if I’d like another, I said, “No, and I don’t think you should have one, either – I think we should fuck first and then have another.” The bed creaked and banged against the wall as I rode him; I’m 100% sure the entire hostel staff heard my moans and whimpers, and I didn’t care. We went back out and had a celebratory beer before bed while chatting about our travels.

It was supposed to be a one-night stand.  He was supposed to go off on a hike the next day… but he stayed.  We spent the day walking along Lake Kivu, coming back to the hostel to fuck in the shower and on a bunk bed ladder (great for the height difference!), then changed rooms and fucked in the bay window, in the bathtub, on the huge bed.  We slept next to each other, waking up early to have sex one more time before I walked to the Congolese border.

I came back to our guesthouse in Rwanda three days later, then shortly took off for another hike the day he was returning from one; he stayed.  When I returned, he was sitting in the common area; he didn’t expect to see me, so when I ran in and flung myself into his arms, it took us an hour to get off the couch.  We went to Kigali together and spent four days mostly eating, drinking wine, and exploring each other’s bodies instead of the city (corporal tourism?).

He took me to the airport at midnight, and it was a hard goodbye; when you develop feelings for someone while in a novel or challenging situation, the feelings can be pretty intense.  We stayed in touch every day after that; when I messaged him asking him to come to Barcelona in July, he said that July was too far away and he wanted to see me sooner… and then proceeded to spend four days traveling overland by boat, bus, and minivan from Zanzibar to the southern end of Lake Malawi, where we spent a week on the beach, drinking cocktails, swimming, fucking like field mice, and being super handsy in public.  By the end of that week, after telling folks in the guesthouse that we were on our honeymoon (it sure felt like it), I was in deep.  We both were.

He took me to the airport again in Lilongwe, and the goodbye was much harder, even though I was sure we weren’t done seeing each other – and we weren’t. He called me when I was in Spain to tell me he was coming to Ireland with me at the tail end of my trip.  He flew over his home to travel with me in a country he’d never been to, even though he was homesick. He met me at the airport with roses; we rented a car and spent eleven days driving through the countryside, staying in bed and breakfasts, cooking for each other, listening to amazing live music, and playing.  We dropped the L word on day five after walking along the Cliffs of Mohor, and when we parted, he gave me a framed photo of us that he’d taken with his phone on the second day we’d been together back in Rwanda.

I’m not someone who believes in fate.  I don’t believe in soulmates, and I certainly don’t believe in The One. But I do feel pretty lucky that we happened to be in the same place at the same time.  Being with him is so easy; I feel emotional security AND physical lust at the same time, which is strange and wonderful.  I feel prioritized, valued, and deeply cared for, and that’s something I haven’t experienced since the last time I lived in the US.  This is good.  It’s really good.  And it’s not over yet – not by a long shot.

Gratuitous sex stories to come!

El Nido

Last post before I depart!  I thought a travel sex story would be fitting.

I’m not someone who loves Valentine’s Day, nor am I one who scorns it.  For me, it just comes and goes like the tides.  There is one Valentine’s Day, however, that is forever etched into my memory, and thinking about that particular day will always make me smile.

Two years ago, I was travelling in the Philippines; I was sitting at a bar my first night on Cebu, and I started talking to the gentleman next to me.  Our conversation flowed so easily that it felt like we’d known each other for years; we skipped the small talk and jumped right into deep conversation about our travels, life philosophies, families.  We laughed and talked for hours, then agreed to meet the next night.  I arrived that night with a huge group and dragged him from the bar to our table… then proceeded to ignore all the people I came with to talk to him.  I felt so drawn to him – to his laugh, his easygoing nature, his penetrating questions and openness (maaayyyybe to his extraordinary body as well).

We met again the following night – same place, same time – and as we were chatting on a porch underneath a full moon, a photographer asked if he could take pictures of us “while we were flirting and the sparks were flying.” Yes, of course, we said, laughing.  As he walked away, I put my hand on Neil’s leg and said, “Just so you know, I am flirting with you.”  He smiled nervously and we continued to talk until I absolutely had to go.  He walked me out; we were both planning on heading to another island around the same time, so I asked him to come north to meet me when he got there.  Sadly, he said, he was heading south, but he’d keep in touch and maybe we could meet up for a day before I left.  I grabbed his hand, leaned into his ear and tipsy-whispered, “No – you need to come up north so I can fuck you.”  He kissed me lightly on the lips and said he’d try to make it.  We said our goodbyes; I didn’t sleep a wink that night thinking about how his strong hands would feel running down the length of my body.

Fast forward a week and a half.  I have just arrived in El Nido; I’m walking back to my hotel, and who should cross my path but the one person I’ve been wanting to see this whole time?  We hug, we laugh, we beam at each other.  He tells me that he was warned not to go south because there was political turbulence, so instead he came north, hoping to run into me.  Looks like the stars aligned!  That night, we had dinner on the beach, the surf literally touching our toes.  We ate freshly-caught fish and drank fifty cent beers by candlelight and talked like children do when they have a secret language.  The wait staff finally had to tell us that we had to leave – they were closing.  We looked behind us to see that they had taken all the other tables and chairs off the beach and we hadn’t even noticed.  I looked him in his clear, blue eyes and asked if he were going to take me home with him some night that week; he asked what I thought about tonight?  I kissed him in response, and we walked uphill to his hotel, me in bare feet.  We got a bit lost along the way – the good kind of lost.

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We spent the next three days going on adventures (sightseeing, kayaking, snorkeling, making out in secret caves), eating amazing food, and fucking like bunnies.  My last day in El Nido happened to be Valentine’s Day.  That morning, I got a massage, bought a dress (a rarity for me), tweezed and shaved my travel body, and told him to come to mine before dinner.  As an avid fan of Dan Savage, I knew it was best to fuck first – so when he arrived, I was only wearing a sarong, which quickly got flung aside.  Even with the air conditioning on, we were soon covered in a slippery layer of sweat, which we’d earned.  We relished every inch of each other’s bodies and slid all over each other in the heat of the tropics until we were starving and exhausted.

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Time does seem to sprint by when you’re enjoying yourself, so I remember the night in flashes: We’re sitting at an Italian restaurant overlooking the ocean, devouring pizza and sipping on cocktails.  We’re dancing at a club, our bodies jumping and bouncing to pop music along with a packed crowd, rum and cokes in hand.  We’re outside, dancing in the ocean to cool off, spinning and dipping.  We’re sitting on an old, overturned, wooden kayak, making out like teenagers.  He’s facing me toward the ocean and putting his arm around me and asking if I’d ever come back to El Nido – and if he were there, I’d be back in a heartbeat.  We’re walking back to his hotel at 3:00 am to fall into a deep sleep in each other’s arms – but not before taking silly pictures with each other on the balcony. We’re waking up at 6:00 am to the sound of church bells, and I have to go.

I’ve had interesting Valentine’s Days before and since, especially while traveling, but I can’t imagine any topping that night – a night that felt perfect.  A night that capped off a magical movie-like travel romance in an idyllic setting.  A night when the stars aligned.

 

Happy Endings (NSFR)

I

We’re the first ones to arrive at the club; it’s wide open, with tons of couches and tables scattered across a huge, darkly lit room.  There’s a costume closet with a bunch of dresses and shirts and a few toys in it – one small flogger, a long leather paddle, a dildo.  We settle into a “room” adjoining the main area; I’m using quotation marks here because instead of walls, there are just metal bars separating these spaces.  Nowhere to hide.  I was putting off coming here for months because I felt a little shy, but now that I’m here, it feels comfortable.  A little dungeon-y.

Shortly after we open our bottle of Jack and pour ourselves small cocktails (swinger’s clubs in Korea require the purchase of bottle service for entry), we look around more.  I see a large swinging hook hanging from the ceiling; I grab the rope I brought with me and tie myself up to it, asking my playmates to grab that paddle and hit me with it; they gladly oblige.  Soon another couple comes up and asks if they can spank me, too; yes, I say, delighted!  Actually, one of them started fondling me without asking first – a common occurrence at this place.  I had to tell two people (in a language I’m not fluent in) that night to ask before touching.

We’re the first ones to have sex that night; I’m riding him and she’s sitting on his face and she and I are making out, and suddenly I look over to see that everyone in the room is intently staring at us.  It doesn’t bother me because I’m in the sex haze where nothing else matters but my orgasms.  Enjoy, I think, just don’t interrupt me while I’m coming.

II

A beautiful young woman comes over to play at some point while I’m being fucked from behind with a strap-on by the woman I came with (her first time using one!); the owner had whispered to us when we first saw her that she was a lesbian and wanted to play with women.  Whispered it because same-sex play is relatively uncommon in Korean clubs.

She looks like a real doll.  Like a straight man’s fantasy.  Perfect skin, fake breasts on a tiny frame, false eyelashes, long hair.  She’d come with a much older man but wasn’t really playing with him; he followed her everywhere she went, but I didn’t see him interacting with another person until the end of the night, when most people were drunk.

I was already on my hands and knees; she asked my friend if she could play, which got relayed to me; I answered with a resounding yes.  She kneeled behind me and started licking me.  At some point she started rimming me; afraid she would start licking my vulva again afterward, I stopped her (I’d already had to explain to the friend I came with that you can’t do that; she had no idea!) and asked her to lie on her back.  I started sliding my hand up and down her labia, smiling at her, before sliding a finger inside and asking her which spot she preferred I concentrate on.  I eventually worked up to three fingers, pushing into her G-spot with a steady rhythm; I suddenly felt a rush of liquid gushing into my hand.  I looked more closely and saw that the tissues around her urethra were so engorged that it looked like the head of a penis!  I stopped momentarily, a bit shocked, and everyone around me shouted, “No, keep going!”  Soon there was a flood pouring out of her and onto the floor around her, jets of ejaculate flying onto my dress. It. Was. Amazing.  It was my first time seeing a woman ejaculate, and it truly felt like a miracle!  I high fived her as my friends went to grab a sheet to mop everything up.  “Kiss me,” she said in a small voice, and not being one to deny someone so lovely, I leaned in and brushed my lips on hers.  They felt like petals.

III

I start fucking this guy, straddling him, and I keep trying to take his shirt off; he keeps pushing it down.  When I take my dress off to reveal a completely nude Jo, I hear an audible gasp from several people in the room.  I look around, and everyone – even mid-orgy – is wearing a shirt of some kind.  Mostly button-down men’s shirts.  Doesn’t quite seem the place to be modest, I think, but I come from a completely different culture.  What do I know?

IV

Because one of the friends I came with is a marine and there’s a military curfew, we have to stay out ‘til 5:00 AM.  Around 3:30, I feel totally exhausted and just want to go – until a Danish woman and French man come over and sit with us.  They’re coworkers.  Not sure how the lifestyle came up in work conversation!  I tie her up and we take turns spanking her; I take her down and she hops onto her coworker.  It’s so hot it makes my jaw drop – he’s holding her up, his back against a wall, bouncing her on his dick.  I teach the marine how to tie a dragonfly harness; he ties me up, grabs a spreader bar upon my request, and locks my ankles into it.  The Europeans are taking a break, so I look over at the French guy and ask politely if he’ll bend me over and fuck me while I suck the marine’s cock; he gladly does.  It’s hard to get into a rhythm, but I’m having the time of my life being pushed back and forth by two dicks, precariously balanced.  While this is happening, the woman I came with starts spanking me, and the Danish woman whispers in my ear, “You’re such a good English teacher!  You take his cock so well!”  I come in waves, pleasure undulating through my body, satiated with the rapture of having a long-standing desire fulfilled.

I just think: Thank gods for the military curfew.  We eventually clean up and leave at 5:00 to get pho across the street, drained and content and maybe a little sore, looking forward to a long morning of deep sleep.