Sugar in My Bowl

It was nearing midnight; most dancers had already gone home, eager to catch the subway.  I never stayed out this late, but I’d had great dances that night and was feeling a bit giddy.  The music became sultrier, the lights dimmed, and sheer clothes stuck to our bodies in the humid tango studio.

“Wanna dance?” she asked casually, holding out her hand.

“Do you lead?” I asked. “I can’t.”

“Yeah,” she laughed.  “And you can – you’ve just never tried.”

I put my fingers in hers and my hand on her sticky shoulder, and she pulled me into a close embrace.  She smelled like Nag Champa; her wild, tangled hair tickled my face.  I slid my hand farther up so my fingers grazed the back of her neck, and she leaned her cheek downward to meet my hand.  Her spaghetti straps kept slipping down her shoulders; as we rolled our bodies together in time, I pulled them back up for her.

This was different.  I closed my eyes and felt her soft curves press against me, her small hand steady in the middle of my back, gently pushing me into submission with tiny wrist and shoulder movements.  I thought of my mouth on her nipples, her hands in my cunt.  I wanted to lick the sweat from her skin, taste her salt.  My sudden hunger for her gnawed at me as she bent her knees and swung my stockinged leg up her right thigh, sliding her hand up to finger the lace.  Time slowed as she held my leg there and lowered my back toward the ground, her face so close to my breasts that I thought she could see my heart pounding.   Pulling me back up, she put my other hand around her back and placed both of her hands on my hips, moving them in circles.  We breathed heavily into the space between us, then pressed our bodies close together again.  My cunt pulsed with the music, dripped, flamed.

People, Women, Girls, Dancing

When the song ended, we held position, hugged.  The next song started: “She Moves Me” by Muddy Waters.  I glanced over at the DJ; he was staring directly at us, all wolfish grin and starving eyes.  I knew that look, could see the cogs and wheels of desire moving within him.  I leaned into her ear, let my lips brush her lobe. “I think we’re meant to have another go,” I whispered.  She smiled, pulled me back in, and swung her hips like no one was watching.

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

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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.

 

Faithfully

It’s late November; I’m sitting upstairs in a Starbucks reading a long, dry textbook chapter, and Billie Holliday’s version of “All of Me” comes on.  I try to focus on the text, but when I stare down at the page, the black marks swim and crash against each other until I have to close my eyes.  I remember you gliding your hand up my right arm, pressing my palm into the cabin wall while biting my neck.  You reach behind my shoulder with your other hand to untie my bikini string; the top falls from my breasts and you yank it down, taking your left hand off my right and sliding your fingers into my wet hair.  I still feel your muscular arms wrapped around me, picking me up to wrap my legs around you and pressing me harder into the rough wood so you can penetrate me, banging me against the wall with all the force of youth’s desperate wanting.  I try to find something to hang onto, but you tell me you’ve got me; I don’t need to put my hands anywhere but around your neck.  You sink your grip deep into the flesh of my flanks and find a way to get deeper into me, tasting lake algae in my kisses and hearing me whimper into your ear as I come hard onto you, making sure no one outside hears us.  There won’t be campers until the next day, so we spend all night tangled together, listening to Billie Holliday’s love songs on the cabin’s CD player.

_________________________________________________

I’m driving through Death Valley on a long stretch of empty highway, looking around at colorful rock strata and abandoned mines, and “Shameless” by Garth Brooks comes on the radio, crackling because I’m so far out.  I think of another highway in another state; of tall firs and stars.  We’re in your 1981 Ford pickup, and this song – our song – comes on the radio.  You pull over, shut off the engine, and ask me to dance.  With my window rolled down, we can hear the song loud and clear; I have my hand on your shoulder, caressing your neck with my fingertips, and you have your hand in the small of my back; I sigh, feeling connected and safe.  Mid-dance, you reach under my skirt to slide my panties down under my dress and over my flip flops, flinging them through the window.  You return your hand to my back and touch me with the other; still swaying side to side, you take the now-flowing juices from inside of me and lift them up and over my clitoris, clumsily moving your fingers, but still gratifying my easily-satisfied body.  After the song, I hop into the truck bed and offer you my hand; you grin and take it, scrambling up.  I unzip a sleeping bag and put it down, pushing you onto it and laughing.  I take your boots off and unbuckle your belt, then unzip you to find you commando and hard as a rock.  I let my dress straps fall over my shoulders, taking them off as I straddle you, and put on your hat.  I interlace my fingers with yours and sink onto you, giving you my very best cowgirl.  You buck up like a mechanical bull and I stay on for the long ride.  The night is black around us, and I still smell pine sap and distant bonfires.

Moon, Sky, Night, Pine Trees, Silhouette

A band at Coachella sings “Billie Jean,” and I remember sneaking off with you at a Halloween party, finding a dark room where we meant to make out but ended up fucking with abandon on a couch.  We were too greedy for each other to be careful about not being seen or heard.  Too young to be drinking; tipsy with vodka, but soused with oxytocin.

I hear “Ain’t Too Proud to Beg” by the Temptations in the supermarket and am transported to an intense and steady stare in your eyes across a field of running children; I blush, feeling a taut line between us where everything else fades.  I feel a tug on my hand and look down; it’s a seven year-old camper.  “Delivery service!” she squeaks, smiling big with a couple of teeth missing.  I pop the balloon handed to me and take out a piece of paper that reads, “I want to make you come so many times that you beg for mercy.”  I stuff the paper in my pocket and blush deeper, trying to will my nipples to deflate, feeling an uncomfortable and warm gush in my knickers.  “Mercy,” I mouth to you, and you salute me.

At karaoke one night, someone gets up to sing “Faithfully” by Journey.  I deeply inhale and think about the last time we kissed, slow dancing at the Bear’s Den in front of your bros, multi-colored lights flashing around us.  You had a girlfriend, but that had never stopped us on either side.  I listen to the lyrics – “Being apart ain’t easy on this love affair / two strangers learn to fall in love again / I get the joy of rediscovering you / oh girl, you stand by me – I’m forever yours, faithfully” – and reminisce about the promise of love, the consequences of lust, and the fact that there are some people you never stop wanting no matter how much time has passed.

 

 

This piece was inspired by an erotica writing contest over at @EA_unadorned’s site; he came up with a brilliant set of writing prompts based on song lyrics.  Please check out not only the prompt page, but his site in general!

http://exhibitunadorned.com/2017/10/19/erotic-writing-contest-song-lyrics/

 

 

Dancing in Heels

I love watching the hips of someone who can really walk in heels – someone who knows it and owns it.  The swagger that comes with being comfortable walking on what are essentially mini-stilts – the command it gives a person as (s)he sidles across a crowded room – is palpable.  It’s mesmerizing.

The first time I truly recognized the power of heels, I was fifteen.  My closest friend and I dressed up for school one day in matching miniskirts and white vinyl knee high boots; walking the hallways and feeling the weight shift between my legs – feeling my hips switch – from the relatively short height of the heels, I felt powerful.  Feline, almost.  I felt like a young woman.

Fast forward twenty years: I own two pairs of high heels now, and they’re both strictly for dancing!  At some point between being a rebellious teenager who was trying to navigate the murky waters of identity and sexuality and becoming a confident woman who feels happiest when I’m most comfortable, I’ve ditched the heels for sneakers.

When I was working as a switch, I often had to wear heels for work; my clients would request specific colors, heights, or styles.  I’d use them to squish balls, stand taller against the St. Andrew’s cross, or give a strip tease, but I never felt quite comfortable moving in them.  I could put on a show and pretend, but I felt like a fraud – an awkward, clumsy girl who might topple over at any moment.  I always wondered if they could see through me… but likely not.  The illusion of desire and fantasy is strong.

dip hush-hush

Dancing, however, is another story.  A dance instructor once told me that I should start blues dancing in heels; that it would change the way I moved.  That it would change my entire frame of mind.  She was right; once I tried it, I never looked back.  When I’m dancing in heels, I feel graceful, beautiful, balanced, and poised.  I feel sexy as fuck.  I can give smoldering, come-hither eyes to a partner across the dance floor who will then saunter over and put their hand in the small of my back without a word exchanged (this does happen sometimes, and it always feels like magic when it does).  I can spin fast in heels, several times in a row, loving how the silk lining in my skirt rustles against stockings stretched taut against the muscles in my legs.  I can dip and sway in heels, enjoying the attention they draw to my well-toned gams… and I feel most alive, sultry, and fully in my body when I do.

I just can’t walk in the damn things.

I guess that doesn’t matter though, because in the end, I can crawl in them… and I think I look pretty darn good on my knees in nothing but shiny black heels, cuffs, and a collar.

Patience

This crazy thing is happening right now, and it’s pretty wonderful: I’m not having sex.

I’ll let that sink in.

I started unexpectedly seeing someone new a few weeks ago; he’s an acquaintance whom I’ve known for years, but have never particularly felt attracted to.  We were sitting in a bar and chatting one night; I mentioned that I was cold, and he took my hands to warm them.  That felt pretty nice, so I just left my hands in his.   A bit later, when I was telling him how lovely that felt, he kissed me out of the blue – which was shocking, as I’ve always considered this guy to be a little shy and socially awkward.  The kissing was pretty nice, too, so I asked him on a date… and then I asked him to spend the night.

He told me that he was happy to stay there, but he didn’t want to compromise his morals.  See – this guy is religious.  Not in a church-on-Christmas kind of way, but in a bible-study-small-town-Baptist-church kind of way.  I’m barely even spiritual, so… it’s interesting.  Making out with him in my bed and not being able to touch his dick was a glorious kind of torture; I was soaking wet all through the night and really relished that heightened state of arousal that I’m so used to curing with release.  This time, it just built and built and built, and I could feel the sexual energy coursing through my body for hours.

That was two weeks ago.

This guy has spent the night at my house three times, and I haven’t seen him naked, and… it’s been kind of amazing.  He asked me to slow dance in my living room and to walk around to look at Christmas lights.  He takes his hat off when he walks in my door.  He went a half mile out of his way a few days ago so he could walk me home, and he kissed me at midnight on New Year’s Eve (the first time in over ten years I’ve been with a date on NYE).  He’s an old-fashioned romantic and I am LOVING THE FUCK OUT OF IT.

We’re not compatible for a million reasons (God is not a fan of my libido, for one), and I’m leaving the country in six weeks – but for right now, being wanted for my company rather than my cunt feels healing, and being with someone who loves slow dancing is even better.

Groove

We met on the street, sitting on a curb, drinking cans of beer that were sweating as much as we were.  It was Seoul Pride 2013, and we were both waiting for friends to group up post-parade (back when the parade went on as scheduled without a bunch of dickwad protestors either lying down in the streets in front of the floats or trying to block it on permit regulations); she was cracking jokes about the lesbian organization in my city, and I was giving her shit about where she lived.  Soon after we started talking, my friends hollered at me that they were headed to dinner; I said goodbye, smiling at her, never expecting to see her again.    

I was surprised and delighted later that night when, rum and coke in hand, she strode up to me on the dance floor in a Hongdae gay bar, her tall, lean figure bathed in strobe lights.  She had swagger.  She looked down at me, smiled a broad smile, and said, “It’s good to see you here.”  Likewise, I told her.  As we danced, the floor began teeming with undulating bodies, strangers holding each other by the waist, grinding against each other.  I put my drink aside so I could place my hand on the small of her back, eventually sliding it down onto her ass; she had the same idea, but her hand found its way into my back pockets, then into my pants.  She crouched a bit and I stood on my tiptoes to kiss her – a strong kiss, fueled by alcohol-induced confidence.  I snaked my fingers into her dreads and held onto her head, kissing her deeply, wanting more.  She moved her hands up the front of my shirt, cupping my breasts; we moved our bodies in sync to DJ-spun electronic music while exploring each other. 

Forgetting that we were in the middle of a crowd, she slid her right hand down the front of my jeans now, into my silky boy-cut panties, over the soft mound of hair that I’ve come to love and into the folds of my labia, gently moving her fingers forward and backward, dragging my fluids up and over my clit before finally pushing two fingers into me, pressing upward and inward.  I moved my whole body against her hand, begging her not to stop, continuing to move with the music.  She fucked me harder with her fingers, making me gasp and moan into her ear; no one else could hear me.  Perhaps no one else noticed what was going on; even if they had, I wouldn’t have cared.  After I’d come onto her fingers and my body was quivering, she slid out of me, dragging her fingers up my cunt, out of my panties, and around my waist, then kissed me again. 

We went outside for a smoke; I finally asked what her name was (“Excuse me – now that you’ve had your hand inside of me, perhaps you could tell me your name?”), and we had the Standard Korea Expat Introduction Conversation.  She came with me and my friends as we went onto the next bar, and we continued to dance for hours.  She walked home with us when we finally stumbled out of the Pink Hole (yes, that’s the actual name of the bar) at dawn and asked to come in, but as I was staying in a dorm, I said no; we left it there and said goodbye, kissing outside of my hostel.

I don’t remember her name, and I doubt she remembers mine… but I remember her hands.

Happy Pride Month, everyone!  Go out and have sex on a dance floor. 

 

Dance, Dance

One of my former students invited me to a dance performance at her university last week; she’s a member of an auditioned dance troupe that performs choreographed songs once a semester.  I sat down next to her parents when I got there, excited to see them and catch up.  As I looked around the auditorium, I realized there weren’t other parents or family members there – the audience was completely comprised of other students.  And as the students started dancing, I understood why. 
When the lights dimmed, twelve young women came out onto the stage wearing denim cutoffs and midriff-baring white tank tops and started popping and dropping to a recent K-pop hit, and the audience went wild.*  My student’s mom laughed nervously next to me and gripped the arms of her chair.  And I have to admit, I was a bit uncomfortable.  I was uncomfortable that these students – that these young women – were moving so sexually on stage.  And then I was unnerved by my own discomfort; these students were really good dancers, obviously cared a lot about what they were doing, and put a lot of effort into it.  They danced with power and attitude, and they nailed it.
There is a longstanding and ongoing debate about societal expectation and oppression vs. personal empowerment and expression when it comes to women and sexuality; I have a lot of mixed feelings about expectations put on women to perform sexual roles for men and women taking control of their own bodies and lives through embracing and voicing their own desires.  I just started reading Peggy Orenstein’s Girls and Sex; she has a lot to say about the subject, and there’s a review forthcoming.  For me, claiming my own desire is empowering – but it wasn’t until recently that I started being the sexual person I wanted to be and not the sexual person I thought other people wanted me to be, and most of that has to do with the ways in which women are socialized to please men and ignore their own needs and pleasure.  I’ve had a lifelong struggle with loving being that woman who talks about sex all the time versus wanting to be seen as a whole human being whose entire identity – whose entire value – isn’t wrapped up in her sexuality.    
Talking about sex and being sexual was a big part of becoming an adult for me. Watching my student dance, I thought about how my parents reacted (or, rather, didn’t react) to my very open candor about sexuality when I was a teenager.  I distinctly remember singing along to songs like “Freak Me” and “Anytime, Anyplace” with my friends in middle school and making sexual innuendos in all of our letters to each other.  Popping on the basketball court in a stepping group at thirteen.  Teaching other students in my school how to use a condom as part of an HIV 101 lesson.  Inviting my mom and uncle to come to Rocky Horror with me at seventeen and shouting out dozens of audience participation lines that I can only assume were horrifying for my mother to hear come out of my mouth.  My folks didn’t try to suppress my overtly sexual words and world; they let me be who I was.  They let me figure my shit out, and they were there to support me if and when I needed them to.  And I am forever grateful for that.  They also never talked to me about pleasure, desire, safety, consent, respect, or communication… and I desperately wish they had.  Or that someone had. 
Now that she’s an adult, I’m having conversations with this young woman about sex and relationships because she’s not having them with other adults in her life (talking about sex isn’t common in Korea, even among friends).  Being a part of her life means telling her things I wish someone had said to me while also letting her be who she is and supporting her.  I want her to think critically about the world she lives in while also experiencing joy and beauty and yes, pleasure.  If dancing brings her pleasure and fills her with joy, then I want her to dance the fuck out of those dances. 
*Videos produced by the multi-billion dollar K-pop industry have become much more sexualized in the past couple of years; this video is pretty tame, and perhaps it’s just shocking because of the move from aegyo(acting cute in order to be attractive)-based videos into videos that have more sexualized choreography and clothing.  There’s definitely something in my reaction to this that’s rooted in structural / institutionalized racism and cultural perceptions of the intersection of race and sexuality.  Speaking of – I’d love to comment here on the blatant cultural appropriation / token black guy in this video, but that’s covered by a LOT of other blogs.

Connection

My very, very favorite thing to do is go blues dancing.  More than driving on lost highways.  More than eating the toastiest bagel on a winter day.  More than sex.

Yes.  More than sex.

Dancing with a good partner is what makes me feel most alive and in my body.  It makes me feel graceful and beautiful and sassy and carefree and so incredibly intimately connected to my partner, even if (s)he is a total stranger.

I’d take a great dance over good sex and a good dance over mediocre sex any day.

I desperately wish people still went dancing on dates.
For lots more favorites, click the lips below!
Sinful Sunday
*Sorry for the crap quality of the photos; they’re stills from a video shot in a dark swing dancing venue.

Long Before Grey – NSFR (Not Safe for Relatives)

New Orleans is a city made for trouble — all kinds — and I got into a lot of it there.  I was out dancing at the Rock N’ Bowl (a musical venue – slash – bowling alley, and a classy joint if ever there was one) on a school night, and I mentioned to my dance partner that I’d recently seen a pro-domme at Colette, a swinger’s club in the central business district.  He kept dancing and said, “Reaaallllly?” in a Cheshire Cat voice.  “Are you into kink?”  I told him that I really liked the experience and would be interested in experimenting more (though to be honest, I’d been playing since high school).  A few days later, I received a text from him asking if I’d like to come over because he “had a few things to show me.”  Intrigued, I told him I was free the next night. 

I knocked on his door and was invited in.  The lighting was dim and he welcomed me warmly, then showed me around his apartment.  We finally got to his bedroom, where he made a dramatic pause before flinging the door open to reveal a whole plethora of toys spread out on his bed.  Paddles, ropes, gags, floggers… it was a beautiful array, carefully laid out for my eyes to wonder at.  I picked up several items, just touching them to get a feel for the different texture and intensity of each toy.  I’m sure I looked like a kid in a candy shop.  “Wanna play?” he asked with a mischievous grin.  HELL YES, I wanted to play.  He told me that he was a lifestyle dom and he’d been doing this for a long time.  I had little idea what to expect, but I was So. Excited. 

He told me to strip down to my underwear; I willingly complied.  There was no negotiation, no safe words mentioned, no asking for consent.  I now know that it was shitty on his part as the experienced one not to ask about limits or discuss safety with me, just as it was poor judgment on my part not to ask about safety, and if I knew then what I know now, I would have had a conversation with him first.  But it was also fucking hot that he just told me what to do.*

He put a blindfold around my head and told me to get on my knees.  Once there, he tied my arms together behind my back (my forearms overlapping each other horizontally behind me), looped the rope through a ring in the ceiling, and brought it down to tie my ankles together in kind of a modified hogtie.

Once I was (almost) immobile, he began to alternate between sensual teasing and light impact play, making me ask for more.  He pulled my hair and called me foul names, and I was so turned on.  I hadn’t been physically attracted to him before that night, but as he slid his hands over me and hit me in all the right places with conviction, I was desperate to have him inside of me.  “Fuck me,” I whispered.  “I didn’t hear you,” he said in a commanding tone.  “Speak up.”  “Please fuck me,” I repeated.  “What did you say?” he asked.  “God, please fuck me,” I begged.  “Not tonight,” he said, and started undoing the ropes.     

I got dressed in an elated daze, wondering what the fuck just happened.  We hugged goodbye, and I left his apartment flushed and buoyant.  He moved to Texas shortly thereafter, so I never did get a chance to play with him again, but he left me with a fierce desire for the intense combination of pain and pleasure that I’ve been enjoying ever since.    

*Dear Dominants:  This story is not meant to encourage you to play without negotiation; while nothing bad happened in this case, it could have.  PLEASE discuss safety with your subs before playing!