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


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!



Lust Highway*

Asphalt, Environment, Grass, Highway

We’re making flirty banter as he’s driving down a highway; I watch one of his smooth hands guide the steering wheel as the other moves gracefully to the knob on his left to change gears.  Looking at his large hands, I suddenly want them all over me – but seeing as how he’s driving, I opt to put my hands on him.  There’s a moderate amount of traffic along the highway, including tall trucks wherein the drivers could see us from their cabs; I ignore this fact and reach my small, pale hand over to unbuckle his belt.

I’ve done this before, so he’s not surprised; rather, he leans his pelvis forward and grins at me.  I unbutton his jeans, pull the zipper down carefully, and pull his stiffening cock out from his pants.  He closes his eyes for a tenth of a second and sighs with barely-parted lips as I start grazing his cock with the tips of my fingers.  Once it gets a bit harder, I lean under his left arm and wrap my lips around his warm flesh, taking him into my mouth and running my tongue around his head.  I eagerly blow him as he struggles to concentrate; when I have to move so he can change gears, I look at him with pleading, lust-filled eyes and tell him how desperately I want him inside of me.

He turns right down the next road; we search for a place where we can pull over, but there is no place.  We’re right outside of a mid-sized town, so it’s all driveways and private field entrances.  We turn around and come back toward the main highway, my hand stroking his shaft.  He asks what I think about just pulling over on the side of the road to make out a bit; sounds good to me, I say.  But I want so much more than that.  I take my panties off under my skirt and grab a condom from the backseat; I ask him what he thinks about fucking me on the car juuuust a little bit.  Before anyone can pass us.  Just a few thrusts, I say.

Within two minutes I’m bent over the bonnet, my red sundress up over my hips, and he’s pushing into my swollen and waiting cunt, jeans mid-thigh – I’m slippery and he eases in, taking his time to tease me even though we don’t have it.  We (surprise!) don’t stop after a few thrusts; the taboo of fucking in public in broad daylight is so arousing that I tighten myself around him and beg him not to stop.  He puts one of his beautiful hands next to me on the car and holds my hip with the other, just like when he was driving – only now, he’s driving himself into me.  We can see cars and trucks flying by fifty meters down the road along the open highway, and I’m gasping with wanting him deeper.  More.  I wonder what the drivers would think if they could glance over and see us.  We don’t want to push our luck, though; after a few minutes he pulls out – neither of us completely satisfied, both of us feeling a temporary relief.

I let my skirt fall and he pulls his pants up and I turn around to kiss him as fully as I can; how often do you get a partner who’s down to fuck in the middle of the day on a car near a busy highway?  I smile and tell him he’s the best; he says I’m swell, and we kiss again, and the love I have for him fills me up.


*God I hope there’s a porn with this title.



Image from Pixabay; credit: Pexels 


Reunited, and it felt So. Good.

I’m not super into giving head.  I have chronic jaw pain; keeping my mouth open for a long time, let alone taking something into my mouth for a long time, can be a pretty painful experience.  I do relish deep throating and giving sultry glances upward before sliding my tongue alongside the length of a hard cock, just… not for a long time.  Almost never enough for the person I’m blowing to come.  And I know, I know: orgasms aren’t the objective of sex (for me, anyway), oral sex feels amazing without coming, I shouldn’t have to grimace through my own pain to give someone else pleasure, etc.  I know.  It’s just – sometimes I really want my loved ones to blow a load in my mouth, you know?

So when The Engineer suggested that he hold off masturbating for a week leading up to our reunion, I was pumped because I could not wait to have him jizz into the back of my throat.

We hadn’t seen each other in two months; it was nearly impossible to keep our hands off each other at the Dublin airport and on our way to our first AirBnB in the middle of the countryside, but we did.  When we arrived, we kept giving each other frustrated glances as the host chatted to us forever about the house and the history of the area, how we met and why we were traveling, etc.  I had his dick in my mouth moments after she drove away; he was sitting on a swing in the backyard and I was on my knees in the grass, holding onto his hips with my hands while sliding my lips down and over his head and along the length of his shaft.  My pleasure is deeply intertwined with my partner’s, so when I felt him grabbing the back of my head and heard him groan, it spurred me to take him deeper; I felt myself get wet as he told me not to stop, and I moaned in gratification when he came into my mouth in spurts just minutes after I’d started teasing his dick.

I was happy – but not as happy as I was when ten minutes later I was lying on my back on a little green hill with his face buried in my vulva.  I had also participated in the Week(ish) Without a Wank, and I came fast and hard, squeezing his head between my thighs and pressing upward into his lapping tongue.

It was a beautiful day, and being outside naked in the fresh country air was the perfect way to start a holiday that would mark the end of long journeys for both of us.  Later in the week, when we told other people the name of the town we’d visited first, they would reply, “Why would you ever go there?  There’s absolutely nothing to do!” And we would just smile and say, “We just wanted to be in the middle of nowhere, you know?”

Besides, we found plenty to do.


Happy Endings (NSFR)


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.


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.


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?


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.


I don’t think of myself as an exhibitionist.

This is strange, considering how much I love having sex in public.  (So. Much.)  The potential of being seen – not actually being seen, but just the possibility – makes my knickers slicker than a snake oil salesman.  When The Texan suggested we go off the trail while hiking for a quickie, I almost died of pure joy.  Seeing a hiker off in the distance – not close enough to see us, but close enough to want to investigate should we make more noise – made me clench around him tighter.

There was an evening a couple of years ago when I was walking around a playground taking pictures with a partner when he suddenly reached under my dress to slide my red panties off (putting them in his breast pocket like a gentleman), sat me down on a piece of equipment, pushed my skirt up, and started lapping at me; I think I came in under a minute, and it was incredibly intense.  It was the only time I ever had an orgasm from oral sex with that partner (whom I otherwise had a MILLION vaginal orgasms with); he thought for sure it was because we were outside where people might see us.  I shrugged that idea off – until I started taking naked photos of myself.

I cannot get through a photo shoot without wanking.  Something about knowing that I’m taking these photos to show other people – that I’m exposing myself to someone who at the time of the shoot is unseen, someone who might be turned on by those pictures – arouses me to no end.  If you’ve seen Sinful Sunday photos of me, you can be sure that a) my cunt was shiny and slippery at the time, and b) I stopped taking photos at some point in order to rub one out.

I love walking around my apartment naked and fucking in windows, always wondering if anyone is looking up or over and then won’t be able to get it out of their head for weeks; I also have stranger gangbang fantasies that I don’t actually want to enact.

Still – I don’t consider myself an exhibitionist.  I don’t want to watch other people watching me.  I don’t want to directly expose myself to people without their consent, my sexual gratification isn’t reliant on other people’s reactions, etc.  The idea of going to orgies or swinger’s clubs doesn’t really appeal to me except as a novelty.


Thinking about someone happening to look over from their apartment to see my sweaty body pressed against the 18th story window as I was getting pounded from behind this summer in my friend’s apartment – hoping that it’s a catalyst for a wave of desire that then consumes that person and carries over into their sexual relationships – makes my pulse quicken.

Riding The Texan on a picnic bench in the dark last year, his dick barely out of his jeans and my dress hitched up around my waist, knowing that anyone could stumble into the area of the park we were in at any moment – even if it was highly unlikely – engulfed me in a desperate, greedy lust.

Not seeing you, but knowing you’re there – invisible, but felt – makes my body stand on edge, warm and wanting.

Sex in the Woods

We were headed down the mountain in the late afternoon, enjoying the sunshine filtering through the mostly still-green leaves.  The air smelled sweet, like California, and it was a perfectly pleasant day – warm, but not hot, with a mild wind blowing.  We’d been hiking for a few hours and were nearing our finishing point; we would intermittently stop to take in the scenery at a peak or viewpoint, wipe our foreheads of sweat, and kiss each other in the sunshine. 

I stopped to kiss him again in the middle of the woods when I saw that we were alone – a rarity on trails in Korea.  Before I could even put my lips on his – as soon as my hand touched his face – I felt it in my cunt. That hot, swollen, goddamn-I-want-you feeling.  I ran my hand down his chest and told him a bit breathlessly that I could feel my labia pulsing when I touched him.  “Well, there aren’t that many people around,” he said, and I suddenly got butterflies in my stomach.

We walked over to where a rope was separating the trail from the woods and climbed over it, finding another trail.  Walking along that trail brought us to a clearing, where we quite unexpectedly found more trail signs! We walked in a different direction through a thicket of bushes and trees until we came to another clearing with a big, V-shaped tree in it.  Looking around and seeing no signs and no people, we walked up to the tree, him behind me.  I reached behind me and quickly unclasped his belt before unbuttoning my own pants (as he barely slid his down) and pushing them just below my ass.  I placed my hips against the tree, leaning through the V.  I was so wet that he effortlessly slid into me; I held on to the two trunks to my left and right and pushed my body back against his. 

 I held tight to the rough bark, feeling it scratch my hips, and asked him to fuck me harder.  He plowed into me, placing one hand on the tree trunk for balance and gripping the back of one of my hips with the other.  In the middle of fucking, I saw a hiker walk along a trail downhill from us, about fifty meters away, which only made it hotter. As I got closer and closer to coming, I bit my own shoulder to keep from making noise, but I was unable to be completely silent; I still groaned and whimpered as quietly as I could.  Seeing this turned him on, and within a few minutes he was stifling his own sounds of pleasure.  I felt his cock twitch inside me as he came, and we both leaned against the tree, hot and breathless.  We laughed, delighted with our taboo woods sex, cleaned up, quickly pulled up our pants, and made our way back to the trail. 


I wish I’d taken a picture of that tree – or two trees, really, meeting at the base and growing together.    

Goodbye Gift (NSFR)

Where is Kara?!” I demanded as I slammed my hands down on the table in front of me, forcing a few drinks to splash out of their glasses.  My friends looked astonished momentarily, then broke out in raucous laughter.  “She’s in the bathroom,” someone said.  Another friend looked at me with a mischievous twinkle in her eye and said, “You can still catch her if you hurry.”

I’d been dating Kara for a month or two; she and our friends had planned a big night out at a local strip club prior to my departure from Chicago as a going away present.  We were surrounded by beautiful women who were swinging around poles and flirting with customers, but I was only captivated by one: Stella.  I couldn’t stop staring at her.  She had olive skin, magenta-streaked black hair, a Monroe piercing, and smile that suggested a wicked sense of humor.  She was tiny and covered in tattoos, and she had a killer ass.  Kara noticed me watching Stella dance (in a cage, no less), leaned in, and whispered, “Hey — can I buy you a lap dance?”  I nearly dropped my drink and exclaimed “YES!” before she could even get the whole sentence out of her mouth.  I’d never had a lap dance before and couldn’t contain my excitement.  I felt incredibly lucky not to be a guy at that point, because seriously – how do guys keep their boners in check? 

She walked confidently to the raised cage to talk to Stella, who then delicately slipped out of the cage and came over to our table.  She stood in front of me and gazed down at my eager eyes.  “So,” she purred.  “I hear you want a lap dance from me.”  I couldn’t speak; I just nodded dumbly as she took my hand and led me away from a table of cheering lesbians. 

She led me through blackout curtains into a back room with giant, plush chairs, one of which she gently pushed me down onto.  We were alone in the room, and I was so nervous.  My memory is a blur; I mostly remember trying not to touch her but desperately wanting to because she was so soft. I wondered how anyone could make their skin feel like that.  She smelled like vanilla and moved gracefully as she sidled her body along the length of mine and barely grazed my neck with her lips until they were hovering near my ear and she was breathing into it.  Needless to say, at the end of the song, I was a ball of raging hormones and my knickers were soaked. 

Which brings me back to the beginning.  Kara was in the bathroom – perfect.  I raced to the ladies’ and threw the door open to see her coming out of a stall.  I locked eyes with her, shook my head, and walked her back into it, pushing her down onto the toilet before locking the door behind us. I straddled her.

“I want you to fuck me right now,” I said, my voice husky and my breath coming hard.  I took her head in both hands and kissed her deeply, grinding into her as she grabbed my ass.  She pulled away and looked at me with a smile.  “You’re in luck,” she said. She reached down into her bag and pulled out a dildo; she was already wearing a packing harness, which she swiftly pulled down in order to change out the dildo.

Once the dildo was securely in place, I took off a pant leg (still wearing my sandals, of course, because I’m a classy lady) and haphazardly threw my pants onto the tile floor.  I slid onto the dildo and started riding it – her.  She lifted my tank top and bra up to my shoulders and licked and bit my breasts as I rocked against her, both of us intermittently kissing each other’s lips and necks.  I fucked her (she was wearing the dick, but I was definitely doing the fucking) until I came, one hand on her back, the other pressed against the cold, hard wall behind her.  We sat there for a minute, trembling, then quickly got up and put ourselves back together.

As we were coming out of the stall, a dancer came in and arched an eyebrow at us.  “Having a good night?” she asked, looking in the mirror to apply makeup. “A perfect one,” I said, blushing.  “You?”  “It’s just getting started,” she said, smiling. She was right.    


Compartmentalization, Reverse Sex Shame, and Passing on the Orgy

A very drunk acquaintance approached me at a public function last weekend with this: “Hey!  I have to talk to you later.  There’s something I think you’ll be really interested in.”  From the way he lowered his voice and said this into my ear, and from the tone of his voice, I knew instantly that whatever it was he wanted to talk about, it had something to do with sex.  Intrigued and a bit nervous, I sought him out later and asked what was up.  He told me that he had recently attended an orgy and that it was amazing — that everyone was really cool and they all hung out the next day.  He thought I’d enjoy it and wanted to see if I’d be interested in joining the next time they met up.  I asked some questions: Did everyone discuss sexual health and STI checks beforehand?  Yes, he said.  How do you know these people?  They were random strangers who approached him on the beach last summer and wanted to hang out.  A tad dodgy, but I said I’d give it a think.

And I did.  I thought about it a LOT.  And the conclusion I came up with is: I’m just not up for it.  Immediately after I made the decision to pass on the orgy, I felt the weirdest and most unexpected feeling: reverse sex shame (shame for choosing not to do the sexy thing).  I’m someone who has talked about sex more than anyone really cares to hear about it my whole life, much to the chagrin of some partners and some of my more conservative friends.  I’ve encouraged everyone I know to me more open and experimental sexually; here was my opportunity to try something I’ve never done before with someone who is not only a person I personally know, but who’s also really attractive.  I’m going to say no, and I feel ashamed for it.  I feel ashamed for passing on a new sexual experience because I’m that girl that talks about sex all the time.  Even though the idea of attending this orgy makes me uncomfortable for several reasons, I feel like I should go and that something is wrong with me for not wanting to.  Reverse sex shame.  

Why the discomfort?  I’ve managed to spend five years in this country without sticking my dick in the neighborhood.  For five whole years I have not fucked one single person who hangs out in the expat bars I hang out in, so I’ve avoided small social circle drama (at least that social circle) and being the subject of locker room talk.  I feel completely comfortable being myself there because I’m not worried about getting into anyone’s pants or anyone trying to get into mine; it’s a safe space where I can just bro out.

Also, I’m just not an exhibitionist (at least not in groups / not while I’m sober).  I cherish my privacy and don’t even feel comfortable speaking in front of a room of my peers, let alone comfortable fucking in a room full of people!  Not much of a voyeur, either.  My kinks — and there are many– lie elsewhere.  I enjoy sex for the connection; even if it’s with a stranger (or two), even if it’s only for a night, I savor the feeling of closeness that comes from learning in depth about someone’s body and desires.  But even as I type this, I’m experiencing a very strange reactionary response to my own feelings and desire for intimacy.

I compartmentalize my life and spend time with a lot of different social groups; doing so gives me a sense of emotional security.  I deeply respect and admire polycules and people whose lovers and friends are the same people and who can be all, “We’re a totally fluid community and we have no labels or separate spaces and just transition seamlessly from one type of relationship to another,” but it’s not my jam.  I’ve hooked up with friends who I was incompatible with sexually and just went back to being friends, no problem… and I don’t look at these people every time we hang out and think, “Eek!  You’ve seen me naked!”  But because of where I know this guy from (sports bars where we hang out with a bunch of dudes), it feels different. 

Maybe it’s because I read so many books and listen to so many podcasts about sex that I’m feeling unnerved both that I don’t want to participate in this orgy AND that I’m feeling shame about that… I feel like there’s a giant question mark floating over my head asking “Where is this coming from?”