Privates of the Caribbean*

“Babe, can I talk to you about something?” asked The Engineer in a small and hesitant voice on the phone yesterday.  As this particular tone is normally reserved for times when he’s feeling anxious, hurt, or insecure, I automatically said, “Yes, of course.”  And then he dropped something completely out of the blue on me: He’d just gone on Twitter to delete his account, and he noticed that Twitter had recommended my blog account to him as a potential account to follow.

He knows that I write a sex blog; I send him what I write about us before I post it, and though I’ve told him that he’s free to read it, he’s chosen not to as he doesn’t want to read about my past partners in graphic detail.  He’s been careful to respect my privacy, so being confronted with my Tweets freaked him out a bit – and completely fucking unnerved me.  Not because it’s him, but because… how the fuck did my blog account show up on his Twitter?!?!?!?!?  It left me wondering: Since I’ve been using the same browser for both my personal and my blog email (a mistake which I have since rectified), is Twitter trawling my personal email account for contacts unbeknownst to me?  Who’s next?  My close friends?  My family?  My coworkers?

Secret, Top, Stamp, Spy, Army, Military

I got my first smart phone after I started writing the blog; I remembered early on in blogging that Cammies had posted a Tweet about how Twitter automatically sent out a suggestion to follow her blog account to every contact on her phone when she used it – it was at that point that I knew I would never, ever use my phone to do anything blog-related.  I use strict privacy settings on my browsers, I don’t use Facebook at all because I’m anxious about my privacy, and… for some reason I didn’t bother to check the privacy settings on Twitter when I signed up for it.  I’ve since marked that I don’t want my account suggested based on email, but I’ve also found out that Twitter makes suggestions for accounts to follow based on physical proximity, meaning that I was likely suggested to The Engineer because I was blogging at his apartment when I went to visit last fall. And if so… does that mean that anyone who opens Twitter on their phone at my house will see my blog account recommended to them?  That seems super fucking creepy and invasive.

As you may know if you follow sex news, teachers are routinely fired for being normal human beings with personal lives.  I love that there are sex bloggers who are completely out, but if I want to continue being an educator of young people, that’s not an option for me.  Since I started writing the blog, I’ve always felt pretty safe about avoiding being discovered by people I don’t want discovering me, and well… I don’t feel safe anymore.  If you blog anonymously, what do you do to protect the privacy of your identity?


*First of all, GOD I HOPE THIS IS A PORN TITLE.  Second of all, I know the post title has nothing to do with the content, but since this week’s Wicked Wednesday theme is pirates and I’m not writing a piece of pirate-themed erotica, this was the least I could do.  😀


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!

The Ravishment of Winter

When the sun extends its long arms toward verdant plants and trees, and the earth breathes with birth and growth, I’m eager to jump out of bed in the morning, naked as the day I was born, and play for hours out in the open.

But days like today – when it’s far below freezing – I want to burrow.  Weather has a definite impact on the type of sex I’m in the mood for, and winter is meant for wrapping my legs tight around and pressing my body flat against a partner.  For cuddling for lengthy periods, desperate to warm ourselves by clinging to each other; for making love by candlelight; for diving under the duvet in the mornings and breathing in the stale heat of each other’s carbon dioxide until we literally need to come up for air.  For drinking steaming cups of tea and coffee in bed and running baths so hot that we sink in centimeter by centimeter to get used to it and come out flushed and wrinkled.

I’m at my least kinky in winter, unless there’s central heating – but winter is when I feel most connected, communal, and rooted.  I get this overwhelming feeling when sitting on a hearth and staring into a fire – my past and future meet and I can see all of the possibilities of the new year lying ahead, and I feel the interconnectedness of all things for a fleeting moment.

For me, spring and fall are for starting over and letting go; summer is for spontaneity and relishing new experiences.  Winter is for reflection, for deep love and compassion, and for holding tight to the people we hold most dear.

I run cold, so winter is also for asking nicely to be warmed up by any means necessary.  When we come home to each other, it gives me the opportunity to say, “I’m freezing; can you make me sweat?”

He Thinks of Everything

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

New Year’s Eve

After dessert – a decadent raspberry custard topped with chocolate ganache and served with port – Cal handed over a small, meticulously-wrapped box, which he seemed to pull out of thin air.  Maybe it was the intoxicating effects of the port, the strength of which still lingered on hir tongue.  Les accepted it with both hands, wondering where Cal had found the paper containing real leaves and the ribbon which felt like velvet.  Sie looked at it carefully, turning it over in hir small hands, marveling at the care that had gone into it.  Cal’s eyes twinkled.  “Open it,” he eagerly instructed.

Sie peeled the tape off, careful not to rip the paper, and took off the lid, lifting layers of multi-colored tissue paper away from the interior to reveal a handful of small, plain, white envelopes containing what felt like cards.  Each one of the twelve had a single word printed on the cover: the first said January.  “What are these?” sie asked, delighted at the attention to detail, the smooth surface and crisp corners of the envelopes.

“Each month, you get one card with an instruction on it.  You have one month to carry out the order; if you succeed, you receive a reward.  If not, a punishment.  That simple.”  Les’s eyes widened and the corners of hir mouth drew up slowly as sie started to think about all the possibilities.  Knowing Cal, there would be nothing simple about this – it would be challenging, but exhilarating.

“Put them away for now,” he said, standing up and walking around to help Les with hir coat.  Hir face formed a momentary frown, at which he laughed.  “My darling,” he said, “January first is but an hour away, and the clock is ticking.  I believe we have an engagement to be at.  You owe me a dance and a midnight kiss.”  Sie smiled and slipped hir arm into the sleeves before putting one through Cal’s arm.  They strolled out into the cold air, still glowing from each other’s company, and held tight to each other as they walked to a friend’s party.

They danced to song after song, alternating the lead to songs that would always remind hir of New York – Gershwin, Porter, Berlin.  At midnight, showered in vibrant confetti, they kissed each other, relishing the pressure and taste of each other’s lips.  Sie trailed hir lips to his ear, and whispered, “I can’t wait.  Can I open the first one now?”  “You’re so impatient!” he chided playfully.  “But yes, of course you can.”

Sie ran over to their coats in staccato steps, digging the box out of hir deep coat pocket, and gingerly took out the first envelope.  Sie slid a finger underneath the flap and pulled out a small white card containing the following sentences:

Put the Njoy plug in first thing when you wake up in the morning.  Keep it there all day and come to my office five minutes before I get off work.  I will leave my office each day at 4:53 exactly.  When I arrive back to my office at 4:55 one day in January, you will be there, hands on my desk, wearing nothing from the waist down except that plug, waiting for me.

Les’s heart stopped at the idea of being semi-nude in Cal’s office.  Sie knew his coworkers; they often had happy hour cocktails together.  What if someone else came in?  What if the timing was off?  What if…?  Cal looked closely at hir expression, wondering momentarily if he’d made a mistake – but then he saw the fear in hir eyes replaced with lust, and an unmistakable blush spread across hir face.  What if he spanks me? Sie thought.  What if he replaces that plug with his fingers?  Sie quickly thought about the heft of the metal plug and how it would feel inside of hir for an entire day.  What if he demands I get under the desk and lick his cock from base to tip, over and over, until he’s shivering?  Sie closed her eyes dreamily and thought about the potential.  Cal leaned in and brushed his lips against hirs.  “This is just the beginning,” he said, almost inaudible against the chorus of Auld Lang Syne.  “I started with an easy one.”  He slid his hand around hir waist and up hir back in a reassuring way; they spent the next few minutes in silence, both contemplating their adventures ahead and feeling no need to make resolutions.

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

Over My Head

I’ve been waiting to post this for a long time; it was inspired by this Girl on the Net post.  When I saw that the Wicked Wednesday prompt was “Follow Your Heart,” I thought: it’s time.  It’s non-fiction and not very wicked, but I can’t think of a more appropriate prompt for this piece.


At the time I met Banger*, I was deep into lesbian territory.  I hadn’t been physically intimate with a man for four years and wasn’t planning on it anytime soon; however, when I opened my door and saw him standing there one cold February afternoon, I felt my heart leap in my chest.  He was my type: Tall, bespectacled, bookish.  At least – he was the type I’d had before I stopped dating men.  I panicked and reacted to how handsome I thought he was by being overly cheerful and energetic.  I didn’t really know what to do with my sudden and strange urges; it had been so long since I’d had them.

Over the next year, I developed a massive crush on him, but never said anything; he was always dating someone, and I was supposed to be gay.  We became close friends and confidants; we worked together, shared an office, and lived in the same building, so I saw him all the time.  We’d go out for kimchi stew or barbecue together and chat; a couple of times we went to a noraebang (private room karaoke), just the two of us, drunk on rice wine, and sang songs late into the night.  He made me giggle.  Not laugh – giggle.  The kind of laughter you share with someone when you have inside jokes or find something hilarious that no one else would laugh at.  We could be silly together and really honest with each other because we weren’t trying to get into each other’s pants.  It was brilliant.  Spending time with him was so easy – a breath of fresh air.

He went home for vacation that summer, and I found myself acutely missing his company.  I could feel a kind of dull ache inside of me at his absence.  When I went home for Christmas, he kept in contact with me the whole time I was gone.  The night I got back, there was already a message on my phone welcoming me back to Korea and asking me to dinner.  We spent the next three nights on his bed, watching 90s movies and drinking boozy hot cocoa.  It felt like those times in uni where you’re trying to be physically close to a crush without admitting you like like each other, because what if the other person doesn’t feel the same?  The second night, I asked if I could put my head on his shoulder.  I couldn’t even remember the last time I had cuddled with someone, and it ignited something in my body that I was wholly unprepared for.  My insides exploded with an unstoppable force, and my panties were literally soaked by the time I got back to my apartment.  The next night, as I was stroking his arm, my brain stopped working and my body took over; I grabbed his face and kissed him, and it felt like everything fell into place in that one moment.  My lust was a champagne bottle uncorked.

I went away for a couple of days after that; when I came back, we spent hours making out and exploring each other’s bodies before falling asleep.  At first morning’s light, I told him that I desperately wanted him inside of me.  I hadn’t had penetrative sex with a man for five years at this point; I thought I would need to take it a bit slow or that it might even hurt, but because I was so highly aroused, it felt so. fucking. good.  Like eating an ice cream cone on a scorching summer day.  Like the first time you try ecstasy and you find yourself floating in joyous spacetime.  Like the first day of spring after a long, hard winter.

He called me; he asked me to spend time with him; he held my hand in public, and that’s when I think I fell.  I moved to another city shortly after we first hooked up; it was hard going from seeing him every day to seeing him twice a month, especially now that we were being intimate.  I found myself feeling lost in the behemoth of all these feelings I hadn’t felt in years – overwhelming waves of love and desire.  I had a real libido for the first time in forever.  I was drowning in hormones, and I didn’t know how to get to shore.  I felt crazy.  Suddenly I was being cautious with every word I said to him, scared that if I said or did the wrong thing, all of my joy would vanish.  He would disappear like a magician into the void of a magic box.  I tried to stop myself from feeling, tried to put tape over a waterfall, but I had already contracted emotional ebola and I was bleeding out.

Over the next couple of months, we had the most incredible sex I’d had in a decade, and I experienced orgasms I couldn’t even believe were real.  We fucked everywhere in my apartment, cuddled next to each other on the couch to watch videos, and only came up for air to go out to eat and build up our energy reserves so we could make love again.  If oxytocin is sex vodou, he was a houngan and I was ready to dance with snakes.  He brought me back from the dead.

My friends were baffled.  They said:

“I’ve never seen you this happy.”

“I’ve never seen you this way!”

“You’re glowing!”

“I’m surprised at how… mushy you’re being about this.”

“I never expected to hear you being so sentimental.”

“I’m impressed – not because it’s a guy, but because you like him.”

“It’s kind of nice to hear you say that you feel something again.”

And suddenly, I wanted to know what we were.  Not where it was going – I knew he was moving back to England in the summer – but I wanted to know that he had romantic feelings for me like I did for him.  That I wasn’t alone. That I wasn’t crazy.  I told him that I had real feelings for him and that it was freaking me out.  He said he hadn’t had romantic feelings for anyone in years and didn’t know if he could.  I, meanwhile, was feeling ALL THE FEELINGS ALL THE TIME, and it was so completely isolating.  I tried meditation, breathing, yoga, sleeping pills, processing with friends.  Nothing could take away the anxiety of loving someone when I didn’t know how he felt about me.  My pain started to become stronger than my joy, but I held on because the high was so powerful.

When I told him that I felt like I’d changed from someone he actually cared about to someone he was just sleeping with, his response was, “Yeah, I guess that’s just part of the changing nature of relationships, you know?”  When I asked if I could say that we were dating, he responded, “I don’t know.  I mean, you can say whatever you want, but I don’t know.”  When I said that that had hurt me, he said he was sorry I felt hurt.

We kept having these amazing weekends together, but I was in pain all the time.  It’s hard work loving someone who doesn’t love you in the same way; it takes everything from you.  Confidence, dignity, pride, joy, sanity.  Laughter.  Self-worth.  I knew that he cared about me a great deal; he wasn’t good at expressing that with words, but he showed it by doing things like serenading me with a song sacred to my heart that he learned just to play for me, or by choosing to spend his last weekends in Korea with me.  But I was in a different place.  I understood for the first time why people want to give up everything to be with someone.  Why they’ll move half a world away.  I wanted so much to spend my life loving him despite knowing deep down that we probably wouldn’t be compatible in the long run, and that was unnerving.  He told me shortly before he left that he loved me – and I truly believe he did – but continued to introduce me as his friend, which was confusing at best and devastating at worst.

The day before he left, he asked me: “What now?”  I don’t know, I said.  I wanted to say that I wanted to be in a long-distance relationship with him while continuing to date other people here, but the idea of him saying no to that was too crushing to consider.  So I just said that we’d keep in touch, keep loving each other, and hopefully one day down the road we’d meet again and create a second chapter in our story.

We tried to be friends after that, which in hindsight seems like the biggest mistake ever.  His responses to me became less frequent and shorter; we still talked, but it wasn’t the same.  I finally told him right before Christmas that I was deeply in love with him and that it was too painful to try to be his friend.  That I needed a break.  We talked for a long time and hashed things out – then emailed a week later and talked for hours again and hashed more things out – and in the end, he said he was still attracted to me, but didn’t know if that translated into romantic feelings.  That he just assumed I was over him.  That it would be logical to have romantic feelings for me, but feelings aren’t logical.  That he didn’t know if he could be emotionally supportive of me.  I got angry about it all and my anger hurt him; he thought I was diminishing the ways he cared for me just because his feelings weren’t as intense as mine.  He loved me – just not in the way I wanted to be loved.  We left the conversation on a positive note, and agreed that the friendship we’d had before was worth working on.

It took a long time and dating other people (and a thorough reading of More Than Two) to wade through the layers of love and loss I felt… but I made it to the other side, and when I did, I came out stronger.  Not that defensive kind of stronger where you swear you’ll never let anyone in again, which is where I was before I met him, but the kind of stronger where you learn how to open your heart and love completely, accept and really feel your feelings, and vow to work on knowing what you want and how to communicate that.  Where you breathe deeply and let your walls crumble to the ground around you in tiny pieces.  Being that vulnerable and crawling through the darkness that came after were both transformative experiences.

I started writing this blog while I was seeing him because I wanted him to be proud of me for doing something creative; it has since turned into something I’m proud of myself for doing.  I’m grateful for that.  We’re still friends, and the friendship feels easier now.  My heart feels so much lighter when I talk to him.  He lives with someone he’s dating now; that was hard to cope with at first, but a month or so ago I suddenly found myself feeling genuinely and deeply happy for him out of the blue.  We should all get to love in life and be loved in return – even the people who have hurt us.

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


*Not his real name, obvs.  This is what a few of my friends started calling him after I initially and hesitantly told them I was “bangin’ a dude.”




In an alternate universe or an alternate lifetime, this is us – unencumbered by shoulds and shouldn’ts.

Encouraged by coulds instead:

I could kiss you for hours.

We could explore each other’s bodies with our fingertips and tongues in the early morning light after waking up, limbs entangled.

You could love all of the people you wanted to love.

Sinful Sunday


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One Step Forward…

I grabbed his face and kissed him, my sweaty body sticking to his, knees bent and pressed deep into my couch cushions on the sides of his thighs.

“I need a break,” I said, and hopped off, turning on my heel to head toward the bathroom.

“Oh, yeah?” he asked, grabbing my hips and pulling me back down onto his lap.

“Yes!” I said, laughing, squirming, while he held me firmly in place.  I finally managed to wiggle down to the floor, where I threw myself forward, ready to take off – but he was quick.  He grabbed my biceps and held me there.  “Where are you going?” he asked with amusement.

“I have to pee!  Let me go!” I said, still laughing.  “Okay,” he said, briefly letting go of my arms for a moment.  As soon as I moved my arm forward onto the floor in front of me, however, he had grabbed my leg and dragged me back a few inches.

What ensued was me slowly making my way to the bathroom; I would crawl a foot forward and he would pull me back six inches.  I’d move, he’d drag.  I was no longer focused on my bladder – now we were playing a game.  The Texan is a foot taller than me and considerably heavier; the first time we wrestled, he was surprised at how long I could hold him down.  But now he was the one towering above me, letting me think I could almost make it before making sure I couldn’t.  And it was fucking hot.  What needed a respite before now re-lubricated at the struggle.  I wanted him to drag me, to pull me, to hold me down and immobilize me.  I strove to inch forward harder so he could pull me back just as hard.  It was exhausting, but it felt like much-needed relief in some way.

It triggered something in him that opened up to me that night.  In bed, in the dark, I held him tight; he told me some really personal things and asked me deep questions.  I felt more connected to him than I ever had.  It was like that struggle to move different directions had snapped us both into place next to each other, holding fast, at least for the night.

The Heart Wants What It Wants

I met up with a former student for lunch a couple weekends ago because she was in the middle of a relationship crisis and wanted to talk about it with someone who wouldn’t judge her.  She’s been with her current boyfriend for two years and is very much in love with him, but she cheated on him with a guy at summer camp this summer (which I found hilarious, because I did exactly the same thing at exactly the same age and remember how gutting it was to try to navigate the situation).  She says she’s still talking to the new guy all the time – that he arouses a kind of passion in her that her boyfriend doesn’t because they have shared goals and interests and she feels comfortable completely being herself around him.  Welcome to NRE, I say.  I tell her to try not to compare them, which she says is impossible.

I ask if she still wants to be with the boyfriend.  Yes, absolutely, she says.  He’s kind, giving, dependable.  He’s a Good Man.  I ask her if consensual non-monogamy is a potential choice for her.  No, she says – she’s monogamous (…).  I tell her, then, that she should probably cut off contact with the new guy.  She says she doesn’t want to do that – he’s intoxicating (quite literally).  And then she says this hilarious thing that I think all of us have thought but few of us actually say out loud:

“Jo,” she says.  “The thing is – like, do I really have to do the right thing?  What if I’m just okay with not being a good person?  Is being a good person really all it’s cracked up to be?  I’m not sure it is.”

Oh, sister.  We’ve all been there.  The NRE has blinded her to the fact that she’s already broken her boyfriend’s heart – he just doesn’t know it yet.  We talk for a long time and go through every possible permutation of potential action that can be taken, and I finally tell her that it doesn’t matter what I say – she’s going to do what in the end feels right for her, even if she knows it isn’t.  The heart wants what it wants.  When I was her age, I wouldn’t have listened to anyone’s advice – I would follow my cunt, because that’s where my heart lives.  I told her to be careful with the hearts of people she cares about and sent her a link to *just* in case.  On my way home, I thought: You couldn’t pay me to be that young again.