Small World

Puno, Peru, 2006

I’m making out with a British guy who I met on an island in Lake Titicaca against a wall in a surprisingly bright dive bar.  I’m drunk on pisco and he’s got this lovely, moppy hair that I can’t help sinking my fingers into.  I’m pressing him into a mural and so ready to go back to his… until these two girls on the dance floor catch my eye.  I come up for air to look them over more thoroughly; one has short, choppy, platinum hair and a great smile, and the other is this dark-eyed goddess who sways gracefully.  I tell the Brit I’m going to get another drink, but then wander over to the women and start dancing and flirting with them instead.  I don’t know how it happens, but suddenly the goddess’s arms are around my waist and my hands are sliding up her arms and I’m licking her lips and my body is throbbing and she smells amazing and god I want my face in her cunt.  Apparently she’s not with the woman she came with, because when I ask her back to mine, she smiles and nods.  We buy individual cigarettes from a street vendor on the way to my guesthouse; this is when I find out she’s Candian – exotic.  I’d never been with a Canadian before (P.S. I love you, Canada.).  We drunkenly explore each other’s bodies, tangled limbs and hair falling everywhere and tongue barbells clinking against each other.  She tastes salty and sweaty and I cannot get enough of her juices in my mouth.  She goes back to her guesthouse after, and I’m left wishing I’d had more sex on this trip and relishing the feeling the metal balls of her clitoral piercing on my tongue.

 

Bali, Indonesia, 2013

I’m in a gay bar near the beach and bemoaning, once again, that there are no lesbian bars – a frustrating phenomenon all over the world.  After a couple of cocktails / watching a fabulous drag show / getting to know the lovely blokes next to me, I spot a small group of women hanging out against a wall at the other end of the bar.  I saunter over to them and ask where all the ladies are; “We’re right here!” they say and laugh, and I feel at home in their presence.  I start chatting up a small butch woman; soon we’re dancing and making out, and shortly thereafter I invite her back to mine.  As we walk toward her scooter, the guys I was chatting with hoot and holler at us, and I give them a big grin.  The vibrations of her scooter on bumpy back roads prime me for deeper pleasure, and I try to stay quiet later that night as she fucks me; she is an unregistered guest, after all.  She won’t let me reciprocate, but she spends the night, and in the morning she spoons me and works several fingers into me.  I grind backward into her hand while touching myself until I come in waves, pressing my face into a pillow.  We walk out together; the guesthouse workers shoot us curious looks, and we look straight ahead.

Bujagali, Uganda, 2017

Having spent the first month and a half of my Africa trip without a single travel sexperience, I could barely contain my libido.  When I spotted a muscular Aussie sitting alone with a computer at one end of the hostel, I struck up a conversation, keeping my fingers crossed.  He had a ton of stories and a wonderfully dry sense of humor, and we had good rapport – in fact, it was the easiest conversation I’d had all trip.  We both had other people staying in our dorm rooms, however, so I casually asked him if he’d still be around the next night; yes, he said.  I like to think I was breezy the next night when I approached him, but he could probably smell the “please please please fuck me right now”-ness on me.  We stayed up chatting until the other guests had gone, at which point I sat next to him and asked if he’d like to continue the conversation elsewhere.  I presented a challenge: that we fuck on every single bed in his dorm room (To everyone who stays in dorms and is grossed out by that, #sorrynotsorry).  No problem, he said; he used to be a professional athlete and had a LOT of endurance.  We vigorously and joyously boned in a different position on every bed, working up a hell of a sweat, and I came again and again and again.  It was that perfect one-night stand where you get along well and the sex is great, but you don’t like like them enough to want to see them again.  Sweet, sweet relief.  The hilarious part came two weeks later when I had another one-night stand with a German cop (it was bad, you guys), and over post-coital beers I found out that he’d happened to have met this Australian guy the very same day.

Which is to say: It’s a small, small world.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked
Normally I try to write a piece of fiction for Wicked Wednesday prompts, but this particular prompt is so intertwined with my real sex life that I couldn’t help but write non-fiction!  More coming on this theme…

 

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Steamy Windows on a Windy Morning

When The Engineer and I visited Ireland this summer, I had my heart set on taking a ferry out to the Aran Islands and renting bicycles.  We didn’t know how long it would take us to drive to the ferry terminal in the morning, so we arrived early; sitting in the car, waiting for boarding time to come and not wanting to go out earlier than we had to on a very windy day, we started kissing to stay warm.

The Engineer has these super luscious lips; he uses an obscene amount of chapstick, which means they’re always soft.  On this particular morning, as he was kissing me – long, lingering kisses – I started thinking about the way his lips feel brushing against my labia, and suddenly my cunt felt slippery and warm.  When I told him as much, he took it as an invitation and unbuttoned my jeans, sliding his hand down the front and into my cotton panties; he rhythmically glided his fingers up and over my clit, then down and into my cunt juuust a little bit.  As he continued to touch me slowly and steadily – just the way I like it – the windows started to steam up, and I leaned into his touch.

Several people passed by; our car was right in the middle of the car park, and I had zero fucks to give.  I got up on my knees on the passenger seat and put my hand on his shoulder, grinding into his huge hand and begging him not to stop.  The part of my brain that says “Have an orgasm now AT ALL COSTS” completely ignored the time and the people walking to and fro all around the car until I felt myself tipping over and gushing onto his hand; still kissing him, I breathed my climax into him and gripped his shoulder tight.  When I looked around the car to see all the windows completely fogged up, I laughed and thought, “Well, at least we’re not completely visible.”

We did make it to the ferry on time, only to find out that the waves were too high for it to run that day; fine by us, we said, and held hands on the way back to the car, chatting about potential ways to occupy our time.

 

The Basics

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gratuitous sex stories to come!

El Nido

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Transitions

I’ve mentioned this briefly in a lot of posts over the last six months, but here it is again for good measure: I’m leaving South Korea.

After seven years of living in this beautiful country that has become my second home, I’m packing a few boxes to ship back to the US and selling / giving away everything else in my apartment.  I’ll be leaving the country with one backpack, four crossed fingers, and a thousand memories.

Seven years.  Typing these words leaves a lump in my throat.  I’ve developed some of the closest relationships in my life here, and although the world is getting smaller and my friends are only a Skype call away, it’s not quite the same as hopping on the subway or walking down the street to meet someone for a beer spontaneously.  In the past few months, I’ve felt like George Bailey at the end of It’s a Wonderful Life because when you part from the people you love, you tend to tell them how much you love them. There’s a Korean word, 정 (jeong), that describes how I feel about Korea – it’s indefinable even in Korean and has no matching English word – but encompasses feelings of love, attachment, affection, community, and giving.  Korea sometimes feels like a big family, and I appreciate that more than I can say.

I’m nervous about going home… I’m expecting the reverse culture shock of coming back to the US to be much more difficult than the original culture shock of moving to Korea, especially given the current political climate! That being said, I have a LOT to be excited about – seeing family and old friends, forging a new and more meaningful career path, probably moving to a new city.  I’ll be traveling for six months (in Africa, Spain, and the UK) before I arrive in the US and definitely looking forward to grand adventures!  My future is uncertain, though: Will I be able to find a job?  Where will I end up?  Will I have to have roommates again in order to be able to afford living in the US?

Also uncertain is the future of this blog.  I don’t use my phone to do anything blog-related for privacy reasons, and as I’ll be backpacking, I’m not taking a laptop or iPad with me.  I don’t know how often I’ll have access to internet cafés or if the ones I come across will be places I feel comfortable posting in.  I will try to post / check into Twitter when I can in the next six months, but it’s likely that posts will be few and far between.

So before I embark on this journey, I’d like to say: I feel so incredibly lucky to be a part of this blogging community.  Writing this blog has given me an outlet to uncage a creativity I didn’t even know I had, and I’m grateful for that every day.  The ways in which sex bloggers support and encourage each other inspires me and fills me with joy.

I’ll be coming through Barcelona, London, Edinburgh, and Bristol this summer; if you happen to live in one of those places or know a trustworthy person who does and will provide a sleeping space on their floor in exchange for some good storytelling, please shoot me a message on Twitter or an email (@teachershavesex / teachershavesex@gmail.com) and let me know!  As you can imagine, traveling for six months is going to be pretty expensive, and even hostel dorm rooms add up!

I’ll be posting one more Sinful Sunday and one more non-fiction story before I take off; for now I just want to say thank you so much for reading (and for posting the hundreds of gorgeous photos and pieces of writing many of you do that put ideas in my head!).  May your 2017 transitions be positive and peaceful ones, and I hope all of you will experience your own grand journeys this year, even if they happen in your own home.

xx

Jo

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Can’t Always Get What You Want

On the last night of my trip this past February, I went out for dinner and drinks with a man I’d met in Laos and then accidentally run into in Thailand.  He was tall, handsome, easygoing, and very open; our conversation flowed effortlessly, and he made me laugh.  After a couple of beers, we started walking around the Chiang Rai night market and got caught in a rainstorm.  I said something inappropriate; he pretended to leave, and I touched his arm and said, “Stay here and kiss me instead.”  He smiled a very warm smile and said, “You know, I’m actually enjoying our conversation.  I’d like to just stay in the moment and keep talking if that’s alright with you.”  And OF COURSE it was.  We ended up drinking until 3:00 AM – past bar closing time – and laughing our asses off.  It was a fantastic night.  The kind of night where you share really personal shit with a total stranger because they’re a total stranger.
All of this is to say, as Girl on the Net did in a fabulous recent post: Not all men want to have sex all the time.  I can’t count all the times a male friend or acquaintance has said to me, “Ugh, you’re SO lucky; women* can just sleep with anyone they want any time.”  But the thing is, guys, we can’t. Because not every man is up for sticking his dick in any person that comes along, and the narrative that they are is ridiculous at best and insidious at worst.
This narrative that men are sex-crazed, testosterone-fueled horn dogs who spend all their waking hours thinking about how to get laid is damaging for both men and women.  First, it contributes to the “boys will be boys” narrative that is used to justify sexual harassment, abuse, and rape.  The idea that society (including lots of television shows and movies that we all watch and love) propagates that men are obsessed with sex and that’s just the way it is encourages men to buy into it and all of us to look the other way when they do.  When they don’t, they’re often mocked by their peers as being weak or feminine, which is bollocks.  I can imagine another guy from my trip saying to the man who told me he just wanted to spend time talking to me as a person, “Are you kidding, man?  You didn’t hit that?”  That.   

Second, if men are perceived as hormone-driven perpetrators of sexual aggression and violence, how does that affect how other people interact with them out in the world?  There has been a huge outpouring of grief and anger recently over two Argentinian women who were murdered while traveling in Ecuador; the news of this was followed by hundreds of internet comments from women saying they “should have known better than to travel alone” (even though they weren’t alone…) and basically that women should, for some reason, expect to be harassed when they travel.  ‘Cause, you know, that’s just what men do. 
As a solo female traveler, this fills me with rage.  Rage that women are being killed not only when they travel, but domestically as well.  Rage that anyone has the audacity to say they somehow had it coming because they dared to be independent and explore the world around them.
It also makes me reflective, though – people are always telling me that it’s too dangerous to travel alone specifically because I’m a woman.  But if they’re regarding women as perpetual victims, it means that they’re also regarding men as perpetual predators.  When I travel alone, I actually feel pretty safe because for the most part, people are looking out for me because I’m a female solo traveler and they’re worried about my safety.  People see me as a potential victim; does that mean they see all men as a potential threat?       
I do not automatically get to fuck anyone I want because I’m a woman.  Just like I’m not automatically a victim because I’m a woman.  Just like men are not automatically aggressors – nor will they fuck anything that moves – because they’re men.  We live in a more complicated world than that.
When we say that straight women can just pick up any guy they want whenever they want, we’re saying so much more than that.  While I would have loved to take tall, handsome, charming man home and ridden him like the dirtiest cowgirl, I am more than okay with the fact that he wanted to spend time getting to know me instead of my body.  That was hot. 
I know this is Serious Stuff – promise to write a filthy one next week.

*Of course, when they say “women,” they mean cis hetero women, which is a whole other rant.

Don’t Call Me Baby (NSFR)

I put on the only clean shirt and real bra I had, along with a blue, elephant-clad skirt (everything is elephant-clad in Southeast Asia) I’d bought as a souvenir in Myanmar.  I’d brought foundation and one pair of earrings with me on the trip for just this occasion: pick-up night.  I had a super nice hotel room; no neighbor to either side of me, a king-sized bed, and a real shower. 
Buzzing with excitement and anticipation, I set out for the one bar in town all the tourists seemed to gravitate to, bellied up to the bar, and ordered a whiskey and Red Bull.  I expected it to be a long night of looking around and talking to a few people, so when the very handsome gentleman (whom I’d not noticed) next to me said, “That seems like a dangerous drink,” I was thrown into momentary confusion.  He had a salt and pepper beard, a beautiful accent, and strong-looking hands. I thanked the universe (I’m sure Bill Nye would find this hilarious and / or annoyingand tried my best not to be an awkward, blubbering American.  
We talked for a bit and took our drinks over to squishy mats overlooking a river, where we continued with travel stories, laughter, and one more drink each.  When he suggested another, I suggested we go back to mine instead.  “You’re a strange fish,” he said, smiling.  “Yes,” I said.  “I know.”  On our way out, he suddenly wrapped his arms around my body from behind me and kissed my neck hungrily; I was a bit taken aback, but far more turned on.  He stopped me just outside the bar to kiss me again while onlookers hooted and hollered at us in the street.
I don’t remember the walk home; I remember him pushing me down on the bed as soon as the door was shut behind us, pulling my skirt and panties down, and immediately burying his face in my cunt.  I smiled a great big smile and gave him gentle direction, which he happily took.  He said I tasted great, and his tongue and fingers felt great.  He did have strong hands – he used them to build things, and I could feel their dexterity.
I pulled him on top of me to kiss him, his mouth tasting salty and sweet, his weight perfectly pressing me into my giant mattress.  I rolled him over and we sat up; I took his shirt off and softly bit his shoulder.  His lovely, olive, smooth, toned shoulder.  This is when he looked at me and said, “I’m not going to fuck you tonight.”  “Okay,” I replied.  “Why?”  “I’ve had a few drinks, and…” I unbuttoned his pants and pulled his (indeed flaccid) dick out from his boxer briefs and said, “… and you like having your cock in someone’s mouth even when it’s soft, right?”  Of course, he replied, and I playfully licked it for a while before taking it into my mouth.  Over the course of a few minutes – wonder of wonders – he became hard, and I continued to go down on him, delighting in feeling his cock grow inside my mouth, his veins now standing out, him now standing up next to the bed. 
I have chronic jaw pain, so blow jobs aren’t my favorite thing; that being said, I’d happily be a pillow princess for hours, so I try to be fair.  I tried to work him with my hands, but he told me to take them away.  Fair – some guys just aren’t into the use of hands as part of blow jobs.  If it weren’t a one-night stand, I would tell him about my jaw pain… but I didn’t.  I was having fun, and the pain wasn’t too bad, so instead, I said, “You might like this,” and laid on the bed on my back.  I hung my head off the side of the bed and leaned it backward so he could slide his cock all the way to the back of my throat; he loved it, and I loved how excited he was.  Until:
“Yeah, baby – you like my cock in your mouth, don’t you?  Oh baby, that feels so good.  I love fucking your mouth, baby.”
That stopped me cold.  I’m not sure if y’all are aware of this, but I am a grown-ass woman.  I am not a child and I’m certainly not an infant.  I get that there are people who use this word as a term of endearment – I do too, with people I’ve been dating for months – but when someone I don’t know calls me baby, it instantly feels skeezy and cat call-y.    
I kneeled on the bed, my cunt still slippery but my mental boner gone, and whispered into his ear that I wanted to feel him inside of me, thinking I could salvage the moment.  He grabbed a condom from the bedside table and rolled it on, but shortly after we started boning, he lost his, too.  He said it was the condom; I said that was a bummer, but no condom means no penetrative sex for me.  I realize that at this point we could have done a million things; we could have continued playing, kissing, touching each other (touching ourselves).  Instead, we opted to sleep and give it another go in the morning.
We did, and it was great.  We woke up at 6:00 am and fucked like champs, not saying anything but making the bed (and each other) squeak and groan.  We lay in bed for a short time after, chatting quietly, before he kissed me goodbye and stole away into the morning.
A few times the night before, he’d teased me for using “sex educator” language (barrier, STI, etc.), which I think may have been as much a turn-off for him as baby was for me.  We were hardly a perfect match, but we still had lots of fun; our communication also wasn’t perfect, and that’s okay.

For me, one-night stands open the doors to sexual partners I’d never date, and that’s why I love them.  They are exciting and fun and always interesting, and this grown-ass woman hasn’t regretted a single one.  Even when they call me baby.  

Brand-Spanking-New Toy

Not the sexiest picture, perhaps, but the things I’ll do with it are sure sexy!

I bought this for $0.75 in Kalaw, Myanmar, in an open market; it was hanging above a selection of fruits and vegetables.  I have no idea what its intended use is (any thoughts?), but I already got a good whacking with it from a one-night stand (it’s stingy, but pretty low-key).  He delighted in having me hit the soles of his feet with it, which was exciting to me – I LOVE having the soles of my feet hit with any impact toy, and it was nice to meet another person who enjoys the same kink.
I’m also keen to have someone use it as leverage for a hard fuck – to wrap it around my body and pull me against them as hard as they can.  To keep at it until they’re panting and exhausted and sweaty and we collapse in a fuck heap.  I’ll probably have bamboo splinters, but I’ll be so full of orgasmic dopamine that I won’t care!  
Seriously – what is this actually supposed to be used for?
Thanks, Myanmar!  Other travel photos to follow…
P.S.  I ATE RATTAN, and it was delicious!  I’ll be thinking about it every time I come across a cane… or a cane comes across me.
See who else is playing this Sunday…

Sinful Sunday

Happy Endings

Back from vacation!  Woo!  Back from white sand beaches and blue-green water and beautiful – stroke – delicious fish!  Wait a minute… blerg.

So I was lying in bed in a dorm room in the Philippines a few weeks ago, trying to sleep, when my roommate came in very respectfully and quietly.  A few moments after he lay down, we heard two drunk guys coming down the street, talking loudly; they were stopped by someone with a feminine voice asking them if they wanted a massage.  At three-thirty in the morning.  “Six hundred pesos for one hour,” the masseuse said.  “Ah, yes,” said the guys.  “Maybe.”  The masseuse continued: “Maybe you’d like a special massage?  If you want a happy ending, of course, it costs more.” 

At this point my dorm mate and I both bolted upright and stared at each other, mouths agape, not believing out ears.  If we could hear this conversation, then no doubt everyone in our hostel and everyone in the guesthouse these guys were staying in across the street could also hear the entire conversation.  My dorm mate looked out the window: “They’re ladyboys!” he exclaimed.  He recognized them because they’d been hitting on him all night at the bar. 

“Okay, okay… wait,” said the drunk guys.  A couple of minutes of silence passed before they came back and gave money to the masseuse.  “Two people,” they instructed.  Then: “Room four.”  And just in case the masseuse or the entire neighborhood didn’t hear them, they repeated: “ROOM FOUR.”  As a friend of mine later put it, nothing was lost in translation.  I wanted nothing more than to knock on their door the next morning to ask how the massage went, but my better judgment regarding manners told me that might have been a bit tacky (but SO MUCH FUN). 

Mountains and beaches are beautiful and all, but moments like this are the reason I travel. 

Let us go into your hotel…

A couple of weeks ago, I was walking down a very narrow dark alley toward my guesthouse in a small city in Southeast Asia when I was silently approached from behind and tapped on the back.  I spun around to see a young man nervously clutching a paper in his hand.  He looked at the paper and read from it: “Can I come into your hotel and interview you?  Let us go inside it will be more comfortable there.”  I walked out into the main alley where there were streetlights and people and asked him to repeat himself, not 100% sure I’d heard him correctly.  He followed me and read the same sentences again, motioning inside and starting to move toward my hotel.  “Hold on,” I said, holding up my hand in a universal stop position (it’s probably not actually universal, but I think he got my drift).  A friend of his then magically appeared out of the shadows; they exchanged a few words, and the friend mysteriously melted back into the dark alley from whence he’d emerged. 

I looked at the young man, concern furrowing my eyebrows.  “You want to interview me?” I asked him. “Yes,” he said.  “Are you a student?” I asked.  “Yes,” he said.  “How many questions are there?” I queried.  “Yes,” he stated. 

Oof. 

I then asked him to hand me the paper, and allllll the questions included were about sexuality.  Now, if you know me (and some of you do), you know that I’ll talk about sex pretty much anytime with anyone.  But this was weird.  The questions included:

Have you had a boyfriend or husband?
Do you have a husband or boyfriend now?
Have you ever kissed a man?
How many men have you dated?

It got more risqué from there, until the last two:

Have you ever had sex with a man you didn’t know?
Would you mind if I touch you?

What. The. Fuck.  The questions weren’t actually written in grammatically-correct English; I wish I’d taken a photo of the paper, but it seemed awkward to say, “You can definitely NOT come into my hotel, but hey, mind if I take a picture of your questions real quick?”  Some of the questions had non-English words randomly thrown in — probably where the translating app / software couldn’t find a direct translation.

I told the young man that these questions were too personal for me, and I wouldn’t do the interview.  I looked apologetic, but I was really thinking, “HOLY SHIT.  Does anyone really do this?  And how do they feel as the questions get progressively more sexy?  Eek!”

Has anyone else experienced anything like this?  My guess is that it was his buddy who put him up to it as a way to score with foreign women, but who knows?  Thoughts?