I've moved (er... I'm working on moving. It seems to be a lengthy process...) my blog over to WordPress.
YEA! Now everyone can comment! Hahaha.
I've redirected my domain to my WordPress site; but you can also find my new website here: http://teachershavesex.wordpress.com.
Tuesday, August 9, 2016
Late last summer, I made an attempt to get an IUD placed as I’d recently stopped using condoms with The Texan; things didn’t work out so well. I wanted a copper one, but the office I went to didn’t have any, so I opted for the Mirena instead – but when my gynecologist tried to place the IUD, my cervix was so narrow that she couldn’t get the tube in. She said I had two choices: come back again when it was a better time in my cycle and my cervix was more open and malleable, or sit around and get my cervix dilated. I hightailed it out of there and said I’d come back later.
During that appointment, she said I should go off the pill; I never asked why. Instead, I kept taking them until The Texan left in December, after which I finally went off after twenty years of hormonal birth control… and I waited. I wanted to get my IUD in during a period when I knew I wouldn’t be having sex (the highest risk of infection comes in the three weeks after placement), so I waited until one partner was gone for the summer and another one was leaving Korea AND timed it so I was both off work that day and in a place in my cycle that would be conducive to a slightly more open cervix. Sheesh.
Women who have IUDs have lots of feelings about them; some love them and some hate them. I did as much research as I could; determined not to go back on hormonal birth control, I found a hospital that had a small copper one and set a date. It was my first time seeing a male gynecologist; I thought that would make me nervous, but it didn’t. What did make me nervous is when he showed me a uterine sound and told me he was going to insert it to check the depth of my uterus. And after that hurt like a son of a bitch, he then told me that he was going to need to dilate my cervix a little with bigger sounds to get the insertion tube in. Eek! I consider myself a strong person, but that didn’t stop me from crying a bit and saying “OwowowowOWOWOWowowow” over and over. It made me feel completely in awe of any woman who has actually pushed a human baby out through her cervix. He told me to relax. Ha! “I’m going to put this metal stick into you – so you know, just relax.” That being said – it worked this time! Hurrah!
|"It can't hurt that much, lady."|
Day one was pretty awful, not gonna lie – lots of bleeding and cramps. Days two and three involved lots of bleeding and almost no cramps; days four and five were reversed (the worst cramps I’ve ever had, but very little bleeding). So… we’ll see. Is it worth it as a backup method? I’m still using condoms with my partners as I have more than one, but I really don’t want babies. I like having a just-in-case birth control method. And who knows? In a year or two I may end up with a partner with whom I decide to bond fluids.
Oh, and that whole gynecologist wanting me to go off birth control pills thing? I asked this doctor about it and he said, “Yeah, you shouldn’t be taking the pill for more than two years at a time.” WHAT. Thanks for telling me that, no gynecologist I’ve ever had. He then said gravely, “You should probably get a mammogram – extended pill use is linked to breast cancer.” “But I’m only thirty-five,” I said. “Do it before you leave Korea,” he retorted. (Korea has amazing health care – the kind where you can just walk into any office any time without an appointment and it’s cheap AF. My copper IUD was only $100; in the US it could easily be $500.) So it looks like I’ll be getting a mammogram this year… at thirty-six.
On a complete tangent, I found this amazing website where someone documented his partner’s cervix through actual pictures the first month after she got her IUD in; it’s completely fascinating!!! It made me feel better knowing that other people have experienced the same things I’m experiencing (and likely will be for the next month or two… ugh). I’ll make a full report on my first post-IUD penetrative sex later and I promise it will be much hotter than talking about mammograms and sounding.
 A note on the articles I read while researching: IUD placement seems to be quite different in the US than here. I got no Misoprostol, no numbing agent, no prior STI tests or pregnancy test… pretty sure my gynecologist didn’t even wear gloves.
Saturday, August 6, 2016
I live in a loft apartment, making the shoot from below prompt a snap; I shot more saucy photos, but I like the suggestion behind this one.
I also have some glorious photos I wanted to share taken underneath love motel ceiling mirrors, but they feature partners whose privacy I respect. Perhaps that warrants a trip to a love motel solely for the purpose of taking pictures under a mirrored ceiling...
Tuesday, August 2, 2016
|Photo from www.wisconsinhistory.org|
For the third day in a row now, Mari could feel eyes caressing her back as she unlocked the door to her office at Ambrosia. She’d only started there a week before; she assumed it would be like her previous HR jobs, but it was so much better. She remembered being a child and smelling the chocolate factory from her school bus as it rumbled through freeway traffic every morning; now she inhaled deeply, turning the key in the lock, and paused for a minute to feel it course through her before briefly turning back to see if she would catch someone looking at her through the glass that separated office workers from the factory floor. All the machine operators and assemblers, however, had their eyes down or forward, making sure everything continued to move smoothly along conveyor belts and into boxes.
By lunchtime, she was starving. Walking past the other offices on her way to the parking lot, she looked over the factory floor to her right and noticed a woman she hadn’t seen before writing on a clipboard nailed to a post. The woman was tall and muscular – or at least she looked so in her white coat – and suddenly she looked Mari directly in the eye and smiled, tilting her head a bit. It was a genuine smile, full of curiosity; Mari could make out bundles of black hair under the woman’s hair net. She wondered briefly what it would be like to take the hair net off and run her fingers through the woman’s silky hair; the invasive thought caught her off guard, and she tripped over a snag in the hallway carpet. Collecting her purse and shaken, she looked again for the mysterious woman, who had turned around and started moving a machine behind her. Mari blushed and hurried on her way, holding her purse tight and her breath tighter, her heels soundless on the carpet.
She lay in bed later that night, thinking again of the amazon. Imagining her strong arms (god she looked so strong) picking her up so that Mari’s thighs gripped her obliques and placing her on the small desk in her office, deftly working one hand up Mari’s thigh and snaking her fingers under Mari’s panties and into her wet cunt, the other hand pulling one of Mari’s small breasts out of her camisole so she could slip the taut nipple into her mouth, her long black hair falling in waves over Mari’s face. Her hair that smelled like chocolate. Her breath that smelled like chocolate twirling up through Mari’s nostrils as she leaned in to kiss Mari with full lips, making her moan from her diaphragm. She rubbed her clit in circles, coming in undulations as she felt the woman’s tongue and fingers and body weight.
She came in early the next morning, wearing a red blouse and a bit of blush, which she never wore to work. Shortly after arriving, there was a knock on her door; “Come in,” she said, staring at the green and black computer screen in front of her. “I hope I’m not bothering you,” a husky voice said from the door frame. She didn’t need to look up to know. Her heart felt like the Kool-Aid man bursting through a wall; she swallowed and lifted her eyes. “I wanted to introduce myself,” said the woman, confident and direct. “I’m the forewoman on the floor; I thought it would help to know someone’s name in case you needed to talk to anyone here about paperwork or other unresolved issues.” She strode in, took the latex glove off her right hand, and extended it to Mari, sliding it perfectly into Mari’s small hand, her skin smooth. Her skin that smelled like chocolate. She held Mari’s hand in hers for longer than necessary, her eyes searching for Mari’s and her hand making promises. “I’m Tanya,” she said with her beautiful lips, Mari barely hearing the words, seeing in her mind her own hands on Tanya’s face and Tanya’s lips on the nape of her neck. She felt warm and full as she made it through the words “It’s nice to meet you, Tanya – I’m Mari.” Words like peanut butter in her mouth.
“Let me know if you have any questions,” said Tanya, again with her engaging smile. “You know where to find me, I believe.” She strode out, but not before turning to say, “And by the way – you look great today.” Cocoons opened throughout Mari’s body as she held her balance against the swivel chair behind her. Yes. This was so much better.
As an aside, the Ambrosia chocolate factory is a real place; Jeffrey Dahmer worked there while he was mid-killing spree. He lived eight blocks away from my elementary school while I was a student there – I remember his trial well because it was the biggest local news story for months.
Sunday, July 31, 2016
I never buy lingerie, but when I saw these stockings with a back seam AND attached lacy panties, I couldn't resist. One of my partners (I should give him a nickname...) was very pleased when I opened the door in them! This photo was taken immediately beforehand; the stockings didn't stay on for long, but the heels went back on...
Wednesday, July 27, 2016
Seven years ago, I walked with some trepidation into a tiny shop on the third floor of a commercial building; it was up a narrow staircase, and I had to ring a buzzer at a heavy door with a tiny window to get in. I only knew this place was there because other foreigners told me so: “Look for the interlocked male and female symbols,” they said. Walking past masks, fake blood, face paint, props, and various other costume pieces, I saw what I came for: sex toys. Well, sort of. Everything was covered in a fine layer of dust and had Japanese writing on it; it all looked very old, as though it had been smuggled in via Soviet Russia. There weren’t very many products – a fake pussy here, a crop there, a couple of PVC dildos. Pornography is illegal in Korea; adult toy stores are highly frowned upon and hidden away, and I think they can only be open as novelty stores. Anything considered “obscene” by the Korean government can be confiscated by customs; the Korean version of Amazon does sell a limited number of items, but only on its Korean-language page. and shoppers must submit a phone number for age verification.
|A bit like these guys...|
But back to this store. The older man with greying hair behind the counter lowered his glasses and looked me up and down before asking, “Vibrator?” I nodded and walked toward the counter. From behind the glass, he brought out a huge rabbit and told me the price: 100,000 won. Nope, I said – too expensive. I was just looking for a cheap way to get off quickly. He then brought out, in sealed plastic wrapping in a tiny box one egg vibe, bright yellow and transparent. 20,000 won, he said. Sold. I know this is outrageously expensive for a cheap plastic egg vibrator – but seeing as how Korea is lacking in feminist sex-positive sex shops, I took what I could get, and I got down.
I had that vibrator my first two years in Korea; it never blew my mind, but it did the trick! It was a traumatic time in my life, and that little vibrator meant waves of relief when I desperately needed it. Every time I go home to the States now, I make several trips to my local superhero sex store and stock up, very, VERY thankful that I have all the vibrators at my disposal that I could possibly want (and that nothing has been confiscated by Korean customs). And dammit, I want them all.
I’m a fan of rumbly over buzzy; of patterns over continuous vibration; of silicone over… well, everything. I use vibrators mostly when I want to get off hard and fast; if I’m in for a long wank or am highly aroused and lubricated, I prefer my hands and a dildo. That being said – I bought my first vibrator on my eighteenth birthday (it was pink and had hearts all over it – triple ugh) and have never looked back.
I bought my mom a vibrator (maybe that’s what this post should have been about!) for her 55th birthday after she confided in me that my father wouldn’t touch her anymore… and she shed tears of joy when I said that every woman had the right to experience pleasure. She called to say thank you the following week, and we never talked about it again – but I know it made an impact on her to know that her daughter had her back. We should all have each other’s backs when it comes to the right to self-pleasure. Maybe when I move back to the States, I should make it a point to mail all my friends in Korea vibrators for their birthdays – I’ll just write “novelty item” on the customs slip.
Saturday, July 23, 2016
Saturday, July 9, 2016
Staying at a friend's house near the beach this week; the view has inspired me to pick up a guitar after eight years of not having played... and it feels like I've reconnected with something in myself that I didn't know I was missing. Hope he's okay with the fact that I've been playing his guitar naked (among other nude activities...).
I'm popping over to Japan for a week, so I won't be posting next Sunday - have a beautiful week, you lovely perverts!
Tuesday, July 5, 2016
Michael, now rosy-cheeked from several shots of soju, was laughing harder than he had in a long time. He liked it here. His new coworkers, all just out of college like he was, urged him to flick the tin bit attached to a soju cap they were passing around as part of a game. The two people seated next to whoever could manage to flick it completely off had to take another shot. As he pressed his middle finger hard into his thumb and concentrated on the slim piece of metal, a plate arrived in the center of the table, placed gently down by a hand with slender fingers. Michael followed the arm up with his eyes to see a beautiful young man; he felt his breath catch in his throat.
“We didn’t order this,” said one of his coworkers, pointing to the plate of sliced pears on the table. “주문 안했어요.” “네,” replied the young man. “서비스.” Michael looked at the coworker, confused. “He says it’s service,” she told him, “meaning it’s free. Sometimes that happens – part of the magic of Korea!” This sparked a conversation around the table of unexpected appearances of service food and how you’d never see that at home.
Michael, suddenly a bit dizzy, stood up and politely excused himself. “Bathroom’s back there, mate,” said a coworker, pointing to a metal door next to the kitchen. “Outside.” Michael walked just a bit unsteadily back to the door, pushed it open, and felt grateful for the rush of clean and cold night air that surrounded him. Better. He spotted the bathroom; while walking toward it across a slab of wet concrete, he noticed smoke coming from the side of the small, grey building that housed a squatter and urinal. Peering around the side, he saw the young man who’d brought them the pears, casually leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, smoking a long, thin cigarette.
The man looked over at Michael – or rather, he looked Michael over. He smiled and nodded slightly. Mesmerized, Michael walked over to him and stood in front of him momentarily, not sure what to say, his breath now shallow and hard. “담배?” the young man asked him, holding out his pack of cigarettes. Michael shook his head. His eyes dropped to the stranger’s fly, where they stayed fixed for a bit, then slowly climbed back up to meet his eyes.
All at once they were both fumbling with his belt, his button, his zipper; Michael reached into the man’s briefs to pull out a semi-erect cock. The flesh felt smooth against his palm; he could feel the stranger’s veins as he stroked the shaft before dropping to his knees and taking it in his mouth. He couldn’t take it all the way back; he continued to stroke the base while getting as much of the cock into his mouth as possible, making his mouth wet with saliva as he rhythmically pushed the head past his lips, to the back of his tongue, and forth again. The young man didn’t last long; he was he was soon groaning and pumping Michael’s mouth full of warm, salty cum. Michael licked the last drop from the tip of his dick before standing up, holding the stranger’s face for a moment, and briefly kissing him. The stranger eagerly kissed him back and sighed, zipping up his pants.
Michael strode back through the door into the restaurant and sat down among his new friends. “You okay, mate?” one of them asked. “You were in there for a while.” “I’m great,” he replied, his cheeks rosier than before. Things wouldn’t be so different here.
This was inspired by the last Flash Friday prompt at F. Leonora's site; it didn't fit the image, but it was the first thing that came to mind when I read the word service.
Saturday, July 2, 2016
This photo was an accident, but it ended up being my favorite of the bunch.
I'll be leaving Korea in February and returning to the States; I'm having a lot of mixed feelings about this major transition in my life, as I've been here for seven years. I have a strong community and roots here, but I don't feel like my work is having any impact on anyone, and that's not why I became a teacher. I'm homeward bound in less than a year; moving toward half of the people I love and away from the other half. Toward my motherland (la matria?) where my blood and my heart lie, and away from so many people who have a huge place in my heart. Talk about change.
As an aside, I took this photo at 6:00 am next to a temple, and a monk saw me in my skivvies, sooooo... that happened.
See who else is changing...
Tuesday, June 28, 2016
The first time I fucked a friend who I had zero romantic (or sexual, for that matter!) interest in was on New Year’s Eve, 2002. I don’t remember why we left the party and went back to his place; likely we were outside smoking together and he said he needed to get something, so I opted to go with him. We were both drunk, but not too drunk – just drunk enough to be warm and aroused. The night was still young – not quite midnight.
We went into his bedroom to get whatever it was he needed to get, and then… honestly, I don’t remember what happened next. I remember we were kissing, and he was smiling, and then we were in the shower, and then we were wet and fucking on his bed. I remember discarding a condom wrapper on the floor and laughing about how no one was missing us. I remember how nice it felt to be intimate and sexual with someone without any expectation that it would happen again but also with care for each other’s feelings and pleasure because we’d known each other for years; how I didn’t worry that it would affect our friendship. I didn’t think about where it would go or what I should do to make him happy, because I just wanted it to be what it was in the moment – an authentic connection, a mutually-enjoyed sensual experience. Every time I saw him afterward, we would share a secret smile that said, “Thanks – that was lovely.”
I’ve been thinking about this lately because I recently opened up a couple of friendships into sexual relationships, and both have been truly amazing. I've always been strict about compartmentalizing my life; I suppose I still am in some ways. But I refused to mix friendship and fucking because I was always afraid of hurt feelings. Now that I’ve had my heart broken a couple of times in the past few years (and I mean really fucking broken), I’m not so afraid anymore. I’m still here. These broken hearts have improved my communication skills and opened my heart and body to new ways of experiencing love, friendship, and intimacy. I definitely don't want to fuck most of my friends, but when I do, it feels like a safe space in which to explore, to feel sexy, and to be cared for without so much on the line.
Also, one of these new friends with benefits is a service sub, and how can you say no to that?
Saturday, June 25, 2016
Wednesday, June 22, 2016
Jack sat cross-legged next to their tree and shook the bright-red foil-covered package playfully. “Bigger than a cock ring,” he mused. “And you know that’s all I really wanted for Christmas.” Rita laughed from her recliner, her curls bouncing slightly with each convulsion of her body. “Just open it, jackass,” she retorted.
He ripped the paper carelessly, threw it aside, and opened the lid of the small shoebox inside to reveal a dull orangeish-red View-Master. “You got me a toy?” he asked. “Is it from the Penney’s catalogue?” He picked it up to inspect it more closely, noticing there was a round photo slide reel inserted in the top. “If this is a snuff film, I’m going to be very upset,” he told Rita with a smirk. “Let’s hope it’s not, then,” she replied.
Jack took off his large, square glasses and held the small toy up to his eyes, bringing into view a photo of Rita clear as day – Rita in the same flannel robe she was wearing at this moment, standing in front of him, looking into the camera while untying it. He grinned and took the View-Master away from his eyes. “You’re a clever - ” he began, but was startled to see Rita standing in front of him in the middle of their brown shag carpet, beginning to untie her robe. He laughed. “I see,” he said. He held the plastic stereoscope to his eyes once more, felt for the lever on the right side of it, and pulled.
The next photo featured Rita with her robe draped around her shoulders, revealing a scarlet teddy that hugged her curves. He felt the blood rush to his cock as he looked at his wife, looking back at him through the lens, looking back at him hungrily in real life as he took the toy away. “Red is your color,” he said huskily, now excited to see the next photo.
He pulled the lever again to see Rita looking over her right shoulder with a wicked smile, her nipples hard and visible under the thin fabric, her robe now around her ankles. Jack looked into the corner of the image to see what she was looking at, and his breath caught in his throat – standing in the doorway between their living room and the hallway was their neighbor, Rob. Tall, lean, and confident, he had one hand on each side of the doorway, looking back at Rita.
Jack glanced the photo quick as lighting for what he was hoping to see – and there she was, standing in the other doorway connecting their dining room. Carol. They had always called Rob and Carol “The Golden Couple” because of their deep tans and golden hair. The four of them grilled together on holidays when they weren’t required to be with family; they played tennis together. They laughed at each other’s jokes and eyed each other’s spouses when they thought no one was looking. Suddenly, Jack had a memory of sitting in bed with Rita one night not too long ago, talking in hushed tones about their fantasies. About what they wanted to do before they had kids. Jack had said that he often thought about what it would be like to be with the most perfect couple they’d ever known – did Rob have a golden cock, too? Was Carol’s bush as honey-sweet as her hair?
Overwhelmed with sudden nervousness and desire, Jack lowered the View-Master to see Carol standing to his right in a men’s pajama top and soft blue cotton panties, biting her lip and breathing hard, her hand on her stomach. His eyes moved over to Rob, still standing in the doorway to his left, shirtless and smiling at him. Finally, he looked at Rita, whose eyes burned and flashed as she nodded ever so slightly. He brought the stereoscope back to his eyes slowly and once again put his index finger on the lever, his cock now straining against his own drawstring pajama bottoms.
He pulled. There stood Rita with her legs spread shoulder-width apart and Rob on his knees in front of her, pulling the crotch of her teddy to the side to lap at her glistening lips, blooming and red like the satin against her skin. Behind her, Carol had one hand cupped around Rita’s breast and the other pulling her auburn curls away from her shoulder to brush her lips against it, sending chills up and down Rita’s body.
Jack let the toy tumble to the floor.
Saturday, June 18, 2016
Photo courtesy of Holden and Camille
Welcome to Elust #83 -The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you're looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it'll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #84 Start with the rules, come back July 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!
~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~London Crows and London Kisses
I am Her. She is Me.
You Say You Want to Cook for Me
~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~Unusual Liaison
Community. Respect. Friendship. Fucking.
~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~Dirty Little Secrets
Thoughts & Advice on Sex & RelationshipsMy Bed
My therapy from “hard limit” to “want”
We Measure the Nostalgia
The Cure and The Cause
EventsSmut in the 6ix - Porn Conference & Gala
Erotic FictionTyping Errors
La Belle Dame
Sex and chocolate
The Imprisoned of HIM-HER-THEM
The Gift audience Becca’s Story
Rope and Fixtures
As salty as his cum...
Dominating the Doctor
Erotic Non-FictionTeen Sex in Woolly Tights with 60s Beat Music
Dear Sadist: Your Cruelty Is Your Love
A male dom, the straight girl and the bi girl
Owned, Leashed, & Beaten
Jan 2015 Owned & Collared by Mistress Claire
Rinse The Days Filth Away
Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & HumorFormative Kink Epic Fail: "Buck Rogers"
Thoughts & Advice on Kink & FetishIf it was easy anyone could do it
What's a service submissive?
Writing About WritingWhat if aspirational meant something else?
Tuesday, June 14, 2016
This happened a while ago, but it just popped back into my mind recently. Luckily, enough time has passed so that I now find the humor in it! You can see the original what he said / what I heard (and its origin story) here.
Sunday, June 12, 2016
Some days, you just can't stop wanking.
It's been a rare week for me; I've played with three different partners this week, and instead of satisfying my desire, it's just stoked the fire. I want more. It's been one of those days where I think I've decided that I just want to spend the rest of my life naked in my living room and have rotating lovers come in to please me. Sounds like a good life, no?
Tuesday, June 7, 2016
In the past year, I’ve come to really love my pubic hair after having a partner (The Texan) who didn’t want me to shave it, ever. It was as if having permission to let it grow out – a permission that stemmed from desire - allowed me to experience how good it felt. I love the way it feels physically when I push my fingers through it, how protective it feels, and how it’s come to be symbolic of a love that embraced a natural version of myself, just as I am. For so many years, I’d shaved because I thought that was what was expected of me – I lived with the razor bumps and itchiness and never stopped to consider my own feelings. It took a partner’s preference to make me reflect on my own.
I thought about writing a narrative piece for this, but when I think of pubic hair, several small and fleeting moments and memories pop into my head all at once, disjointed:
- a friend with benefits refusing to go down on me (that didn’t last long) because he thought shaved vulvas were pre-pubescent in appearance and it freaked him out;
- the first time I saw a shaved cock and balls and how much it freaked me out. I didn’t say anything, but I was surprised and a little bit turned off. Obviously not surprised anymore, but it's still not my thing;
- a former partner who loved having her pubic hair tugged, just a little, while being eaten out, which was super hot;
- randomly finding The Texan’s pubic hairs all over my apartment and smiling every time, even weeks after he left;
- experiencing the different textures of the hair of different partners and relishing those differences
- running my fingers through the soft mound of hair that grows and grows when I travel (along with some pretty luxurious armpit hair, which I also really like growing out);
- burying my face in a partner’s pubic hair after particularly sweaty sex to deeply inhale the scent of our fucking
Maybe that’s it. Pubic hair catches the smell of us moving together in sync. Maybe that’s why I’ve come to love it. Or maybe it was finding one hidden behind my couch and suddenly remembering riding him, wave after wave of orgasm crashing down around me. What was once a burden is now a deep well of pleasure, a replenishing source of desire.
Sunday, June 5, 2016
I didn't have time to take a photo for the prompt this week (the end of the semester is always busy); however, I remembered that I had an old photo taken in my apartment years ago before heading to the Dore Alley Fair in San Francisco. I had a friend visiting from Wisconsin and taking her to Dore on a leash was absolutely delightful... especially given that I was hiding a secret under my leather skirt. You never know what's underneath, ladies and gentlemen, unless you ask politely.
For other secrets, click the lips below!
Tuesday, May 31, 2016
We met on the street, sitting on a curb, drinking cans of beer that were sweating as much as we were. It was Seoul Pride 2013, and we were both waiting for friends to group up post-parade (back when the parade went on as scheduled without a bunch of dickwad protestors either lying down in the streets in front of the floats or trying to block it on permit regulations); she was cracking jokes about the lesbian organization in my city, and I was giving her shit about where she lived. Soon after we started talking, my friends hollered at me that they were headed to dinner; I said goodbye, smiling at her, never expecting to see her again.
I was surprised and delighted later that night when, rum and coke in hand, she strode up to me on the dance floor in a Hongdae gay bar, her tall, lean figure bathed in strobe lights. She had swagger. She looked down at me, smiled a broad smile, and said, “It’s good to see you here.” Likewise, I told her. As we danced, the floor began teeming with undulating bodies, strangers holding each other by the waist, grinding against each other. I put my drink aside so I could place my hand on the small of her back, eventually sliding it down onto her ass; she had the same idea, but her hand found its way into my back pockets, then into my pants. She crouched a bit and I stood on my tiptoes to kiss her – a strong kiss, fueled by alcohol-induced confidence. I snaked my fingers into her dreads and held onto her head, kissing her deeply, wanting more. She moved her hands up the front of my shirt, cupping my breasts; we moved our bodies in sync to DJ-spun electronic music while exploring each other.
Forgetting that we were in the middle of a crowd, she slid her right hand down the front of my jeans now, into my silky boy-cut panties, over the soft mound of hair that I’ve come to love and into the folds of my labia, gently moving her fingers forward and backward, dragging my fluids up and over my clit before finally pushing two fingers into me, pressing upward and inward. I moved my whole body against her hand, begging her not to stop, continuing to move with the music. She fucked me harder with her fingers, making me gasp and moan into her ear; no one else could hear me. Perhaps no one else noticed what was going on; even if they had, I wouldn’t have cared. After I’d come onto her fingers and my body was quivering, she slid out of me, dragging her fingers up my cunt, out of my panties, and around my waist, then kissed me again.
We went outside for a smoke; I finally asked what her name was (“Excuse me – now that you’ve had your hand inside of me, perhaps you could tell me your name?”), and we had the Standard Korea Expat Introduction Conversation. She came with me and my friends as we went onto the next bar, and we continued to dance for hours. She walked home with us when we finally stumbled out of the Pink Hole (yes, that’s the actual name of the bar) at dawn and asked to come in, but as I was staying in a dorm, I said no; we left it there and said goodbye, kissing outside of my hostel.
I don’t remember her name, and I doubt she remembers mine... but I remember her hands.
Happy Pride Month, everyone! Go out and have sex on a dance floor.
Saturday, May 28, 2016
Tuesday, May 24, 2016
It’s something when you read his words and know in your core that you have to meet him now. You feel like there’s a force compelling you that you can’t understand.
You masturbate three times the first day you do meet.
When you shake his hand, you feel alive like
lightning leapt from his fingertips into your palm.
On your first date, he holds your hand across the table before you ever kiss.
Every time you go to send him a flirty text, you see he’s already sent you one –
It’s waiting there to reach in and hold you.
He tells you things you’ve been longing to hear for years and
You feel loved.
Really, truly loved in a way you have been aching for but ashamed to tell anyone you wanted.
You feel seen.
After years of feeling inadequate, invisible –
You feel seen.
You feel like your body is burning when he so much as crosses your mind.
You feel carried by the wind and immersed in light.
You feel weightless, in orbit, going far too fast for gravity to catch you.
You laugh together like children with a shared secret language
You love each other with abandon
You explore each other’s bodies with a sacred fever and
You hold each other so hard you start to melt.
When it’s something, you know and
You want to shout it like gospel.
It’s over when months have gone by and he hasn’t said I love you.
You send racy photos, and he never acknowledges them.
The only question he asks is a cursory and disinterested, “So, how was your weekend?”
You send him a birthday present
A housewarming gift
A Christmas present
All of which are used but unappreciated by word or deed.
He starts using euphemisms when talking about going on dates: “I have a meeting.”
The only time he misses you is when he needs your unfaltering emotional support.
When a shoulder isn’t enough big enough.
Then he calls you crying and drunk twelve times in a row while you’re working, saying,
“I wish you were here.”
You make him a video on the one-year anniversary of the day you met – the day you felt alive and couldn’t stop touching yourself thinking of the possibilities between you – sending it to him with flutters of excitement and joy, and
So you feel like nothing.
The days go by and you start losing your colors, like a rare and brilliant maple leaf withering from a branch.
When it’s over, you know.
It’s just that sometimes don’t want to say it aloud,
or even whisper it,
Even when you know it will release you.
Even when you know that leaves grow back.
Sunday, May 22, 2016
Inspired by the photography of Dani Oliver. Desperately wish I had a black room and a photographer (or a model)! I couldn't choose just one...
I have so many more... this will be a two-parter!
For more colorful photos, click on the lips below!