Even the misses make for a good story!
I’m a queer, pansexual, polyamorous human. A very sexual being. At the turn of the new world (just before COVID), I consciously decided to do sex and relationships the way I wanted, and without fear.
What do I want? Lots of sex – with lovers who can be friends.
Friends like – a lover I can go dancing with; a lover to fuck and make art with; a Monday afternoon lover; a lover who lives someplace I love to travel to; lovers who will write me songs like Despacito… (I’ll always write back. Trust.)
I want to be adored and pleasured and inspired. I don’t need any of these lover-friendships to last forever. Time isn’t linear and I know where my forever lies. I’m already whole by myself.
In addition to lovers who can be friends, I’m on a mission to raise my body count (yeah, I said it!) to as high as it can get over my lifetime.
Inspired by Tomas, the main character in Milan Kundera’s book, The Unbearable Lightness of Being, who when asked about how many women he had been with, responded, “…two hundred, give or take…”
Tomas is a man with all the male privilege in the world, but even he feels compelled to defend his answer, “That’s not so many… Divide 200 by the 25 years I’ve been *fucking and it comes to only eight or so new women a year” (*paraphrased).
My current average is about four new people a year for the 10 years I’ve been sexually active. I do keep count and I speak about it loudly and boldly to defy, disobey and disrupt the patriarchy. Shame has no place here.
It makes my heart ache to hear Beyonce sing in Mood 4 Ever that she’s “keeping down her body count…” (eye roll). This kind of messaging keeps us trapped in familiar but unsatisfying sex loops out of self-imposed shame and the fear of judgment.
I opt-out. I choose free (and brave).
Discovering and embracing my identity outside the (heterosexual) binary opened me up to a whole new world of possibilities. Knowing what I want makes it easier to go out and ask for it. Makes it easier for the universe to do its thing too!
My ‘Almost Lovers’ are people I met, had mad sexual chemistry with, but we didn’t fuck, for whatever reason. I feel compelled to tell their stories too. Here goes:
Mr. Fine One:
I remember their first day. They took off their shirt and shoes to work. I sat by my window all afternoon taking them in. Licking my lips, thirsting hard. They are fine as fuck. Even their name loosely translates to ‘fine one’.
I touched myself as I sat there watching them, taking in their strong, defined arms and torso. Watching those core muscles work overtime as they dug away, body glistening in sweat.
The second time they came around, well, you already know – me by the window, their dripping fineness, my dripping pussy.
On this day, we shared a cigarette after work. Sitting there, quietly smoking our smokes, looking out into the distance, I don’t know about them, but I was busy thinking about the next time they came around…
…when I’d invite them inside to wash up. I’d wait for them as they came out of the shower, to lead them to my room. I’d take off my clothes and touch myself, and have them watch me like I’d been watching them. And then, if they wanted to, they could… dot dot dot.
I finished my cigarette, said goodbye (and good job!), and took my thirsty self inside.
The next time never came because I moved cities shortly after.
Grateful for the fantasy.
The Fuckable Who Got Away:
He showed up as a short-stay Airbnb roomie.
I love those moments when you’re just casually hanging out, smoking a joint, talking about anything and then you lock eyes and you both feel the wave of sexual energy at the same time. I love the promise such moments hold.
Of course, he chose then to tell me about his fiancée back home. Didn’t change anything for me. In the words of a former friend, a person is only unavailable when they’re dead.
Take one: we hosted some friends for drinks and games. A few of them stayed the night so I gladly gave up my room and slid into The Fuckable’s bed. In my mind sex was a sure bet.
Except it wasn’t. We did everything but sex (read: dry humping). He wouldn’t even kiss me. Unfortunately for him, that just left me feeling like ‘challenge accepted’. My vagina vowed to wear him down.
Take two: alone in my room, talking, drinking, smoking some weed, filling the room with lust and want. When I’m sure he won’t be able to resist (we’re looking at each other, he is breathing heavy, I’m dripping wet), I move in to kiss him. Nope, he won’t let me.
Instead, he brought out his camera, took my clothes off, and photographed my lust. He captured my face, eyes burning fiercely with want; my taut nipples, just begging to be licked. The best shots were of my wet vagina; I’d never really seen myself like that. He was so into it, he was sweating and panting as he gave me instructions for each shot.
I still can’t believe he barely touched me. What self-restraint!
He edited the pictures overnight, gave me copies the next day, and then he moved out early. Turns out, I was succeeding in wearing him down and he was determined to not give in.
He restored my faith in humanity (for about a minute).
Once again, I’m grateful for the memories. After all that, he had better be happily married.
It seems like Lamu Babe and I are fated to have 5-minute sprints of time together.
Our first five minutes were in the car home after drinks with friends. We’d known each other for about a week and had a great vibe. So when she sat next to me I shot my shot!
“I want to kiss you,” I whispered in her ear.
“Oh yeah?” she said, and then proceeded to kiss me. Yes, please!
We kissed and kissed. I was only wearing a t-shirt (don’t ask) so she easily found her way to my vagina and fingered the fuck out of me. I found her (pierced) nipples and sucked the fuck out of them.
It was glorious. I can still hear her whisper “bye baby” in my ear. Mmmh…
Our next 5-minute rendezvous was a year later, at a New Year’s party. We found each other just when I was freed up to play and she was getting ready to leave. It was very quickly and wordlessly decided that what we started before needed a follow-up.
“Can I pleasure you?” she asked. I love that she made sure to get verbal consent.
And pleasure me she did. I lay there moaning and writhing and trembling. The orgasms came fast and urgently.
And then she had to go. Sigh.
I think I’m in love with her.
The Cute Zanzibari:
He turned the corner and we locked eyes. He had beautiful blue eyes, and a very sexy, very seductive smile. The connection was instant and highly sexually charged. Except…
I couldn’t form two words around him. I would see him and walk up to him, say hello, and then lose all speaking functions. Seriously, I still don’t understand how or why.
When I finally asked for his number, I chickened out and sent a text instead of calling. That was a fail. The first contact should always be a phone call. Learn from me. Always call.
I don’t blame him for not texting me back.
However, I know I will see him somewhere, someday and I will redeem myself.
I refuse to go out like that.
All the sex in the world is ours for the taking. Be bold and be unafraid. And most of all, know what you want.
Next time, I’ll tell you all the stories of some of my greatest hits!