by Sandy Lowe
***
I had the best sex of my life in Thailand. I was twenty-four and had come with a bunch of friends to celebrate finishing university. It was one of those notorious full moon parties on the beach. So many details of that night are still so vivid. Sipping god-awful Thai whiskey out of a little sandcastle bucket. My feet shuffling in the sand to the sound of pulsating beats fighting to be heard over the roar of the waves and the wind off the sea. The feeling of elation and achievement for being the first in my family to graduate.
I remember the moment I saw her. There was a troupe of fire dancers performing. All young Thai guys aged thirteen to twenty-five, most likely. They were amazing. But they also scared me with their seemingly reckless bravado, juggling flame, creating ever more daring stunts and pieces of pyrotechnic performance art. They were throwing a flaming baton to each other across the makeshift dance floor set up in the sand, and there was something about the way her arm raised; suddenly I could see the tiny but unmistakable swell of her breasts, and it was like an instant rush of heat as I looked closer to scrutinize her face, her throat, her hands, her hips, to confirm her femaleness. Despite her close-cropped hair and boyish clothes, she was definitely a woman. Hanging out with guys and literally playing with fire.
I was hooked. I couldn’t stop staring. And she must have noticed because when she needed a volunteer for her act, she came right to me. Offered me her hand and a crooked smile. My friends hooting loud encouragement, I walked onstage, ready to do just about anything she asked. She gestured for me to sit down in a chair and mimed over the music for me to put a cigarette in my mouth. I was a smoker then, which I find really hard to believe now, but it was much more common then and I was twenty-four and stupid, what can I say? She came close to my face and yelled in my ear, “Don’t move. Just breathe.” Then she lit two flaming balls and danced them all around me dramatically, before making them whirl in a fast spinning circle in front of my face, right before the cigarette. I got that I was supposed to light the thing, but I was so scared I could barely breathe, despite her instructions. I was sure my hair was going to catch fire any second. I managed to light it, though, and the crowd erupted in laughter and applause. She stepped back and made eye contact with me. Kind of smirking. Amused. I took the cigarette out of my mouth and laughed. I didn’t know what else to do.
Then the music changed and they brought out a limbo pole all lit up in fiery red Christmas lights, and I lost her in the shuffle of the crowd. My friends all jostled to my side, carrying on about how cool that was, so I turned my attention back to my gang and our quest to make epic party memories. I drank more. I danced more. I watched the sky in awe as a dry lightning storm lit up the horizon over the Andaman Sea, but no rain fell. It was magic. Powerful. All the elements in play: wind, water, fire, earth. I felt incredibly alive.
That’s when she grabbed my hand. The fire dancing was over and the dance floor had long been reclaimed by partiers, so I was surprised to see her. She led me away, past the DJ to a closed side stall of sorts. She sort of pushed me against it, then stood back and looked at me strangely.
She stepped closer, put her hand on my waist and said, “Yes?” with a rising inflection.
Those were the only words she ever said to me: “Don’t move. Just breathe.” And “Yes?” Because after I nodded, there were no words. Just her hands moving confidently on my body, the left cradling the back of my head as she kissed me, the right grabbing my ass beneath my skirt. I’ve returned to this moment so many times in my mind that I could tell you every little thing that she did in order. But it wasn’t really about that. It was about that moment. In my life. In that place. With this stranger whose name I never learned. It was how receptive I felt to what life had to offer. How open and trusting and adventurous I felt to pleasure. Well, that’s what I think now at forty-one, but probably at twenty-four, it really was just how fucking talented she was with her fingers and mouth. She knew what she was doing, and though I knew I was proving true every stereotype about slutty foreigners, I came hard and loud in the protection of her arms, under a distant purple sky, lit up with lightning.
So it’s really not so surprising that I returned here, so many years, so many heartbreaks, afterward. Well, one particularly difficult heartbreak afterward. I fled here in a perfectly banal middle-age crisis, I suppose. Just up and left. Didn’t tell my family or friends, and signed a two-year contract to teach overseas. It was cruel but it felt necessary. A viciously abrupt break. Like Sandrine did it. Just walking out after seven years with little more than, “This isn’t working for me anymore,” as explanation. I’d moped around, floundering for a time, but once I bought the plane ticket, somehow I could breathe better. I had a plan. However irrational. But it was only irrational superficially. I had given up so many pieces of myself over the years to make Sandrine happy and I didn’t even notice. Didn’t even mind. Now I wanted to remember who I was, and when I thought about my life, and where I had felt most free, most pulsating with youth and certainty of who I was and what I could be, it was here. So here’s where I found myself again.
Except this time, I wasn’t celebrating achievement. I was mourning failure. I wasn’t young, carefree, and confident. I was middle-aged, stressed-out, and uncertain. Which is probably how I got myself into this awkward situation. It was laughable. Pathetic really. How could I possibly be so stupid as to wind up in bed with someone half my age having truly awful sex? She was so obviously flirting, and it confused me, but it also felt good to be wanted. And maybe that’s what I needed. Maybe I was like an old car battery that needed a boost of youthful energy. So I invited her home with me. And now I was naked, and regretting it, and trying to speed things along without faking an orgasm because I refuse to do that on principle. It’s a personal rule that you’ve got to earn it. And she will never earn it with her tiny hands and strangely robotic movement: moving her fingers all the way in and then all the way out, all the way in and then all the way out, like they’re on an automated timer for a Fuckomatic Z10. Yes, this is what I’m thinking about as she fucks me.
She asks me, “You like?”
I dodge the question, saying, “I think you’re very sexy.” Great. Now I’m diverting her attention from the problem like she’s a freaking toddler. I’m having sex with an incompetent robot toddler. I’m drying up like a desert here and it’s about to get even more awkward. I have to do something. I tried giving some direction earlier and that wasn’t well-received. I tried to touch my clit and that was also shut down.
“I know what you like,” she said.
Great, I’m having sex with a bossy, incompetent robot toddler.
I need to make this work. Save face for both of us. I need sexy thoughts. I start to flip through my mental masturbation book. Lesbian nuns? No. Dirty dyke mechanics? No. Ruby Rose on a motorcycle? Overdone.
It’s time to pull out the big guns. The Olivia cruise orgy fantasy. Oh yeah. Never fails. Here we go. I’m on the sundeck by the pool. My random imaginary girlfriend is with me. We’re topless. Women are making out and making love all over the place. It’s a delicious dyke-o-rama on the open seas. All kinds of women. All ages, races, different kinds of beauty, everywhere you look. My girlfriend is holding me from behind as we watch. She plays with my tits. She whispers in my ear, “You like watching all these women fucking?” “Yes.” “You want me to fuck you too?” “Yes.” Okay, now we’re getting somewhere. I can feel my pussy becoming slick again. But can I come this way? I return to the well-worn fantasy. “You want them to fuck you too?” “Yes.” This usually does the trick. Because in my real life, besides a few youthful indiscretions, I am not particularly sexually adventurous. I’ve always been in long-term, monogamous relationships and I haven’t been with very many women. So in this fantasy, when my girlfriend holds me from behind, whispering in my ear, while other women put their hands on me, it’s thrilling, risk-free fantasy fun. No consequences. Just excess. She’s there, strong and firm about what they can and cannot d
o to me. And I can be as greedy as I want. And I want to fuck them all. Every dyke beautiful in her own way, with her scars and her courage and her stories and her unique sexiness. In this fantasy, I offer myself to all of them, because it’s not real, but really hot.
What isn’t hot is how my current real-life lover is now slurping on my pussy. And I don’t mean it metaphorically. She is literally making slurping noises, which I know signifies that something is tasty in Asia, but I still can’t handle the sound. Dammit. I was getting somewhere too. Maybe I should just break my rule this once, throw out some When Harry Met Sally–style shrieks and be done with it. But if I can ignore the slurping sound, it does actually feel good, what she’s doing with her mouth. I could work with that. So just finish. Just finish the fantasy.
So I do. Enter the captain. In big bold letters. The captain of the Olivia cruise vessel. Top dyke. It’s my fantasy so it can be as ridiculous as I like, and it is. She’s wearing sailor pants and no shirt. Her tits are tiny and firm. Her arms are awesomely tattooed and absolutely ripped with taut muscles. Her hair is graying and close-cropped. She’s tanned. She’s muscular. She’s power embodied. And she walks the decks of her ship with her arms behind her back, observing. Occasionally barking out orders, or more rarely, doling out praise for a particularly impressive move, position or orgasm, for those lucky enough to sail on her ship. She watches me. Watches other women’s hands on me. And that’s always when I come. I can never even get to a point where she fucks me. She just watches me. And our eye contact. The heat between us. Her physical proximity. The possibility. Her body. It puts me over the edge every time, and today is no exception. I finally come, happy to be finished, and push Kanya away from me.
Kanya looks at me expectantly. Expecting what, I’m not sure. And suddenly I feel ashamed of my judgment and selfishness. She’s young. She’s made herself vulnerable. And she’s beautiful. Truly a handsome, strapping young baby dyke, or Tom as they call them here (short for Tomboy). I look at her and feel desire rise inside me. I want to please her. So I do, going ear-deep in pussy as I described it earlier. And it’s transporting and transforming in ways I didn’t expect. It feels invigorating to be knowledgeable and capable of providing so much pleasure this way. It’s like…It’s like finding my own power again, and as she comes over and over on my face, on my hands, with messy exuberant passion, it’s like remembering things I forgot, things I used to be: strong, free, confident, full of possibility. Deeply alive.
I had the best, and the worst—and the most transformational—sex of my life in Thailand.
On Her Trail
Renee Roman
Renee Roman always dreamed of being a writer. She spent her childhood hours immersed in the worlds she read about. Her passion and perseverance paid off with her debut novel, Epicurean Delights. When not writing, which isn’t often, she enjoys time with her wife, family, and friends.
The Appalachian Trail in Maine was unforgiving. Why Shay had chosen it over hundreds of other possible destinations was anyone’s guess, but she believed her motivation was self-inflicted punishment. Not that she didn’t enjoy a little spanking now and then. Giving or receiving. But honestly, what the fuck was up with this trail?
Her bright idea of needing to rejuvenate and free her overtaxed, overworked mind by getting away from everyone and everything demanding her attention had sounded perfect. A long-overdue vacation to search for what she wanted out of life and how to get there. To ponder the things she had once viewed as important but which no longer seemed to matter. No phones. No texting. No computer screens. No internet.
The first day had been nearly perfect. Low seventies, no humidity, and a gentle breeze to keep her cool. The clear azure sky reminded her of the ones she loved seeing as a teenager after a snow storm, when the white blanket brought a hush over everything and the only sound was the low calls from the birds. After a fairly gentle trail and camping out on a bed of pine needles near a hillside shelter, she’d felt fantastic.
Fatigue had served her well, guaranteeing sleep after she’d removed the rocks poking her ribs. Of course, the dream of being in her sleeping bag with a curvaceous, attentive woman hadn’t hurt either. Neither did the climax she’d achieved in record time. The next day had been cloudy and cool. A decent day for hiking. Today was a different story. The dappled sunlight that poked through the thick deciduous trees, many of them maples, had changed to full-on sun as the growth changed to evergreens as she ascended the hills that turned into mountains.
Earlier this morning the heat had offset the chill from the cool morning breeze. Now it beat down on her without mercy. After the relative ease at the start, the steep slopes and rolling rock outcrops made her breathe through her mouth. The tiny pond where she was supposed to refill her water sack had little to offer. The thirst Shay tried to ignore grew. It wasn’t smart not to listen to her body, but she’d turned a deaf ear to it for so long, this was just another time. Except it wasn’t. Instead of seeking banal pleasure, it was crying out for survival.
“Stupid.”
She wiped the sweat from her brow, her eyes stinging from the salty brine. She’d consumed yesterday’s water ration twice over, convinced there’d be more in the next hour, or two. Two turned into three, then nightfall. And while she managed to locate the shelter of a lean-to along with an outhouse, there weren’t any supplies to be had. She searched anyway.
Shay picked up her near-empty water pouch and took a small swallow. It was hardly enough. The map shook in her hands as she braced against a tree while she tried to get her bearings. Her original goal of over ten miles was out of reach. She’d overestimated her ability to endure the elements and made foolish mistakes. Her body was already paying the price.
Now she questioned her choice of a challenge. I signed up for this? Why hadn’t she taken a cruise? Or signed up for a spa retreat where she could be pampered and possibly get lucky? Hell, even a working ranch would have been easier than this. She might even be riding a woman right now, or one could be riding her. A slap of the crop would likely get a response. She let the vision sweep her away and her sex tightened in response. Yup. Should have taken a cruise. Then she remembered why she’d picked a solitary adventure in the first place. No boss to bark orders and no customers demanding satisfaction. And, sadly, no woman demanding her attention either. Her choice, but still.
Her BFF was the only person who knew where she was. With her luck these days she might end up slipping off a ledge and breaking some bones, spending her last days in agony rather than pleasure until the pain was too much to bear and her body shut down. The melancholy that plagued her the last few months was a passing phase. One she’d get over sooner or later. She was lonely. Her job was a dead end. Her life boring at best.
And now she was lost. She didn’t want to admit it. Somehow she’d veered off the actual path and ended up on animal-made trails. She headed back out in the direction she guessed would put her back on the trail. If only she could be sure. The walking stick helped pull her along. Her heart pounded in her chest and blood rushed in her ears. The sweat that had tormented her earlier ceased and she knew she was in trouble. In her current state, she forgot all the rules in her ATC book, not bothering to check the map or compass. She stumbled forward. Twenty yards. Fifty. A hundred. Vegetation brushed her ankles where there should have been none. The path narrowed, then disappeared.
“Fuck.”
Okay, okay. Don’t panic. They were the last conscious thoughts she had.
***
Shay fought through the layers of cotton filling her brain. Cool air blew across her body, caressing her skin. It was a welcome relief from the heat she’d been in—how long ago? The memory of dropping to her knees came rushing back. The last thing Shay remembered before her world had gone dark for good was a curtain of long black hair hanging over her, and the shadows created by the blistering sun obscuring the owner’s face.
She lay on a soft, thick pad. It was heaven after days of sleeping on the gro
und. With her eyes still closed, she told her body to move and found it reluctant to respond. She groaned at the stab of pain in her head when she tried to sit up.
“Slowly. Let me help.” Strong hands supported her back, guiding her to an upright position.
She squinted against the harsh light and choked back a wave of nausea, focusing on the kind, feminine voice reassuring her. Shay swallowed the bile rising in her throat and tentatively opened one eye. A woman knelt beside her, her tan face framed by long, shiny black hair.
“How…” Shay croaked. Her throat was too dry to swallow and there was no saliva to help.
The woman lifted a cup to her lips and she gulped the sweet nectar. It bathed her parched throat, bringing instant relief.
“Thank you.”
The woman nodded. “You’ll be fine. You were dehydrated.” She stood and moved to a small table. Her entire body was tanned and void of clothes.
Shay looked down to find her own clothes missing and liked the freedom of her nakedness.
“What’s your name?” the woman asked while she packed food into containers and slid them into a small chest that she then lowered into the ground before covering the opening with a board.
Under Shay’s appraising gaze, the woman smiled. She was close to Shay’s height of six feet, with honey colored eyes. Her round breasts were perfectly proportioned to her curves and her rosy nipples puckered under Shay’s stare. Flat stomach muscles twitched above the black triangle of short hair covering her mound. Shay’s clit came to life. A trickle of arousal pooled under her and she fought the urge to touch herself.