it hasn't always been that way...
Back in the day, before Zoe Yang started her stint at
McKinsey & Company, she was at Ponoma College,
where she caused quite a stir as a sex blogger.
Sex columnist Zoe Yang had some explaining to do after she wrote
a column she wrote last week that described how she used to do a little
role playing with her former boyfriend. I'll save you the sexually explicit
details and just say that Ms. Yang likes to pretend she's a Vietnamese
prostitute and her boyfriend is an American G.I circa the War Against
North Vietnamese Communist Aggression.
Zoe Yang blogged about sex and drugs (but not, AFAIK about rock n' roll).
Two of two happened one weekend night towards the end of the semester. C and I stayed in for some reason, and we decided to smoke. The week had been tough and we both needed to relax. I don't love weed; I always feel stupid for days afterward so I rarely touch it. But if there's one thing I do love about it, it's how it makes sex 80 times better.
When I give massages when I'm high, I put on music with a strong, steady rhythm, and I end up almost hypnotizing myself with the task. I knead like some master baker, only more creative with the body parts I use. Did you know that elbows are particularly excellent for working the deep tissue of butt muscles? I can tell how the person under my me feels because my whole being has melted into his skin. People tell me it's the best massage they've ever gotten. I also often dance when I'm high, just moving and spinning by myself for hours.
Sex usually follows massages and dancing - which often becomes lap-dancing, and it's the same investment in physicality. I hear meditation is supposed to make you more aware of everything happening inside you and around you. Stoned sex is like meditating, like the nerves in my brain have migrated into more pleasurable places and all my little body parts are as obscenely sensitive as tentacles.
The sad thing is, my memory of that night in April (or was it May?) is really, really hazy due to the same culprit. Weed giveth and weed taketh away. It probably did start with a massage. My memory begins with C sliding down my body as I lay back, too lazy to dissuade him. As with Malcolm, I had held off on letting C put his face in the general vicinity. Guys usually don't put up much of a fight when you grab their cocks and tell them you'd rather fuck.
His mouth was tentative, but at least he knew where to put it. Together, we explored: "harder," "suck..." "yes, like THAT," Through the green veil, everything felt sharper, slicker, better, like I was seeing a porno reel of what we were doing in my head and the nerves were juicing from two different places. A small tingle appeared and disappeared in my abdomen and I realized that maybe, just maybe...
"If you're doing it right, she should be humping your face," the sex educator from Babeland had announced to over 100 students gathered in Walker Lounge earlier that year. "Your entire face should be wet and your eyelashes should be like, gumming together afterward." Her words were the ones I recalled as I realized I had laced my fingers around the back of C's neck and was smothering him in my cunt. I was amused by the memory, but also briefly distracted. I pushed it away and returned to the possibility at hand (or mouth).
With Malcolm I hadn't dared move or even touch him, to say nothing of gyrating with abandon. He had been sweeter and sexier for the restraint his presence induced from me. It was a first, and with him I'd felt like a virgin. But C was my steadfast consort. His role in my life was not intrigue and adrenaline but a vanilla sort of pleasure, regardless of how kinky the sex itself was. A very delicious, but very safe flavor.
So even though holding his head and grinding against his mouth was probably the girl-on-guy equivalent of blowjob handlebars, I didn't worry about it too much. He pulled back slightly every few seconds to catch a breath. Pressure, I wanted to tell him, I need pressure like the pressure of your pelvis against me when we're fucking. I'm pulling you in harder and deeper because your mouth isn't cruel enough. I'm shivering because I'm close, and I can no longer say this in words, but whatever you do, don't ease up on the pressure.
But maybe the antithesis of pressure works too. In the end, it was mostly the sucking that did it - his lips and teeth a tight seal around my clit and some sharp intakes of breath and I was gone, digging my toes into the mattress and pushing even harder up against him to wring out every last shudder. I was making up for last time. This time I could definitely say, yes, I came, I came so hard I truly could not stop myself from screaming even though I tried, for our neighbors' sakes.
"Damn." He sat up slowly and gingerly dabbed his nose and chin with tissues.
"Haha sorry, I guess I kind of smothered you."
"That's ok. Just...wow." His expression was dazed awe. I didn't have to reiterate that it was only the second time I'd come from oral for him to treat my orgasm like it was special. I liked that. I deserve that.
Zoe Yang blogged about her "daddy issues" (though, note, she WAS drunk at the time...)Drunk blogging is 80 times worse than drunk-dialing or drunk-texting. How self-indulgent of me, to let my whiskey-unleashed id scamper across the keyboard like that. Last night's post was one I hadn't planned on sharing until we'd been acquainted a few moons longer/never, but since the sentiment is out, I might as well elaborate.
I have Daddy issues. He made me feel generally inadequate all my life. I've never gotten close to friends, but I spill my guts to the person I'm fucking. That person is usually emotionally unavailable, because that's the type I need to prove that I am adequate and worthy to. That person is invariably no more capable of understanding me than anyone else in my life, but at least he can make me feel better by putting a penis inside me. When we break up, I cut him out of my life completely because he knows too much, and I find myself another. Repeat. That, my friends, is how sexual dependency is born. Even though I talk like it, I am not the poster girl for healthy sexing. Moving on.
A recount of last night:
Lawry party with about 100 people too many: 1
Sober striptease that didn't end in sex: 1
Sloppy sex hours later that I was too drunk to clean up: 1
Zoe being at the right place at the right time: 0
Drunken coeds, oedipal issues, bad grammar, cum...it's all here, folks!
Oh, and there were lotsa picsSo without further ado, here are moar of Zoe Yang's sex blogs--
just to help you guys before you email her for a date (Jingaling@gmail.com
according to her blog), you'll know what turns her on...
First things first, though: Zoe Yang says she "sucks at giving head":
Here's the thing: I suck at giving head. I blow at giving head. I sputter and choke at giving head. I was with M for six months before I got him to cum from oral. It took weed and perseverance. I successfully gave C head the first two times I tried, and then embarked on a record of failing. He attributes the early successes to embryonic-relationship nervous excitement and says he needed "those bouncing buttcheeks" of sex thereafter. With most other guys, the first few times were misses before I learned how to deal with their sizes, shapes, and rhythmic preferences. I can usually produce consistent results after that, but no one's ever told me I was their best.
Ok, maybe saying I suck and blow at head is a convenient exaggeration: I am merely mediocre. I'm not clumsy but my mouth is small and my back teeth are a nuisance. I've tried to deep throat but I get teary-eyed and as far as I can tell, I don't have a gagging fetish. My tongue doesn't rasp but it's also not pornstar slurpy. I find it awkward to look up at a guy when I'm giving head. It strains my eyeballs.
I'm not looking for tips on technique (although I think it'd be funny if everyone posted demonstrative videos of themselves fellating inanimate objects). I prefer to figure it out as I go rather than read another tutorial - they're too hard to recall when there's an actual cock in my mouth. I still love giving head and no guy has ever complained when I've headed south, either. I'm just sayin': no membership in the Wonderhead Club here, but plenty of preening narcissism anyway.
---C left to jaunt around Thailand for a month. That's what happens when you get your shit together (read: a job). So with no one to even talk to on the phone, I find myself desperately rifling through the memory drawers for fantasies to fulfill my hunger. Kind of like the little beggar girl in that fairy tale who dreams of Christmas feasts by lighting matches and dies in the cold when her last match burns out.
I think this is my favorite memory of us:
Right before his weekend SCIAC tournament for tennis, he warned me that he wouldn't be having sex for a couple of days. Something about sex draining his sharp competitive edge. I think they should just bottle testosterone in Gatorade, but I had every intention of being supportive of his moratorium. Tennis means a lot to him, and I could stand a few days of fun teasing followed by post-win sweaty sex.
So I don't really know how I ended up getting bent over his desk the night before the big match. I know it couldn't have been my fault; some guys just can't handle lapdances. Anyways, we started out playing Just the Tip, deluding ourselves that it was really Just Enough. I broke first, not able to withstand the teasing and pushing myself back onto his cock as hard as I could.
It was hot. I love fucking a taller man standing up. I have to be on my tippy-toes, every muscle in my thighs clenched as I thrust my butt as high as I can to meet him. In that position, everything in me is tight, and I could put a hand on my abdomen and feel his cock inside me. We fucked slowly and deliberately, making every stroke count. It wasn't long before he pulled out fast and exhaled deeply, trying to rein himself back in.
"Don't fucking cum." I commanded. "Don't you dare fucking cum." He pushed himself back in and continued fucking. We carried on like this for a while: every ten seconds, he'd pull out and pause while his cock turned shades of purple I didn't know existed. I was panting, he was breathing hard, working to get the rhythm of his body back under control.
But that was the fun of it - knowing he was losing control. And I alternated what must have been maddening statements - "Fuck me, fuck me harder, don't fucking stop," and "Don't fucking cum, think about tennis, I'm not going to let you cum."
I dragged him to the bed. Only one of us was getting an orgasm out of this. As he ground against my clit, my moans quickened his pulse even more, and every time I teetered on the precipice, he'd pull out, barely able to stop. I could feel the head of his cock throbbing against me every time he paused, and I knew the pauses were accomplishing less and less.
"Make me cum. Don't stop until you make me cum."
Sweat beaded his forehead, and as for me, I was incoherent, murmuring demands as we played deeper into taboo. It was the purest form of teasing. Every five seconds now. I was so close, so close I began clawing at his back, willing him to stay inside and thrust against my clit until I could shake out hard spasms around his cock.
"You better fucking stop after I cum all over you."
"Whoooooo," every time he pulled out in exhaling agony was a triumph. I wanted to rattle the bed, I wanted to see how long he could last, and I wanted him to be so pent up the next day he'd be slamming every sphere that came in his direction.
Finally, the familiar sinking, twisting feeling started in my tailbone and spread throughout my body. I tried to keep quiet but it was impossible; as my screams crescendoed he tried to disengage one last time. I grabbed his hips and bucked, refusing to let him go. It was with tremendous effort that he managed to rip away from me, whispering, "FUCK, I'm cumming..."
"Damn, I almost made it," he smiled ruefully, examining the constellation of cum across my stomach and breasts. My pussy ached from being robbed mid-orgasm, of clenching around empty air. It was a delicious feeling.
"I'm sorry." A half innocent, half apologetic smirk from me. I really was, a little bit.
"It's alright. There was so much buildup that it really didn't take much out of me." I couldn't have agreed more.
But I guess it worked out perfectly, because we did it again the next night, exactly the same way
Sluttier still...
...
Cock ring gets an A+
I decided I like anything that turns a penis into a power drill. C 2.0 was harder, longer-lasting, and vibrated in time with each stroke (don't know why that happened actually). The ring also framed everything quite nicely down there - the bow on the package, so to speak.
Stripper post now has pictures, which K took in our "couples-friendly" fitting room. Do I look better in dark or light colors?
...
I feel like a cat in heat. The doctor had said I'd be getting a heavier period than normal, but I hadn't anticipated every symptom being magnified. First, the PMS depression, and now, an antsy, jumpy friskiness. It doesn't help that it's a hot day. My skin prickles and my head feels clouded and heavy with a dull, almost pleasurable throb. I can't sit still, much less do work.
This morning...
I wake up next to C but we're not touching. I don't sleep well when I'm actually sleeping with someone, and more often than not we'll drift apart during the night. I look over at him. He's so tan in the morning light, brown hair wavering towards gold, arm and chest hairs an even paler shade.
Bzzzzz. His phone buzzes. Instinctively, he slaps it quiet without really waking up. Here's my chance. I'm never patient, and our interactions are built on a foundation of me constantly being annoying at him, so I reach over and tweak his nipple. He's so used to it he barely raises a lazy hand to brush me away. Hmmm. I grab his arm and fling it over my shoulder, essentially squirming my way into small spoon, pushing my butt against his crotch.
"You're like a fucking radiator," he murmers, maintaining the cuddle but scooching back a few inches. Eyes still closed. This isn't working. I sigh, pretending to give up. I move away as well, and flip over so we're facing each other. Slowly, gently, I run my fingertips up his arms, across his upper back, around his neck, down his chest. I trace circles and spirals on his stomach and kiss the nipple I tweaked moments ago. I let my own nipples brush his abdomen. Minutes pass, and I never intensify the pace or pressure in my fingers and mouth. It's a type of hypnosis I'm trying to perform, lulling his body into pleasure before his brain can decide against it. Finally - a stirring in his boxers. Bingo, you do catch more flies with honey. I smile and turn my back to him again.
This time, he wraps an arm around me, cupping my breast in his hand. He starts kissing the back of my neck, my favorite place to be kissed. I slip my panties - white cotton bikini with a touch of pink lace at the thighs - down a couple of inches, just enough to expose the curve of my ass. He strokes my butt and then squeezes hard, a definite urgency to his touch now. I'm moaning softly even before the first firm slap. Spanking is somewhat Pavlovian for me - all it takes is one palm strike to my bare ass to turn me into a puddle.
Slap. The thing about spanking is that it's all about timing. I like it slow, measured, and deliberate in between and on top of regular foreplay. C has gotten the hang of it recently, all by himself. He surprises me these days with the conviction behind his rougher moves. Right now, he continues the slaps while never letting up on kissing my back and sinking his teeth into my shoulder. Once in a while, a sharp tug at my hair to bring my head back closer to him, further exposing my neck to his mouth.
I pull his cock out of his boxers and start slowly stroking, rubbing the head against my butt. The halting movement, the friction, is awkwardly pleasurable, so there yet not there. We squirm together, radiate heat together. Everything I feel is made of sun, sweat, skin, and circles. I tug his boxers off altogether, while he pulls my panties to my knees. I slip him between my legs, where everything is wet, and we slide against each other in delicious frantic torment. I'm going crazy, trembling as I weave my legs around his to leverage our pseudo-strokes. It's so close to the real thing, yet so incomparably inadequate. I briefly entertain the notion of dragging him to the shower and fucking his brains out, period be damned, but this is too much fun.
Many delirious moments later, I slow my hips, winding down without climax, rolling away playfully.
"You're evil." His cock is starkly red against the rest of his tanned body.
"I'm not evil, I wanna have sex too."
"You're evil because you get pleasure out of this." True. I've always liked to tease, no one more so than myself. But then again, that's why I find myself sitting here, writing erotica and once in a while clambering onto C's lap to bug him (“Jeez, you’re insatiable today”) instead of being productive. It's going to be a long few days. If I run into you, forgive me if I seem spacey
...
Most of the outrageous sexual things I did for the pure sake of their being outrageous, I did freshman year. As all freshman years in college should be, it was a year of firsts. The first time I smoked pot (the first time I did any drug, actually), the first time I drank regularly, the first time I fucked in the mail room...
Ah, the old mail room. Back before the SCC renovation, you could swipe into the mailroom at all hours. Everyone talks about the Honnold stacks as the place to have clandestine public sex on campus, but the mail room is where it was at. There's nothing quite like walking home from a party up north, stopping in the mail room, and having your skirt hitched up and your boobs pressed up against those rows of cold little boxes...
And it wasn't even too risque - it turns out not many people check their mail at 3am. One night, my partner and I, tipsy and still in that flirtatious bantering stage of our fuckbuddyhood, were heading back to Harwood from Mudd's Seven Sins party (I mention this party because as Lust, I was in a slutty black dress and looked like a streetwalker) when we crossed Marston Quad and decided to climb that horizontal propped-up tree. We sat in the tree for a while, not talking much, just looking up at the stars. It was very late, and in the time that we were up there, no one else walked by the Quad. As we were climbing back down, he turned to me and said,
"Let's have sex."
"Ok." I guess we were both feeling cocky (ha ha) from the mail room escapades.
"Wait, really? I'm totally calling your bluff."
I shrugged. "I thought you were serious."
"I am serious."
"Ok, let's do it."
So, businesslike, we dropped our pants right on the grass in the middle of the Quad. He was on top of me, keeping a missionary lookout, but I have to say both of us were a little too nervous to really get into it. All the same, it wasn't until the Campus Security officers were only 20 feet away that we finally saw them.
They approached from behind, so I saw them first.
"Stop stop stop!!" I pushed him off me and yanked my dress down. Too late to worry about panties. He pulled on his boxers as the officers approached - two youngish men.
"Hey, you guys can't be doin' it here," one of them starts. We nod silently.
"Yeah, you gotta find a room or a car or something," the other one chimes in, "we're not gonna write you up or anything but you can't be doin' it here."
They're completely friendly. A little too friendly. They stand there talking at us for about five more minutes, while his belt is still loose and all I want is for them to go away so I can find my panties.
"Thanks, we're sorry." What else is there to say?
"Yeah, it's alright, we're not gonna write you up. I understand 'cause this one time, I was doin' it in my Camaro - and I'm a big guy - and the cops busted me. That sucked. You don't wanna get busted by the cops - they're a different story. You guys have a car?" At this point I wouldn't have been surprised if he'd high-fived my partner.
"No sir."
---
"Well that's too bad, but you still have to find a car or a room or something, ok?"
"Yes sir." Of course we don't tell them we have two perfectly good rooms only a hundred yards away.
"Have a good night now." Finally! We sort ourselves and start walking again. When we get home, there's no finishing what we started - the mood is completely gone. After all, the whole point of public sex is NOT to get caught. All the same, I still smile a little every time I cross a certain part of Marston Quad.
Yesterday during our photo shoot, Jen Huang had me wrap my naked self up in a sheet. After draping it loosely around myself, I realized it was damp. Very damp. A mutual friend had also crashed at her place last night after many pitchers of Pabst and many hours of Quarters at Yogi's. This was the sheet he'd used.
"But it doesn't smell like pee." She sniffed it.
"But who sweats this much?"
"I don't know..."
"Drunk boy pee doesn't smell like pee 'cause it's basically water." I sighed. I would know.
M did it twice. Both times after getting blazingly drunk off beer. The first time, I woke up and set my feet on the rug, which was soaking wet. His side of the bed, similarly drenched. "Did you spill water last night?" I asked. He just started giggling.
PBR, my rugby-playing Hong Kong fuckbuddy, did it while we were in the Philippines. He'd gotten so hammered the night before, we coined a new name for it - Manila Drunk. There were eight of us staying in one room with 4 queen sized beds and nothing else. He peed all over his side of the bed we were sharing (and my sarong), then woke up and snuggled in with another dude on one of the other beds. Leaving a girl in the bed you just pissed on? That's called chivalry.
I never actually got wet any of the times, but with how I pick 'em, it seems only a matter of time. It was never a big deal when it happened, mostly just funny and awe-inspiring how much liquid boy-bladders can hold. But then, I'd already given real golden showers a brief go (a story for another day).
What's your pee story?
