Group Sex at AfricaBurn

Group sex – I am fascinated by it. Two, three, hell maybe eight naked bodies caressing, sucking and entering my body. Bodily fluids flowing and a choir of moans and groans. Unfortunately I haven’t (yet) experienced this wondrous type of sexual venture.

Afrikaburn got me so damn close, I could practically feel the cum showers. With one dick in my hands, and another couple waiting nearby, it was all about to happen…


For the duration of the Burn, Red Breast and I become an inseparable duo. We both like the same music, both love the nocturnal life, both enjoy rinsing our away our evening sins with morning yoga, and we are both very drawn to the CexX theme-camp.

The CexX theme-camp, runs a range of day time sex based workshops. Enthusiastically Red Breast and I attend; polyamory conversations, BDSM introduction and a Shibari* demonstration. We watch in awe as the Dominatrix master, lovingly ties his Submissive in intricate knots, then with her consent he hoists her naked body from the ceiling. I am in awe of her total, surrender.

As we leave the workshops we are informed that tonight is a masquerade party; once the workshops end, the camp will become a Play Camp. We are invited to watch and join the evenings sex-capades.

The invitation tickles Red Breast and I’s most common interest: our curiosity of the entire sex world and desire to dive deeper into it. My mind is already making evening plans to be a very sinful, sacred, slut.

By the time the sun is setting we are overcome with curiosity, and decide to attend the party. We head home to baby-wipe our entire bodies, paying particular attention to our hungry vaginas. Masks are hastily painted on, our bags stuffed with condoms and off we venture.

On the far end of the Playa two red lights shoot into the air. Their distinct strobe makes it easy for sexual explorers, like ourselves, to find CexX by night.

Arriving, we are warmly welcomed by a boosemy, dominatrix facilitator. She explains the rules to us, consent is key. You are free to roam anywhere, but you must ask permission to join. People must in turn ask if they want you to join. To enter the play-rooms you must bring a partner, of any gender.

Removing our shoes we step into the common room, before us stands a crowd of masked people surrounding a naked being. He is strapped to a chalice, and a gorgeous latexed woman circles him with her flogger in hand. She is completely dominating, and yet so loving in her authority, constantly asking Are you okay? Do you want more? Everytime his response is the same, a pleading Yes!

After watching in awe, we head towards to the play-room, then pause. We want to go in, but nerves have frozen us. We decide that we first need some Dutch-courage, and we want to bring our own male-partner to play with.

Now in mission mode, we venture to the main stage and quickly squeeze our way, deep into the grimy, techno crowd.

There I spot my target: towering above everyone, his face is illuminated by a brilliant cheesy, base loving grin.

Signalling to Red Breast we work our way in front of him. I am feeling VERY forward tonight, so brazenly, I turn around and dance towards him will staring at his beautiful face. We lock eyes and he grins even more gloriously. I return his smile with my best I want to fuck stare. Incase I haven’t made myself clear enough, I stand up on my tippy toes and ask Would you like to accompany me to a sex-party tonight?

He bursts out laughing and immediately turns to his friends, they all smack their foreheads, clearly gobsmacked at this little Redheads forwardness.

Well, what’s so funny? I inquire unabashedly. It’s just funny you should ask ME something like that, because I’m a recovering sex addict. He chortles.

WHAT THE FUCK. Of course, at a festival of over 7000 people, I have targeted the sex addict.

Shit, well, I’m sorry to put temptation on your plate like that, I’ll leave.
Oh, no you don’t! You’re not going anywhere.
He greedily responds while pulling my ass into him, his already semi-hard cock starts to grind me through his jeans. Yummy.

Great! I smirk in delight, a sex addict should be quite a lot of fun. Suddenly remembering my partner in crime, I press my ass into him and say This is my friend, Red Breast, she also wants to find a friend to join her. Again he flashes that gorgeous grin and returns to his friends, moments later he brings an equally babin’, curly-haired-Dutchman.

With my ego in overdrive, I slip my hands into Sex Addicts pants, wondering what I’ll be riding this evening… I am not disappointed.

Our mission has been a success; we both have guys attached to us, and our self-consciousness is nowhere to be seen. It’s time to return to CEXx.

I can’t believe it, I’m finally going to get the cum showers I always fantasised about. As I stand daydreaming about our soon to be pleasure, disaster strikes. Sex Addict and Red Breast’s belongings have disappeared.

Sex Addicts backpack and boner have left the building. We try to cheer him up, but it’s useless. I watch him sulk off, alone into the desert night. I cannot believe the universe has sabotaged my group sex!

Red Breast isn’t interested in a solo night with Curls, so she too decides to call it a night.

Not me though. I sought out to have sex tonight and I’m gonna fucking have it.

I tramp back to the dance-floor and stalk around, soon I spot a full-length, fur-coat wearing hottie. He’s got long brunette hair, and he’s also Dutch, seems like a good last resort to me.

It’s now six in the morning and I have no energy left for dance-floor flirting, so I ask Last Resort Do you wanna come and have a coffee with me? Surprised by this odd request he agrees Sure.

We stop off at a Vikings table installation, and sit around a fire. While babbling about nothing, Last Resort leans in and kisses me. Pulling away from the kiss we agree to ditch the coffee, and make a bee-line for his tent.

There, in his pathetic one man tent, I finally get the fucking I’ve been after.

He’s so high that there is no cuming, just a constant hard-on that he continues to plunge into my mouth or vagina. We fuck again and again for hours in his dog kennel of a tent. With the sun well and truly risen, I am drenched in sweat while taking it from behind. Again.

Though this is what I wanted, by the seventh round, I am practically passing out on this mother fuckers cock. He goes back down on me, trying to lick me awake, but I am done. And as dry as the desert.

Finally, I gather my garments to leave and unzip the kennel, a waft of genital fumes floats out along with me. The day is glorious and with a pep in my step I skip towards home.

On my way I spy a long queue of naked humans. While admiring their divine shapes and sizes I learn that they’re queuing for a sponge n’ shower at the Body Suits theme camp.

Without skipping a beat I whipping my clothes off, and join the queue. Head to toe, I am sponged and washed, by two naked hunnies. The glorious freedom, and body celebration of this camp gives me a resurgence of confidence, so I decide to wear only my birthday suit.

Strutting confidently onto the Playa I spot a motorised skateboard, and jump on. The board kicks to life and my naked ass is driven, by a mystery human, all the way home.

Group sex or not, I fucking love this place.

Have you had group sex? Entered had fun in a play room? I’d LOVE to hear about it. Share in the comments below…you can remain anonymous ❤


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Photography by the amazing: @robynstrathearn


*Shibari – ‘To tie’ in Japanese. It is an artistic form of rope bondage. Try it, it’s sexy :p

Sperm and Quirky Eggs

I often quote my favourite Tame Impala lyric by the wonderful Kevin Parker – ‘The only one really judging you is yourself.’ In this tale I go on a journey that some of you will connect deeply with, and some not at all…

Saturday fever is upon us again – this time the theme is RED. In classic manifestation style, Zimbabawia happened to find me the most divine, red ball-gown. It was hanging in a tree by the side of the road back in Malawi, and we bargained it down to a whopping $3.

Also read: Holes and Hippopotamuses

Stored at the bottom of my pack, it’s as if the dress knew it would be coming to this party. Degreased and bathed, I get her out and slip her on. She’s a slim fit, falls gracefully to the floor, and is licked with flame shaped golden sequins that rise from my bellybutton to breasts. In it I feel a surge of energy, the dress is charged and transforms me into The Desert Queen.

The rest of the kitchen crew have been busy sprucing themselves up, meeting in our living room, we decide to have a trippy night together. We share a sugar cube and role into the party like lava…lit.

The party is in the DPW living room, and yet I believe I have apparated into a Moroccan party. The *Fluffers have done it again, they’ve transformed it into a warm womb like cave; red drapes hang, pillows lay strategically around the outside, and a sea of beautiful red humans are milling about.

I spot Hawk Eyes, tonight is his birthday, I go to wish him a happy birthday and he pulls me aside. I just wanted you to know, the girl I mentioned is arriving tomorrow. If things had been different I would have been all over you these last weeks, and all the weeks to come.
I have a list of things I’d love to retort to this self-absorbed human and his self-absorbed speech, but I suddenly feel the sugar cube about to hit me like a freight-train.

Have you been to a party or festival and realise that your night is about to get real hectic real quickly? So quickly that you rush to safely deposit your valuables somewhere that your soon to be alter ego can’t fuck them up?

With the sugar cube train about to reach the station, I grab Zimbabawia and we take off to save my camera from my future self. While exiting the party, we stumble upon Arrows path – Arrows is an absolute gem in the desert, she is topless with arrows painted on her body facing different directions. Twisted. She inquires What are you doing? We’re on a mission! Can I join? Fuck yes!
Together we slap our hands above our heads to form a rocket, then take off on our mission.

On our 30 metre journey we decide it’s a good idea to keep a note of landmarks; a green tent, a bicycle with a bell, a toilet, a very shiny rock… It may only be 30 metres, but by the time we safely deposit my camera in Arrows tent, it feels as though we have landed on Jupiter.

With our mission safely completed, we begin to attempt to find the party. Obviously, not wanting to make things easy, we take a new route and stumble around the desert ‘landing’ on different planets. Assessing whether they are habitable, we conclude that the red party has the best atmosphere… and land our rocket.

Inside I spot Lanky in the corner, Hawk Eyes on the other side of the room, and Nimbin outside with his girlfriend. I position myself on the dance-floor far away from any of them. I am feeling positively charged and so full of power, that I want nothing to do with these unworthy men.

From my new spot I look around and observe that everyone is on.com. The party is heaving. From a brief glance at the different interactions going on, I can say with certainty that this is already the loosest party I have EVER been too.

People are naked, wrestling, roaming in the desert, howling at the moon – ecstasy is all around, it is simply vibrating. Whether it’s the kilometres from civilisation, the freedom of every individual in the room, the absence of judgements or responsibilities, the awareness that regular social norms and constraints don’t apply here – I cannot wipe the smile from my face. I’m twirling in my ball-gown in the centre of the dance-floor completely at peace, completely at home in myself… and then a Prince arrives.

A side note: If you’re a regular reader you may have figured out by now that I truly am a HOPELESS romantic. Clearly a storyteller, when I meet men, I love to imagine that if they end up being ‘the one,’ our first meeting is the tale we tell for the rest of our lives.

So when a guy I have never seen before (I know everyone in this desert) dressed as a Prince (red and gold royal jacket) approaches me, I’m feeling like the desert version of Cinderella.
Your dress is amazing. Do you want to dance? Dumbstruck I nod my approval and he edges towards me lightly taking my waist, he then begins to waltz me to to the techno beats. All eyes are on us:
The Desert Queen and The Prince.

After our waltz, we walk outside and sit on a conveniently placed party bench deep in the desert. Names are quickly exchanged and we begin to kiss. I see stars, our tongues are two galaxies weaving together and I think I might actually fall off the bench. Too soon he pulls away, I’m sorry I can’t do this.

Oh GOD what? Do you have a girlfriend? All I want is a good finger bang in the bushes.

He starts pissing himself laughing You’re great, and no, I haven’t had a girlfriend in a long time, I can’t, I don’t feel connected to people, I can’t give them what they want.
Totally stumped I move back from him, Well how do you know what I want?
Well, what do you want?

I sit and think, for a long time, not knowing what to say, and then it comes out:
I just want a real connection.
Knowingly he replies; Well, I can’t give you that.

I start crying into his shoulder, and he asks me why? It all spills out of me… time and time again I am attracted to the wrong men. Why do you think this happens? Leaning on his shoulder I am plunged into a vision. As though looking through a microscope, I see a vision of thousands of sperm swimming around hundreds of eggs. Some of the eggs are slightly brighter, warmer, quirkier than the others. When the sperm come close to the brighter eggs they are drawn towards it, they surround it, they want proximity to it. I see a particularly radiant egg and realise that it is me. I am larger than life, I am wild, I am free, I am loud, and I am proud. Sperm are drawn to me, they want a piece of my wildness, they want to feel my freedom. They think of me as some kind of drug that they’ll give a try this one time, see what it’s like, then go back to their previous ways.

Coming back I pull away from him, suddenly motivated by my vision, I tell him that if he knows he can’t give me what I need then he should go. He smiles sadly, then stands up and leaves. I sit for a while and get myself together. I can’t process what’s just happened, I wander back to the red party and slump onto a cushion. I’m exhausted, shattered, and pretty fucked up.

From across the room, Star Bloom gravitates to me – she’s one of those angels on earth, a pure and spiritual being that can make you feel loved and understood from a single hug. She wordlessly lifts me from the ground. As she leads me to the dance-floor I am overcome, somehow I am not in control of my body, Star Bloom is. She literally controls my limbs as we dance. I lean into her shoulder surrendering to her control, finally feeling safe and understood. Again I am plunged into a vision, this time I’m afraid, it feels so strong that I might collapse, I don’t want to collapse, so I resist.
Resisting causes Star Bloom to release my hands and leave, not uttering a word, as if she could feel I wasn’t ready to go where ever I was being taken.

I stand amid the chaos trying to decide what to do. I leave the party and feel myself heading towards Lanky’s container in a lonely desperation. Then with 100 x the force as the last time, the voice from within me bellows – You. Are. Finished. With. That! My legs LITERALLY turn from underneath me, away from Lanky’s container and in the direction of home. They start to run themselves home making sure I don’t have a chance to change my mind.

I am not fucking joking.

Inside our living room my darling crew members are there waiting to welcome me home. In control of my body once more, I collapse onto the couch and explain everything that has happened to me. I feel no fear of being judged by my desert family. Once my tale is finished the Desert Poet locks eyes with me and says You’re waking up, keep listening to that voice.
.
.
.
.
.
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*Fluffers – Two crew members get the role of ‘Fluffers’; their job entails party planning, and looking after all the desert labourers.
Also read: Penetration of the Hawk Eyes

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Artwork by Starbloom


A Universal Fucking

Sometimes if you put all your expectations of a night into the hope of getting with a particular person, the universe just might make a mockery of you and send a totally different person your way.

*Make sure you’ve read part one of this tale: Penetration of the Hawk Eyes for the full juicy context!

Having finally shattered Hawk Eyes glass house, I sassily pivot on my heel and strut back into the living room. One of the veteran Afrika Burners, Lanky, has just joined, he is fabulously sarcastic (an Australian trait I’m learning South Africans share) and damn sexy.

I confidently sit myself down next to him, he casually looks up, and acknowledges my arrival with an unreadable smile, then passes me a blunt*. After a game of Werewolf, Lanky turns his body to face me as our conversation becomes intimate. Engulfed in our own banter-world, I am unaware of the entire group heading to bed.

Finally realising that we are alone, the familiar shift in chemistry washes over us.
Is this going to happen? Just as the thought enters my brain a newcomer enters the stretchie and I feel a surge of disappointment that our intimacy has been spoilt. The newcomer approaches us jollily, then awkwardly halts; clearly recognising the sexual forcefield emanating around Lanky and I, he quickly makes an excuse and scurries off.

With that strange and telling interruption over, Lanky announces I’ve got chocolate in my container, do you want to come have some? HA! When growing up you are taught to absolutely NEVER follow someone that offers you candy, especially if they’re in a van… Well. Lanky doesn’t have a white van, but he does have a white shipping container.
I practically cartwheel in.

Let me try to illustrate what fucking LUXURY a shipping container home in the desert is: Instead of a 2×2 metre tent, it’s a whole fucking container (Zimbabawia and I’s tent doesn’t even fit our bags inside). It has a real double bed with blankets (not children’s sleeping bags), pillows (not a bag of clothes), a bedside table, and candles. It doesn’t move in the wind, doesn’t get affected by sandstorms, it retains heat from the day – making the freezing night forgotten, and YES… it has a suitcase filled with fucking chocolate.
Chemistry or not, I wanted this guy in my desert life.

While he rolls another blunt I get to choose the suitcase items! One blunt and two blocks of chocolate later, we are flirting furiously. I am a genuinely cold human, I’ve found over my sexual years that my need for warmth tends to increase my success rate in the sack*… Feeling chilly, I get myself under the covers, he joins me and our legs quickly entangle. Legs become chests, chests become faces, and the make-out begins.

Have you ever been with someone who completely transforms in the sack?

As soon as Lanky’s tongue enters my mouth he morphs into a horny moungral. He attacks my clothes discarding my layers around the container. Once the offending garments are dispersed, he descends my pussy like a labrador at a BBQ. I am so taken aback by this changed human that I’m calling out: Laannnnnkkkkyyyy!?!? in a mixture of shock and pleasure. Surely containers are sound proof? Oh well, the wild woman cannot be contained.

Just reaching clitoral orgasm I am eager to return the oral pleasure, bowing down I’m almost knocked out by his cock. The thing is HUGE, so huge that I quickly touch the circumference of my mouth assessing whether it will fit? Starting slowly I lick the giant lollipop, rubbing my mouth and face all over it. I do suck on it a bit, but taking it all in is genuinely beyond my mouth’s abilities.
I’m beginning to wonder how the hell my yoni will manage…

We slide the XL condom over his XL member, then he leans over and blows out the candles. We are plunged into total darkness – shipping containers having absolutely no natural light so I can’t see my hand in front of my face, let alone the giant latexed beast that’s meant to be entering my cosy cave.

I fumble around in the dark laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation and accidentally poke my finger into his eye. Shouldn’t we… like maybe leave the candles on so we can see what’s happening?
Nah we got this.

Apparently Lanky and his lanky cock have a sixth sense for finding caves in the dark. He guides me onto my back and lowers himself into me. I am tense, anticipating his girth, but he is clearly aware of his own size as he gently eases himself back and forth, allowing me time to expand.

Once I’m wet n’ wild, I climb on top of him and start riding his invisible figure. I literally cannot see a thing, I might as well be fucking the universe. Something about the bizarreness of not seeing each other sets me off and I piss myself laughing while I’m joy riding the unseeable. Apparently wanting me to be more serious about the matter he flips me onto my stomach and takes me from behind. I shove my face into the pillows and scream as my pussy engulfs him, and then he collapses on top of me.

Still blind Lanky asks Will you stay?
If that’s okay?
He answers by reaching out and pulling me into a vice-grip-snuggle.

Naked, blind, and nestled into the arms of a different man than I had anticipated, I sleep my best nights sleep in the desert, wondering how little the universe cares about our plans.

*Australianisms:
Blunt -a rolled marijuana cigarette. Also known as joint, doobie, spliff

Sack – bed. “I’m real freaky in the sack”, “I’m hitting the sack” (Not sure why punching the bed means I’m going to bed, but it does #straya)

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Artwork by Unknown Artist

Penetration of the Hawk Eyes

Are you a glass house builder? You meet someone that you’re excited about and build a nice little glass house around them? One that prevents you from seeing their true selves. You prefer to keep that shiny glass exterior where everything about them is perfect, a lovely illusion. I’m so good at it, I could start up my own glass house real-estate company.

Everybody works hard in the desert, like really fucking hard. From sunrise till sundown, rain, sandstorm or flood – six days a week. Except for the Kitchen Crew; we work seven days a week, everyone’s gotta eat hey?

Our first Saturday has finally rolled around, and Zimbabawia and I are buzzing with anticipation for a BIG night, we’ve been told that Saturday parties are wild. I’m ready to get wild… and get laid. The anticipation has sent my dinner service peacock into overdrive, new crew members have arrived and I greet them with caffeinated enthusiasm. An outrageously sexy couple approaches my ladle, they are oozing confidence in this foreign land. I haven’t been to Burning Man, yet, but I am certain that these are old time Burners. Meeting the intense stare of the male, I am instantly attracted to his sexy hawk-ness, internally I give a single girl ‘sigh’.

Zimbabawia and I practically break pots doing the dreaded dishes. Finally finished, we slip on our bathers and head on over to the Official Desert Beach Party. Immediately I understand the party hype… The Fluffers* have turned the Pirate Ship Art Instillation into a desert beach; the Rebar is Hawaiian themed, everyone is dressed in beach wear, and an appropriate sandstorm has begun to brew.



After a hefty mushroom appetizer, myself and my new gal pal, Corneas, sidle into a red rubber ring. The ring quickly becomes an extension of our bodies; we see no option but to remain inside it ‘swimming’ on the dance-floor for hours. We literally cannot stop, how can we end this hilarious skit when everyone is so entertained by us? Swimming to the sandstorm beats and bopping butts with Corneas, my cup is continually filled and I’m as high as a kite. It seems nothing could go wrong… famous last words. The next thing I know, I’m sprawled out, alone and rubber ring-less, in the dust behind the pirate ship.

Zimbabwia happens to be dashing for a desert wee when she spots my shambled self, seeing the state of me determines, You need to vomit.
I’ve tried, I just can’t make myself do it.
Not skipping a beat she swiftly shoves her fingers down my throat and I begin projectile vomiting all over her hands. Friendship.

A disco chunder always does wonders. After ‘friendship level 100 activities’, I head back to the party, full of hope to carry on with the night. Standing on the side of the throbbing dance-floor I realise how in vain these hopes are. I make eye contact with the male half of the hot assed couple, Hawk Eyes, and he comes over Are you okay? I Admit that I’ve slightly overdone the Rebar, again, and can’t quite manage the dance-floor. He accompanies me to sit down and then doesn’t leave… We start chatting about his previous Burning Man experiences (knew it), and I’m feeling confused about his relationship status, so casually ask, Do you always go to Burns with your girlfriend?
Not my girlfriend, just a friend.

The energy between us immediately changes, we become silent, looking into each other’s eyes, awkwardly affirming with our gaze that we are both single and clearly ready to mingle. He’s leaning in and I quickly inform him I spewed a little while ago, just so you know. Apparently unphased by mushroom milkshakes, he keeps leaning in. The kiss is indulgent, I hold his face and feeling sexy post-vom in my bathers, I straddle him. Zimbabawia appears again, looking mildly surprised; she’d only just had time to wash the vomit off her hands and I’d somehow managed to start sucking someone’s face. She checks to see that I am happy and consenting, then laughs and goes back to the party. After she leaves, Hawk Eyes also ensures he isn’t taking advantage of me. Definitely not, I even gave a disappointed sigh when I thought you were taken.

Consent confirmed (VERY important, people), we abandon the beach and navigate towards the DPW quarters, and his tent. Apologising for his mattress-less, sleeping-bag-less floor, we decide to make a mattress out of our clothes. Upon the jackets and bathers we start doing that hot thing where you kiss and grind your bodies together, edging the penis closer and closer to the vagina but not letting it enter. I can feel the moisture between my legs beginning to flow in anticipation.

Finally, in a moment of pure will power, request a condom, Okay he replies, But I should tell you, there’s a girl that might be coming here soon, she’s not my girlfriend, but she is a ‘someone’, I just wanted to tell you in case you see me with her and wonder who she is.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

Look, the reality of what he’s saying is way more reasonable than Nimbin’s; I have a girlfriend with a kid. However, what the fuck is with the timing? I mean, I had asked if he had a girlfriend just hours before. Then would probably have been a more appropriate time to tell me about this girl, instead of when his cock is in the loading bay, ready to enter my harbour.

In my state of intoxication and desire, I choose to ignore my intuitive anger and quickly forgive myself for not being strong enough to deny the throbbing penis, inches from entering me.

I go ahead and do the deed. His Hawk eyes penetrate my soul while his cock penetrates my body upon the hard, mattress-less floor. It feels fantastic.

Waking up I am as hungover as a 14 year old’s first night on goon (my first night drinking goon consisted of me vomiting in my hands and feeding the vomit to my best friends rabbits.) I leave Hawk Eyes sleeping in what now looks like a tent-brothel, and trudge my sorry ass to the kitchen. At lunch service I am pleasantly surprised, Hawk Eyes greets me with a kiss, sympathises that I have been working, and pulls his chair over to sit with me while I serve. Already feeling confused by this gentlemanly behaviour he further bewilders me by asking if he can stay and help clean the dishes!

Okay, you might be thinking WTF girl, this is how you deserve to be treated! Yeah, I know I do deserve to be treated as a queen, however I am just not used to this behaviour, and therefore am suspicious of it. The next two days are the same; he continues to flirt and sit with me during every meal. I am feeling fucking confused; is there going to be another girl arriving here that he’s involved with? And if so, that is pretty fucking strange as he’s made it quite obvious to the whole crew that he’s interested in me. Plus, the worst part is I’m developing a crush…
I don’t like it.

I decide to find out what’s really going on.

After dinner I ask Hawk Eyes if he wants to hangout, he agrees and we head to the living room (a giant stretchie, furnished with beat up desert couches and dusty carpets, luxury). We’ve just finished a flirty game of foosball when he leaves saying he’ll Be right back. But he doesn’t come right back. I’m about go to his tent to find him, when a voice from within growls No. Fucking. Way Girlfriend. You are not chasing after some dude that told you he has another girl on the way!

The voice trembles inside me so loudly that is shatters Hawk Eyes’ glass house into a million pieces. Who the fuck is this prick to tell me about another girl seconds before his dick enters me? Bullshit he told me out of respect. He told me to unburden his own guilt. As for spending each night with me at dinner, he was just keeping his image of the ‘good guy’.

I do not go after him.

Besides, Lanky has just entered the stretchie.

*Fluffers – Two crew members get the role of ‘Fluffers’; their job entails party planning, and looking after all the desert labourers

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Desert Tarzan and Slutty Jane

Since starting this blog I’ve been selective about whom I share it with. I am not ashamed of the blog, hell no, I am very proud of it, I just worry that some people will want to fuck (or not fuck) the ‘blog me’ and not the real me.

The following tale validates this concern.

It’s the morning after acquiring my first desert tale: Welcome to the Desert, and I’ve decided to tell my new kitchen colleagues about the blog. They are all intrigued, gathering around my iPad to hear Wear A Dress and Don’t Change your Panties read aloud. Mid way through, ‘…banged over a very questionable public toilet…’ Desert Tarzan walks into our stretchie. He is curious to know about the fine literature we are reading, I inform him that it is a tale from my own sex life. It is clear from the look in his eyes that he wants to be the subject of my next tale.

That night we head to our first desert party. There I discover the Rebar – a donation based bar to which you donate alcohol and / or your topless only bartending services. A pretty freakin fabulous idea – except for the ‘no flirting allowed’ sign! There’s just one downside, tonight the bartenders have been donated only whiskey, tequila, and rum… no mixers. Two cocktails later, and I am feeling like a rummed-up, wasted pirate.

From the heart of the swelling party, Desert Tarzan emerges sauntering his leopard print ass towards me. He asks: Is it really true you write a sex blog?

Yes, of course. I explain to him that I am a lover of sex, I have a lot of it, and that it’s a love I’ve always shared proudly.

Over the years I’ve realised that there is far too much taboo around open female sexuality and negative connotations surrounding the word slut. Slut – a word I choose to see in a different light. For me, being ‘slutty’ can be fucking empowering. While living my authentic life, I decided to document my sex tales to show that I am the only owner, the only judge of my own sexuality so if I want to slut around and sleep with seven guys in a week, that’s my prerogative.

Listening intently, Desert Tarzan showers me with compliments, agrees with my feminist beliefs and expresses his own similar views; wishing sex was more freely enjoyed by all. And then, as if casually asking whether we should go and get another drink, he asks: Should we go fuck?

Sure thing!

Our stumbling steps away from the party make it clear that we were both victims of the Rebar cocktails. We don’t know where we are headed to do the horizontal shuffle. I share my living quarters with the wifey, Zimbabawia in our intimate kitchen quarters of ten tents, while he lives in the jam packed DPW* quarters of 60 tents. I’m not up for gettin’ my Slutty Jane on in either areas so we decide to drag his mattress out and deep into the scorpion filled shrubs of the open desert.

We get naked under the new moon and crystal clear constellations, and he quickly descends on me, licking his way into my blog. It is hot, he is hot, oh and did I mention he’s German? After a sustained amount of time being eaten out, I pivot my body around to put his cock in my mouth. I truly love 69’ing. It’s the easiest position for me to have a clitoral orgasm. Being pleasured with a soft and wet tongue whilst simultaneously focusing on pleasuring the cock in my mouth, keeps my thoughts from sabotaging me and I can have the Big-Oooooooo.

We get to the condom part of the party and Desert Tarzan explains that he isn’t very into them. I explain that I’m not into STI’s. Unable to argue with this, he slides one on and it becomes immediately evident why he felt that way. His once tall and eager penis has become limp, shying away from its Latex-nemisis. I try to be firm on my stance of always using a condom with new sexual partners. Now that sex isn’t going to be a possibility, I instantly feel finished with the scenario; after all we’d decided to fuck, not to spend the night together.

Walking back to my tent alone, I decide I won’t get with Desert Tarzan again. I loved the spontaneity of the evening but realistically Desert Tarzan was attracted to me because of my blog. I understand this, and am delighted that he shares my feelings of sexual empowerment. However, I realise that I too had gone to fuck because of the ‘blog me’ and not the real me.

I am only fucking for the real me from now on.

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Make Love Watercolour by @tinamariaelena

*DPW – Department of Public Works

Welcome to the Desert

It’s 5am, Zimbabawia and I are standing in a random warehouse in the backstreets of Cape Town. Two monster overlander trucks have just pulled up, we are surrounded by hippies and misfits, my hair is fluorescent orange and dully throbbing from the 60 neat new braids.

It’s time to go to Tankwa Town.

After bidding Mumma Africa farewell, Zimbabawia and I ran around Cape Town for two days attempting to be prepared to live in the dessert for SIX weeks.

How the fuck does one prepare to live in a desert?

We got the essentials; a borrowed tent, an air bed, two children’s sleeping bags (they were significantly cheaper than an adult’s), a very modest bag of schnax – why not be healthy in the desert we thought, and a suitcase full of condoms.

So why are we going to live in the desert? Perhaps you know of Burning Man? No? Well, Burning Man is a community. A temporary city. A global cultural movement based on 10 guiding principles held in the Black Rock Desert, Nevada, America each year.

A sister event to Burning Man, AfrikaBurn is held annually in The Karoo, South Africa. Zimbabawia and I signed up to be volunteers in the creation of this temporary city. Pretty much what I’m saying is that all us hippies and misfits are about to remove ourselves from society in order to create an alternative one. Yeah cunt.

While the overlanders tore over the roads of peril, we became acquainted with Desert Fairy, her wiley hair drew attention, it turned out she had recently shaved her head and explained to us the experience of losing some of her memories after removing the hair.

After showing everyone my impressive napping skills I popped my head up to the window and spied the nothingness, the desert stretched out all around us, nothing to be seen but distant mountains, and two stretches – big canopies that go over the top of tents to give shelter from the elements.

Exiting the overlander we were whacked with what would now become a regular temperature, awkwardly lugging our belongings towards our new home, I almost gave myself whiplash doing a double take at Desert Tarzan. Desert Tarzan; the man is the exact image you are currently conjuring, yielding a sledgehammer, he was beyond tanned, had long messy hair, teeny tiny leopard print shorts, and of course, was topless to reveal flawless abs.

That night our soon to be family gathered after sunset and watched the full moon RISE!!! Have you ever seen a full moon rise? Put it the fuck on your bucket list.

As I was filled with the fullness of her light and beauty, I couldn’t understand how at 25 I was witnessing this phenomenon for the first time. And then I realised, I’ve never been somewhere with nothing blocking the horizon.

This was going to be an eventful few weeks.

The next morning Zimbabawia and I met our boss, Dreadlock Pixie Queen. So how many people have you catered for? 50? 100? Well fuck me dead, I once made a brekkie for like six of my mates, cool she responded, well today you’re making 300 pancakes.

After the initial what the fuck panic passed, we somehow whipped our assess into gear and shot out some rather smashing pancakes.

And then it was serving time.

A friend once said to me, you’re such a peacock, you like to fan out your feathers and have everyone’s eye one you. Serving pancakes that morning, I realised the kitchen was the perfect peacock platform for me. Everyone’s gotta eat right? So I joyously served every human in the desert, meeting them, greeting them, sizing them up, and laying a shit load of groundwork.

My daily peacocking gained my first target, Nimbin. A scruffy haired, tattooed, Saffa. By the time one week had passed, we had developed a flirtatious little relationship. One night, with a ladle full of lasagne, I decided to step things up a notch; he was complimenting me on the food and I replied the food isn’t as tasty as me, with a dirty grin he replied well I haven’t gotten to taste you yet. He invited me back to his tent after my shift, so I rapidly scraped lasagne trays like a horny mother fucker.

Upon entering Nimbin’s tent, it was clear that in his down time he liked to reallyyy relaxxx. He had become a totally scattered and cracked version of his meal-time self, he spent 40 minutes attempting make us a cup of Rooibos Tea. Just when I got the tea in my hand a newbie entered the tent, Wolf.

Wolf was one of the head honchos of the desert project, he asked if he was interrupting, and Nimbin and I both barked No! We hadn’t yet sustained any kind of functional conversation and so welcomed the presence of this mysterious and frankly intimidating man.

I had no problem conversing with Wolf, he was one of those men that you meet and wonder why you haven’t spent more time speaking to people who are invested in meaningful conversation and are able to self reflect. I was entirely engrossed in our dialogue, I didn’t even look in Nimbin’s direction while the cracker did god knows what. Conversation lapsed and Wolf turned to look at the moon, as if speaking to himself he murmured I’ve never spoken so honestly to someone I’ve just met. And then he stood up and left.

I was bewildered. Touched, and now left with this mess, Nimbin turned to me and said, I have to tell you, there’s a girl, I’ve been seeing her for a while, she has a kid. So then, I asked, why is it that you invited me here? You total fuckbag.

He couldn’t give me an answer.

What followed doesn’t make me proud, but this blog, among many other things is a time for me to learn about myself by reflecting upon my experiences and my actions. These reflections and generated conversations, have already and will continue to help me grow.

I didn’t leave.

The nights consumptions (after Rooibos) had rendered me very very inebriated and I certainly wasn’t in my 100% right mind. We didn’t fuck. Fucking was too much of a betrayal for him, but we did mess around.

I guess there’s something inside me that gets aroused over being wanted by men who shouldn’t have me. This is something I have inside me and though I don’t judge myself, I do question the roots of this desire.

Afterwards I thought of all the good men I’ve ever met, and wondered why the man laying next to me wasn’t one of them. I came to the conclusion that if I keep letting the bad men in, I’m not leaving space for the good ones, and with that thought I fell asleep.

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Artwork by Rachel Day @rachday_

Boys with Curly Hair

Leaving Durban was a shit-show. Between us we had slept for about 10 hours but were due to pick up our rental car at 10am. A couple of near roadside chunders and a million hire forms later, our classic South African road trip down the Transkei, Wild Coast, and Garden Route began. Our first stop was intended to be Coffee Bay, however sleep deprivation wouldn’t allow the distance and instead we found a local little town, Kokstad, to rest our disheveled selves.

I decided here was the perfect location to get my first African braids! The local ladies and their unforgiving braid mastering fingers, taught me to R.E.S.P.E.C.T. all people who endure the monthly agony of braids!

The tribe was feeling pretty slick when we rolled into Coffee Bay with our VW Polo and myself with my new bad girl Rhi Rhi look. We were staying at a talked up hostel called the Coffee Shack, renowned for its FREE sunset mussels and oysters, as well and $6 surfing.

Unable to pass up a bargain, the tribe (still minus broken Mumma Africa), and 15 other backpackers set off for a day of surfing, or in my case; paddling around for 30 minutes because I feel like Australians should like this sport, but actually I hate it. Our tribe was surrounded by the the largest amount of travellers we had encountered in our entire African travels. I guess there is a global belief that South Africa is an ‘accessible’ African country to travel, though it later revealed its own complexities.

Striking up some conversations I was quickly reminded of my European travels, and the repetitive ‘where are you from,’ ‘how long have you been travelling,’ ‘where are you coming from/going to next’ questions.

Eager to avoid these surface level conversations I soon found myself hanging out with a couple of Germans and a sweet little English lass called Sunny.

Sunny was younger than me, but oozed maturity. She was travelling alone, had the same style as me (outrageous mix match of whatever colour/pattern combination you feel) and was sporting some serious armpit and leg foliage with absolute pride. We got off like a house on fire and arranged to meet at AfrikaBurn.

After a while, my attention turned to the only male of the Germans. He was having his first go at surfing and doing a pretty fine job, plus I was enjoying watching him in a wetsuit. How could someone with bleach blonde floppy curls, piercing blue eyes, and an absolute rig be a first time surfer? I told him that though he might not have the surfing technique yet, he certainly had the surfer look. He obviously enjoyed being complimented, and we spent the next few hours bantering and practicing yoga moves.

That night, once we’d all scrubbed up, and Zimbabawia had remained alive having stood on a LIVE snake, I spotted Floppy Curls Boy looking almost as good dry as he did wet. I decided to put on the moves and spent the evening being the hilariously charming, big fat flirt that I am. The night was winding down, so myself, Floppy Curls Boy, and his now rather intoxicated German lady friends, began a game of guess how old I am? The game alone told me that, oh dear, this one’s gonna be a youngin’. I claimed to be 21, and he to be 23. Both knowing we were lying, he insisted to see my ID, and I said that I needed his first. He reluctantly produced it, and alas, staring me in the face, was that age I seem to have become addicted to…19.

This revelation didn’t exactly put me off my little friend, after all, the others had proven that age did not dictate skill. I was however concerned that his age meant he didn’t have enough game to shake off his lady friends, and end the night with me. I mean really, it’s taken me a good few years to get my game this strong. Giving him a helping hand I said goodnight to the girls and dropped the not so subtle hint to Floppy Curls Boy, that before sleeping I would be reading in the empty lounge room.

Sitting on the couches I was just beginning to wonder whether my hint had been received, when Floppy Curls Boy entered the lounge. To my surprise I saw that supported under his arm was one of his lady friends. Apparently she was absolutely wasted, and having a broken leg she was in need of his assistance to return to her room. Being a gentleman, and an idiot, he came to the lounge before taking her back.

To further prove his innocence he allowed the cripple lassy to sit between us on the couch. She plonked down, sprawled out over the top of us and immediately passed out. After some awkward minutes of whispering over her passed out corpse, I accepted that it was going to take me to get this thing cranking.

I removed her cast from my lap and crept my way over to his side so we could speak more quietly. The small talk was dragging on and I could feel my groin getting hotter and hotter from frustration and anticipation. I was bloody attracted to this baby faced floopster. Fed up, I leaned over and kissed him, this was clearly the go ahead he’d been looking for as he grabbed my waist and immediately pulled me onto his lap. We were making out intensely with me grinding his quickly growing cock. Breaking apart for air we looked to our right and remembered that, oh fuck, there’s a passed out cripple centimetres from us.

Proceeding with more caution, I went to kiss him again, but instead he made me stand up. Not wanting to talk, I tried using gesture to ask what he was doing, but he simply reached up and pulled my underwear off. I was totally taken aback and delighted by his new confidence, he then stood me upon his lap and started to eat me out. H.O.T. I was absolutely dying and loving it, but the small part of me that is shy was also absolutely hyper-aware that we were in a public hostel room and there was a PASSED OUT GIRL next to us. I let the exhibitioism continue for as long as I could handle, then told him that we HAD to go and find somewhere to fuck.

Inside the girls shower block we quickly got each other naked while he told me that he’d thought I was flirting with him, but had doubted himself because of his age. I told him that 19 year olds were my new jam and that he shouldn’t doubt his handsome, sculpted, kind and funny, floppy haired self again.

I was sure I wouldn’t be the last cougar on his list.

After grabbing the conveniently free condoms inside the bathrooms (cheers Coffee Shack) he turned me around, just the way I like, held me up and slid that lovely cock inside me. I already felt like a bad bitch with my braided hair, but this was a whole new level. Being fucked against a shower wall is flipping hot, especially standing under the running water (if warm!), but height differences can make it challenging and my Floppy Curls Boy eventually got tired. I led us to the floor, straddling him whilst he lay down, there we finished off with a nice wet-cow-girl move.

After we dried off with lots of cute kisses he asked if he could come and snuggle. Fuck yeah you can. I recently listened to an episode of Juliet Allen’s podcast – The Authentic Sex, where she states that she only fucks people who she is happy to wake up next to. Yes, I wanted to wake up next to this sweet little thing. We snuggled on my squeaky top bunk for a whole four hours, then yet again, I had to wake up early and leave. Sneaking out, I kissed his sleeping floppy hair goodbye.

This time I forgot to exchange details and was feeling quite disappointed, I messaged Sunny asking her to give him my number, and she replied saying that he had literally just asked her for my Instagram. Oh my gawddd, snap.

Happily Ever After……..NOTTTTT!

Because not all that glitters is gold, and I don’t want to paint the illusion that I’m a beacon of happy sex story endings, I will add a footnote:

Now having each other on Instagram, once I reached Cape Town I saw that Floppy Curls Boy was arriving later that afternoon. I messaged him and told him where I was staying, thinking that he would obviously come to where I was. Not hearing back, I figured he was delayed and that I’d talk to him the next day. The next day came and no message, bugger it I thought, I’m the sexy older woman I can double message.

In response I received: Sorry I’ve got dinner plans and then I fly tomorrow, cya!

Sometimes it’s better to just leave the glittery one night story without a sequel.

Hey you Beautiful Cunts

Well then, that title alone has probably done one of three things:

1. You are not reading this blog because you are ghastly offended by my language and have blocked Tales of a Wannabe Redhead from your newsfeed

2. You are shocked by the title, but also intrigued

3. You are Australian, or know an Australian, and are therefore familiar with this phrase and happily reading on

Today’s post is not a tale, but rather a discussion about language, the use of the word cunt. A subject that I have wanted to discuss for some time.

When writing my tales there have been many times that I have written the word CUNT, then decided to delete it as I was worried about sounding crass or offending people. But you see, in Australia CUNT is pretty much an everyday word for Millennials, or in Zimbabawia’s case, a part of every second sentence.

Australian Millennials have pretty much replaced the use of mate with CUNT. If someone says, Hey Cunt! The word cunt here holds a positive connotation and you are either a close friend or they really dig you. Mate on the other hand, for some, has become what you’d say if someone is pissing you off, Mate… get your hand off my muffin.

Recently at festival, I saw a flag with the acronym G.C.K.G.C. Intrigued about it’s meaning I approached the flag bearer and learned that it stood for ‘Good Cunts Know Good Cunts’. Take a wild guess where these ingenious flag creators were from? Yep, Down Under. My partysquad was completely thrilled by the flag, and so for the rest of the festival we used it as a meet up point. Hanging out there meant we met ample fabulous people because well… good cunts know good cunts.

So why am I talking about the use of this powerful word?

Many Australians, and South Africans – I am learning, have integrated cunt into their vocabulary positively. However, I am under no illusion that I am speaking of a minority, and that for many in the world, the word cunt is used not just negatively, but also considered the most shocking, vulgar word utterable in the English language.

That guy just punched a puppy, what a CUNT.

Yes it is true, when I was in primary school someone called my friend a cunt, she cried and cried, and I had no idea what was going on. When the teacher found out what had been said we were all sat down and told we should NEVER utter this ghastly word. It was drummed into us that cunt was bad, and so it was bad.

Growing up, we knew about the existence of cunt, the worst word there was, and the negative power it held. With age, and as I got more outspoken, when I wanted to truly offend someone, I would unleash the word CUNT, often met with shocked and offended faces.

But language changes. Some time not long ago my best friends and I started calling each other cunt, it was endearing, and it became a playfully warm word. However, if deemed necessary, with tone it was still used to plasphemise people.

When there are changes to language, you can be certain that society challenged it first. On this journey Mumma Africa started pulling me up every time I used the word negatively, why are you using the female genitalia in a negative light?

Tell me this, what is the root of the word cunt? The vagina, yes? SO why then is English’s rudest, most crass word – CUNT, actually a part of the female anatomy? And not just any part of the anatomy, the place from which sex, joyous sex is had, orgasms are achieved, where life is made, and babies pushed out from. Why is the name of the strongest muscle in the entire human body, male or female, used in a negative way?

Stumped you there haven’t I?

I believe it is our societal duty, once a subject has had light shed on it, to take on the new information and use that information to change our perception, our culture, and therefore our habits.

Just as with the word cunt.

Hey, when I was 10 I was running around at recess saying; You don’t read Harry Potter? You’re so gayyy! Well, I got older and education made me wiser about what gay really means. So I sure as shit ain’t using gay negatively anymore.

Now I know a lot of people will say; come on it’s just a word, we don’t mean the actual vagina, can’t we say anything without some fiery feminist Redhead getting her kinky knickers in a knot?

The answer is no, no you cannot.

I’m not saying that I want CUNT abolished from the English language, HELL NO!

I just want people to start using it in a positive way, and thus praising the pussy:

– Do you see that sexy cunt sitting at the bar?

– Cunt, come on and gimme a hug

– Love you cunt!

– Good Cunts Know Good Cunts!

– Geez I wanna eat that beautiful cunt of yours

– What kind of cute cunt are you for making the bed for me!?

Or if you really want to win at life and upgrade the cunt, you may use our personal cunt hybrid:

That Tales of a Wannabe Redhead chick is a sick cunt….a SKUNT.

Spread the word, you beautiful cunts!

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Image: Digital collage by Eve Stainton from performance ‘Slug Horizonz’ by Eve Stainton and Florence Peake.

Pussy and the Pillows

Lekker Bro we’re in Durban – South Africa!

Getting straight back into the swing of city life, I naturally looked up a Durban version of Revs. The tribe, minus Mamma Africa and her broken ribs, were ready to give our twerking hips a rest and reactivate our techno stomping feet.

Origin nightclub was in a league of its own, having five rooms, each with its own genre. We stuck to the trance and techno rooms and there I began looking for my prey. I was in full on prowl mode, and within an hour I had made a mental profile of every potential male within the venue.

My favourite looking of the lot, a long blonde surfer type, gravitated to our magnetic group of girls, then made a beeline for Red Breast. Red Breast is in an open relationship, so when the Surfer Hottie put his tongue down her throat, I felt privileged to be getting an insight into open-relationship activities, like a meaningless d-floor kiss.

The evening wore on and I was slowly accepting that my horniness was unfortunately, only going to be solved with subtle hostel-bunk masturbation. To wrap up the night we re-entered the techno room for one last stomp. Upon entering I immediately spotted a group of newbies, there dancing among them was a brunette with sexy long hair, great style, and a cheeky smile. I was instantly drawn to him and proceeded to cockily dance in front of him whilst giving him the ‘I wanna fuck you’ stare. He apparently felt the same attraction to me and closed the gap between us to ask if I wanted to join him outside.

He was a local boy, so we shall call him Durban Boy. After having a healthy amount of Aussie vs Saffa accent and cricket teasing, we started making out. It is probably one of my favourite things when someone exceeds your kissing expectations – a few minutes into making out we were getting into some porn-style kissing, hair grabbing, neck sucking, the whole works. We were getting carried away so I wasn’t surprised to feel his cheeky little hands creeping their way to my underwear. Though I was hella wet and totally wanted those fingers on me, I could feel the eyes of onlookers from the very public balcony, naughty boy. We discussed our mutual horniness and decided that we would meet in the first cubicle of the male toilets. I detoured past my girls and coyly asked for a condom, laughing at my quick work they handed me two and wished me a happy bang.

Stealthily entering the male toilets, I knocked on the cubicle and was briskly pulled inside. It was a thrill to be so sneaky and bad, we again started making out and this time I let his hands go anywhere. We were both dying for it, he turned me around and shimmied up my dress ready to give it to me. I was waiting, shaking with excitement, but nothing entered. I turned to see what was happening and saw two very sad boys looking at me. Unfortunately, because of the substances Durban Boy had been taking that night, his willy wouldn’t work. He was gutted at the failed attempt of a perfect porno fuck and asked if he could instead take me home.

Heading to his apartment I was almost more excited about going to his home than to his penis. I hadn’t been inside a home in two months, I wanted to lounge, watch tv, shower, and poop with the door open.

Well okay maybe the last one wasn’t going to happen. His room did not disappoint, it greeted me with a Queen sized bed drowning in pillows and a fluffy doona. Alright, alright, sex blog not furniture blog… I’m back on track.

I lay lusciously among the pillows and Durban Boy treated me to his porno tongue on my eagerly awaiting pussy lips.

I was having the time of my life and felt his penis to see how it was enjoying itself, but again nothing. Durban Boy flopped down next to me furious with his little friend ‘what is wrong with you! There’s a hot naked girl in front of you and you just ate her pussy. WAKE UP!!’

Hysterically laughing from his little outburst, I said I really wasn’t bothered, let the little guy have some rest. He agreed and we started talking, turns out we had a lot in common and ended up yacking for hours. Eventually I said I was ready for bed, but he said he couldn’t sleep yet and to please excuse him for a little while. He left the room with his laptop and I drifted off in a cloud of pillows.

Sometime later, from a blissful sleep I was awoken to the sound of Durban Boy exclaiming quick, quick! It’s working! Half conscious and confused I sat up what’s working? I followed his eyes and his big cheeky grin down to the huge boner proudly protruding from his boxers. Hooray I exclaimed and groggily jumped on.

All the let downs led to him clearly wanting to deliver a fine performance. I was fucked silly, even getting to watch our performance through his wardrobe mirror. My favourite moment was when I had my my legs around his neck and he jumped off the bed to grab his baseball cap to stop his hair from dipping into my mouth, ha!

Finally satisfied, we high fived and took some naked victory selfies, then passed out together.

I would have happily stayed with that lovely Durban Boy, and his beautiful bed, all weekend, but alas as all travellers do, it was time for me to move on. We exchanged numbers and made vague remarks of hopefully seeing one another in the future, and then I was gone.

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Holes and Hippopotamuses

Paid-hitchhiking was dramatically improved with the presence of the new member, Red Breast – A Melbournian based Photographer, solo African travelling sick bitch. She boarded the overlander armed with seven months worth of travel tales, which she happily divulged, we were in heaven.

Ecstatic from learning that we girls were all attending the sister of Burning Man, AfrikaBurn, a large music/community/arts gathering held in South Africa, the costume hunt was on. We stumbled across a side of the road dress shop, and jumped at the opportunity of buying matching $3 ballgowns. And what do four new friends, hitching a lift on a snazzy looking overlander, with ballgowns and a Photographer do? Re-enact the scene from Priscilla Queen of the Desert, what else!

Parting with Red Breast came all too soon, and with our new bond solidified, it felt like losing a tribe member. She was off to join the Israelis and we were continuing south-east to Villancoulos, Mozambique. The journey would be 931 kms, so you would assume one full day of driving would do the job. Well my friend, you would be wrong.

There’s a saying in Mozambique ‘you approach a pothole and see a rabbit’s ears poking out, then you get to the pothole and realise it’s a donkey’. This saying is no fucking exaggeration.

The road is so riddled with crater sized potholes that if a bloat of hippopotamuses had been hiding in the holes, I wouldn’t have batted an eyelid. We were rendered incapable of driving over 50 kms per hour, and when we did reach 50 kms we were FLYING. The road held carcasses of countless defeated trucks, with engines that had succumbed to the peril of the road and been left abandoned. If I’m not painting a clear enough picture of the severity of this road, then Mumma Africa breaking two friggin ribs when we went into a pothole might convince you.

Other than deceased vehicles, the only other things to be seen on the road were the occasional child selling live swinging chickens, bags of charcoal, and plastic bottles of what we assumed to be honey. We pulled over to buy some honey, but my not speaking a word of Portuguese paired with the sales-boy staring at me, slack-mouthed – like I was from outer space – meant no honey could be purchased. It quickly became apparent that we wouldn’t be making it to Villancoulos in one day.

In our first 11 hours of driving we progressed 100 kms. Let me reiterate, that’s 9kms AN HOUR.

It took us three days. Three days with nowhere to sleep except in the overlander, Zimbabweia slept on the ground, Mumma Africa made herself into a U shape and slept on the tiny couch, and I, I took one for the team and top and tailed with our dear 65 year old buddy, Bob.

Bob himself was something else, he transformed into a frustrated driving wreck, he refused to ever stop, not wanting to lose ground. He drove from 5am till sundown, not eating unless we forced him to take something we’d made in the back. He didn’t go to the toilet, didn’t let us play music, simply gripped the wheel and attempted to save our overlander from becoming another graveyard victim. We took it in shifts to sit with him, trying to placate him and keep his mind off the fact that he’d been driving every waking moment of the day for three days.

Needless to say, when we arrived to Villancoulos, we were all well and truly sick to death of the sight of one another, and I wanted to murder Bob.

Just when we’d began to unwind after the journey from hell, a familiar, yet somehow wildly dishevelled face walked in, it was none other than Red Breast! Turned out she had decided to leave the Israelis and travel in our direction, only the public transport version. This meant she travelled faster than our 10-50 kms p/h, however, she slept under a bus shelter cradling her luggage, and was slapped in the leg by somebody’s soon to be dinner, a wet fish, for 48 hours.

Hysterically laughing at the state of us all, and delighted to be reunited, we unanimously decided that we no longer wanted to be apart.

And so, Red Breast would become the fourth member of our tribe.

From Villancoulos we, rather happily, bid farewell to Bob and once again became independent women travelling to a stunning little beach town, Tofo. On the way to Tofo we met a cute local guy on the bus, Tofo Boy. While squished up the front with the driver, Zimbabawia rather enjoyed his banter and his babein’ness started to show, so obviously numbers were exchanged.

After one magnificent sunrise in Tofo, Mumma Africa and I decided to explore the capital of Mozambique, Maputo, while the two other girls remained in Tofo to go diving.

Once we’d reunited, Zimbabawia filled our eager ears with the following juicy tales:

Whilst searching the Tofo waters for whale sharks, Zimbabawia was severely stung by jellyfish, to ease her pain Red Breast admirably volunteered as tribute and pissed all over her back and legs. They made sure to catch a slow-mo video of the event. Yep Red Breast, you are one of us.

I’m not sure if any of you have been pissed on in a non-sexual way, but maybe if you have you can understand Zimbabawia’s post-pissing urge to get some more sexual juices on her body.

Tofo boy messaged the day after the jellyfish/piss incident inviting me to the beach, so myself, Red Breast, and our two new Israeli buddies went along. While one of the Israelis serenaded us with his guitar, Tofo Boy started to give me non-subtle little eyebrow raises.

The sun was setting and Red Breast and I decided we’d make a delicious dinner back at the hostel, without having time to decide whether I wanted my eyebrow raising friend to join, the Israeli, Serenader, invited him.

During onion chopping,Tofo Boy began doing cute things like grabbing my waist and touching my arms, I was fuckin in to it! After dinner, and all the PDA, we asigned ourselves to the dishes, but instead washed each other’s mouth with our soapy saliva.

Feeling hot and heavy from the make out session we were already discussing options of where to go. Hostel sex life requires creativity: the bathrooms, a walk on the beach…or it’s an option, obviously their house.

Mid ‘where to fuck’ discussion, the others came outside and suggested we all go to a bar. We agreed, but in reality the sexual tension was hitting a peak, I was dripping wet.

While the others got their drinks I was like, Oh shoot! Tofo Boy left his wallet at home, we’ll go and get it, it’s not far….

Meanwhile Red Breast and Serenader were flirting up a storm so I didn’t mind leaving them to it.

Tofo Boy and I walked hastily, hand in hand, back to his place, the promised five minute walk was in fact 25 minutes (Africa time). When we finally reached his apartment he was all over me, kissing me with those sexy black pillows, touching my body, fingering me until I was gagging for it.

His dick – it was so hard I looked to check if it was made of cement.

He finally put his cement brick inside me whilst kissing my neck and tits, driving me wild, I started playing with myself until I could no longer contain it, and I came.
I guess my orgasm face is sexy as the next second he was also moaning in orgasm ecstasy.

Excitingly, he was pretty much ready to go again, and then again. As though someone had awoken my orgasm goddess, I came again both times! Cumming three times in one session NEVER happens to me.

Maybe it was because he was a woman pleaser, or because I didn’t feel any attachment to him, therefore, my mind could chill the fuck out.

Note to self, find way for mind to always chill the fuck out if it means having three oragsms.

Although we would all like to, it’s almost unicorn spottingly hard to get great once off sex without a little bit of weirdness. After we’d banged three times, I started drifting off when I realised that he was tugging the chain full pelt, trying to get himself hard AGAIN. Only if you have a backup uterus for me mate, this bitch needs a break.

A few hours later, well and truly rooted, he walked me back to the hostel, we made out some more, and then I sent him on the long walk back home. He had mentioned coming to the bus stop in the morning to wish me goodbye, and in true African style, he actually did. I smooched the black pillows one last time and then I never replied to any of his messages. Oops.

With the Mozambique flag now acquired alongside the Tanzanian and Malawian, we realised that Zimbabawia had started herself a little African country streak! If I have anything to do with it, this will most definitely be a streak that continues.

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