Chicks before dicks. Sisters before misters. Breasticles before testicles. Whichever one you choose the message is the clear — one doesn’t ditch their mates in order to get their pussy wet.

If you have read my tales you may have noticed that during festivals, or life in general, I don’t exactly follow this ethic. When I set my eyes upon a man, I fall completely into his world.

I’ve never questioned this falling and nor have my friends, they’ve always allowed me to just be me. So when we arrive to BOOM festival and I quickly slip into a new man’s world I don’t think anything of it…until I do.

It’s our first night at the big arsed BOOM in Portugal; my African world swapped for a European Psytrance festival. Dancing by my side in this sea of colourful humans are Zimbabwia, North Star and Wally, three of my dearest girlfriends. Joining us are ten other brand new best friends.

Festivals are like that. Good cunts know good cunts so relationships happen on fast forward. Despite the 30 000 people at this festival, it feels like we have the tightest crew going around.

Forming a human chain we make our way to the Chill Out stage. Upon arrival we copy the other dancers and remove our shoes and as I bend down to undo mine I tune into my heart — it’s pounding. I’m filled with the electricity of all these happy humans who’ve travelled far and wide to be together for the same thing: love, unity, freedom, music.

This electricity fills me up like a helium balloon, and when I sprinkle substances into the mix I allow myself to lift off and float up into la-la land.

I’m flying high on the dancefloor when I spot him — a beautiful Desert Man. I slither my way beside him — prowler mode activated. He has skin like Zimbabwia’s something that belongs to desert lands. His hair sways by his shoulders and a scarf wraps effortlessly around his head. The bare chest and Aladdin jacket tip me over the edge. What a babe. Without having spoken a word, I know this man is Israeli.

My tunnel vision is on and he senses my hungry gaze. As though born listening to these dreamy desert beats, he spins effortlessly to face me.

The girls and I had discussed having an early first night, but they are all too familiar with ‘the look’ I get when I’m consumed by a man and so whisper in my ear ‘Goodnightttt. Have fun!’

Once they leave I feel glad that they have gone and can now drown myself in this beautiful being. The music ups in tempo and Desert Man and I begin weaving together like two serpents dancing to a flute. I’ve never danced so spiritually with a man. I can feel the vibrations between us: my fingertips spark every time I brush against his body.

Once the set has ended, I begin to wonder what will happen next? Desert Man seems to hear my thoughts and asks:

‘Want to come and see something cool?’

‘Hell yeah!’ I beam without hesitation.

He takes me by the hand and leads me to the colossal main stage — The Dance Temple — which is closed off and still under construction. Peeking through the barriers I discover its true magnitude and grandeur, I’ve never seen anything like it — an Ottoman Mosque on acid. Holding up the geometric shade cloths are rows of giant columns decorated in vibrational patterns of colour, light and energy. When this place opens it will be big enough for a psytrance army.

Why on earth has he brought me here? Again reading my thoughts he smiles at me as we breeze past the security guard and behind the barrier.

Moving as though invisible amongst the frantic people attending to finishing touches, we find our way onto the main stage. I become intrigued about my guide’s forwardness and familiarity with this epic project.

It turns out the stage artist is Israeli and Desert Man knows him well, as he himself constructs art for midburn (Israeli burning man). I’m dead.

I need no persuading when he asks me back to his all Israeli camp site. I fucking love Israelis. My new friends welcome me into their world and I notice how at ease I am, how comfortable; how light friendship is. I’m having such a good time that when Desert Man asks me to come hang by the lake, I feel vaguely disappointed to leave.

The lakeside seems to be a designated lovers hangout. On either side of us I can hear couples meeting in various ways, a moan to my left, whispering to my right — are those balls slapping or lake waves? I’m aware that Desert Man and I will soon join the chorus.

He kisses me and we start to twirl together on the grass. Although a tender lover, the weight of his big heavy body makes me feel like a little fairy.

As he undresses me, the warm night air brushes my naked back. I straddle him, my hands exploring his strong, carpenters body. He spreads my legs apart and pleasures me with his hands. My moans encourage him and he makes his way down on me. I’m lost in lust when he swivels his torso around. As I take his penis in my hand I notice how different it feels with no foreskin to fondle.

‘I have condoms,’ he says, as he pulls me back up to face him.

Once he’s wrapped up he pushes himself deep inside me.

When we finish he invites me to stay the night. This is nice and I say yes.

Morning comes and with sleep still in our eyes we enjoy sweaty tent sex. Greeting us as we climb gingerly from the tent are his entire crew, inviting me to share some lunch. But something inside prevents me — ‘No sorry, I’d better get back to my crew’.

I skip home feeling grateful for a sexy night with a yummy man, I can’t wait to tell the girls. Just as I reach the campsite Wally calls out:

‘There you bloody are! We’re about to go!’

I spot North Star by our tent and her face lights up as she turns to see me. I can see in her eyes how excited she is. Excited, because not seeing me was in fact a real possibility.

Her unconditional love and acceptance of who I am, what I do, smacks me in the face. I almost missed spending the day with my friends because of my pattern to be so instantly absorbed in someone else’s world.

‘Well go on, wet wipe your ass and get ready! The Dance Temple is about to open!’ shouts Wally again, snapping me back to my beautiful reality, my world full of beautiful friends who are right here waiting for me to fall into them.

North Star jumps into the tent with me to help me get ready. As she hands me a fresh pair of underwear I swear to myself that the rest of this festival will be dedicated to my friends and if a man wants to join me, he’ll have to join my world.

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Image taken from Boom Offical — see you in 2020!

Hairy Pits Take Europe

So apparently I’m a hippie now. I have a weird haircut, I wear random clothes, I travel for a lifestyle but most notably, I no longer tame my body hair. I didn’t used to look like this, I waxed my underarms, shaved my legs, and scheduled my monthly Brazilian appointments. I loathed the cost, effort and pain of hair removal, but I did it because ‘that’s what women do’ and… what man will want to eat out a hairy vagina?

This bohemien change occurred in the desert where I released my wild woman — in many ways. The most visible way being my body hair.

In the desert my waxed pits were the odd ones out; practically all the female volunteers were rocking their natural foliage. Never before had I wished for my pits to hurry up and grow back. Once they eventually filled out I felt a sense of pride raising my arms alongside my desert sisters.

When the desert time came to an end and we were heading to Namibia, I intended to remove the hair but Zimbabawia, Mumma Africa and Impy persuaded me not too.

‘It looks great! Al natural gal.’

And so I was convinced to keep my natural hairs even in the ‘real world’. I didn’t think much about it until my road trip with the Namibia boys. Being in their handsome presence I felt the blush of self-consciousness come over me. Still seeking further reassurance I decided to ask Lekker Boy and Mumma Lover what they thought of my pit-Afro.

‘It’s great! That’s your true self.’

‘You totally rock it!’

Although it pains me to say, the validation of two men over my three female friends made it so much easier to accept my hairy new look and believe others would accept it too.

What the fuck had society done to my brain?

So, I did it — I embraced my natural hairs. While we drove down the desert roads of Namibia I let my them flap gracefully in the wind. As I danced to Afrobeats in Rwanda I threw my arms in the air without hesitation. When I became intimate with Honey he lovingly stroked my hairy pits as though they were the most natural thing in the world — which they were.

Now, seven weeks later, I have become used to this new furry version of myself. I find myself tenderly fondling the thick, black bush of my pits and vag.

Reunited with Mumma Africa, our departure date creeps up on us and I feel that same insecurity resurface — I don’t know if I can face taking my natural hairs on a plane destined for Europe.

Why is Europe any different than Africa you ask?

Europe is where I’m meeting a bunch of non-hairy friends. Europe is where fashion becomes important again. Europe is where the German lives — and I know beyond a doubt that he won’t like my pitAfro.

Tormented by these social pressures I turn to Mumma Africa and Zimbabwia for help and we decide to do a little research…

We find out that in the 1920s there was as a dramatic change in women’s fashion. Dresses became shorter and tighter, sleeves were removed — the body was the new biggest statement. So with all these limbs on show some scheming advertisers from the men’s hair removal industry began to target women’s hair and their self-esteem

Advertisements featuring joyous women in slick summer dresses with hairless underarms began popping up in women’s magazines. These advertisements promoted hair removal products that dealt with ‘unclean’ hairs and promoted ‘female loveliness’.

Hold on a minute — unclean? Women were bombarded with a message that the natural hairs they’d always known were now suddenly unclean, unsightly and unfeminine.

So clearly I’d been unknowingly programed so to speak. But this discovery did prompt me to have the invaluable realisation — once upon a time, not so long ago, all women were hairy, and none of them knew and felt any damn different.

Keeping my natural hairs is not me making a grand hippy gesture — it’s me just like my fellow al-natural sisters from the 1920s!

So no thank you Mr Gillette!

Empowered by a vision of hairy women of the past and the support of the women in my present, I throw my unused wax and razor away, then continue packing. Tomorrow we wave goodbye to Mumma Africa and Mount Kilimanjaro and board a flight to Portugal — my pitAfro can hardly wait to arrive.

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The Challenges of African Dancing: Part 2 — The Challenges of Lovers

Lovers — I can’t seem to get the idea out of my mind. I want to be a lover, I want to have a lover.

But lovers aren’t necessarily singular. Take Zimbabwia, we’ve been to six countries now and she’s had a lover in five (go girl). So if I’m going to learn to be a lover, I need to learn how to love, and how to let go.

And yet, just writing that fills me with hesitation. I haven’t managed to find myself a lover on this trip, how can I possibly let him go when I find him?

I wake with that unfriendly yet familiar feeling — a hangover. I’m getting too old for hangovers. I roll over to check my phone and there blissfully waits a message from Honey! My nauseated feeling is instantly replaced with delicious flashbacks of last night’s Afrobeat base, of my booty (non-suggestively) grinding up against Honey, and the kiss… my tummy swoons with butterflies as I relive our tongues intangling.

Some replies back and forth and we arrange to meet up that evening when he and Lips have the keys to their new house.

Telling Zimbabwia the plan, we instantly realise our dilemma.

‘Shit. We can’t possibly be our usual free selves when we have a CouchSurfer Mum to go home to.’

For those of you who have couch surfed before, you will understand that sometimes — depending on the country, the culture, and the vibe of your host — you are obligated to show a certain amount of courtesy. Going out for a one-night-stand isn’t always considered courteous.

After much debate, and a little bit of embarrassment, Zimbabwia and I determine that our best option, for total freedom, is to leave Mimmy’s and ask Honey and Lips if we can stay at theirs.

‘Hey Honey, so about tonight. I know you’re just moving into your place and you don’t even have your own furniture yet. But we’re in a bit of an awkward spot and well… Could we kind of move in too… Like bring our entire lives in the form of backpacks with us? This doesn’t mean we have to have sex…’ I awkwardly stutter through the phone.

‘Yeah sure, that’s sweet,’ replies an unfalteringly sweet Honey.

And so, that is how Zimbabwia and I move in on our first date. HAHAHA.

No seriously. This story still makes me cackle while writing it. But this is just the typical ‘living in the moment’, outrageous shit that happens when you travel — I bloody love it.

With our packs on our backs we jump onto a pikipiki (motorbike taxi), wave goodbye to the lovely Mimmy, and cruise down to our new home. Little do we know that we are about to have two entirely different experiences.

Honey is already home and welcomes us by showing us around the completely naked house. Without even a cup for the wine we’ve brought we sit together on the balmy porch sipping from the bottle of red, waiting for Lips to arrive.

Lips, we learn, is a tailor at the Kimironko Market and often stays out late fulfilling orders for his many wazungu* clients.

The bottle of wine is long finished when he finally arrives. We sit together for a while and then wish each other goodnight — Zimbabawia and I’s eyes meet and we barely contain our laughter as we head into our ‘boyfriend’s’ bedrooms.

‘Have fun!’

Finally! With the door closed, Honey and I alone for the first time. As we sit down on his bed I feel utterly nervous, I really like this guy! But just like his dancing, he starts off tender and slowww.

He leans in to kiss me and I feel sparks of electricity shoot from my lips. We makeout for so long that waves of pleasure pulsate from my mouth through every fibre of my being.

Our possessed hands begin to roam freely, exploring each other’s bodies. Delicately he removes my top and brushes his hands over my underarm foliage — my skin erupts in goosebumps. I raise my hands to caress his beautiful natural dreads. He removes his top and I respond by pressing my chest against his gorgeous caramel skin, our bodies feel like they fit together perfectly.

He is a tender, gentle lover — looking me in the eyes, putting a condom on without me needing to ask, entering me slowly, with gratitude. My vagina senses Honey’s purity and fully opens to welcome his penis. I don’t need to angle my cervix or position him — we just glide.

A sensuously long time later, utterly spent, we collapse into each other’s arms and drift off into a lovers’ coma.

When I awaken Honey has already gotten up and bought us breakfast ingredients — and utensils to cook them. I’m seriously swooning so hard over him while he makes breakfast that when Zimbabwia appears, I laugh.

I forgot you were here!

One look at her and I register that her night wasn’t as luxurious as mine. We head out for the day leaving Honey to organise the house. Once we’re out the gate I turn to Zimbabawia and the gossip begins.

‘I’m a lover not a fucker!’ Groans Zimbabwia, who’s now slouched on the couch of the very impressive Inzora Cafe we’ve found. I sip on my smoothie through a bamboo straw (yes Inzora!) and listen to the tale of Zimbabwia’s evening.

It turns out Lips was the opposite of Honey. He wanted to FUCK all night and when Zimbabawia finally got to sleep he woke her up at 5am so she would let him out of the front gate. This resulted in her having approximately 45 minutes of sleep.

In the days that follow, Zimbabwia and I entertain ourselves throughout the day and in the evenings head back to our home and our housemates for dinner. I practically count the hours until I can see Honey again. I’m becoming addicted to his nectar.

Each day I find myself unveiling another affectionate flower, which has never before been watered. I’m not ashamed to show my heart in the form of kisses, hugs, making the bed, and bringing home treats.

Honey doesn’t push me back or make me feel over the top, or too obsessed. We’re just living in the now — because soon I will be gone.

Every night we make love, and every night my body yearns more deeply for his touch, his breath, our mingled sweat in the humid nights. I love touching my fingers on his scars and asking questions about his life.

With every day that passes I begin reflecting on my past romances. I have never acted this way before because I was never able — I was shamed for my openheartednes and made to swallow my affection.

Ten days later our Rwandan journey was coming to an end, and I started to feel confused. Is it possible to have this much loving with someone, this much of a connection and just leave it at that? Isn’t that a waste.

The mind began to take over and was plotting stories of how to make this work.

I could move to Rwanda!

Our last night comes around all too quickly and to comisterate / celebrate our departure Bitches, Bangles (our Israeli friend who we met in Malawi), Zimbabawia, Honey, Lips, and I all head back to Cocobean. Zimbabwia and I are rocking some seriously cool new threads* that Lips has been busy sewing all week and I am ready to shake my ass.

Honey and I melt together on the dance floor and Bitches boy is making us all wet ourselves with laughter sassing his booty around in our dance circle.

The lights and the music are pounding and I realise that my head is spinning. I ask honey to come outside with me for a bit and he escorts me next to the pool. We’re mid kiss when he pulls away and looks at me slyly.

‘Do you remember what you said the last time you were here?’

‘Oh shit. Yep. Hold on. Take this’.

Handing Honey my camera and shoes I stand up onto a chair and launch myself into the swimming pool. As my head resurfaces I hear a roar of applause, laughter, and some angry security men screaming at me to;

‘Get out!’

Soaping wet, I climb out and wave my arm in victory to the disbelieving crowd. A security guard takes my arm and escorts me towards the exit. Behind me Zimbabwia, Bangles, and Bitches mouths are all agape.

‘I guess we’ll see you later!’ They cackle.

Honey walks up next to me, holding my possessions. He smirks and says nothing.

From Honey I learnt how to African dance. How to love. How to be loved. And most importantly, I learnt how to let a lover go. I can tell you, it wasn’t easy, I asked Zimbabwia numerous times why moving to Rwanda wasn’t a good idea, until finally I had my own realisation. To ‘live in the moment’ also means that you sometimes have to leave that moment, where you found it.

So to you Honey. Thank you for tasting so sweet, and getting me addicted to the nectar of a lover.

*Wazungu: people who wander or in the case of Africa it is the common name for foreigners

*Threads: clothes.
Lips is an amazing Rwandan fashion designer who works his ass off to create unique colourfully explosive clothes, which combine western fashion with the beautiful African fabric
If you need an injection of colour and culture in your wardrobe then this legend at Kimironko Market Kigali OR head to his website.

What are your experiences with Lovers? Are you a Zimbabawia, you have multiple? Or are you learning to leave the moment where you found it like me? Comment below!

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The Lover and The Prowler

So I’m a Gemini. For those who know anything about astrology it’s commonly known as ‘the twin’ — the dualistic persona. When it comes to sex, my louder persona — The Prowler, loves the freedom and empowerment of a one night stand. For years I’ve loved going to events, prowling a crowd, picking my mark and ending the night in bed with said chosen.

However, there is another side of my sex story. A side who has not had as much time in the spotlight — The Lover. She loves sex that is meaningful, and with a person whom she feels a deep connection to. Someone she can truly blossom with.

In this tale both the twins come out to have their say.

I will forever regard Windhoek as being the home to the world’s best couchsurfing-host-women, ever. Twerk Queen and her five sister’s humble home gives us our first glimpse of what it would be like to be a true local. Tucked away in the heart of Katutura Township, the thrum of music drifts from the numerous bars, children play freely on the street, prowling cats and dogs seeking scraps of food and with the right with a waft of the Single Quarters meat market fills the air.

The girls give us their bed, their food, their company, and even attempt teaching us how to Twerk (previously concluded by our tiny white asses as a physical impossibility).

The sisters are taking us into town with a group of their friends. Walking into a bar I am gobsmacked. It feels like we’ve walked into a Melbourne bar, the most obvious difference being our glowing skin, standing out amongst the dark chocolate crowd. Everyone is trendy as fuck and all walks of life are represented; there are hipsters, glam girls, gangsters, suits, you name it.

I’m positioned at the bar waiting for my GnTs and peering out at the sea of people, when the beat takes on a different nature. Oozing out of the speaker is a combination of jazz, soul and funk — I instantly feel my hips organically sway to the rhythm. It’s not just me; everyone around me is transformed by this music. Booties are shaking, hips are grinding, they’re fully immersed in dance, full of confidence, full of pride in their varying body shapes. And they are showing the fuck off. I froff this place.

Still grinning from this sight, a 6ft tall woman passes by. I recognise that she is a transvestite. Apprehensively, I look ahead to see what the reactions towards her will be… nothing.

This city is seriously blowing me away! There’s a transvestite and no one batting an eyelid! She is safe and accepted HALLELUJAH!

Let me explain. I’ve been travelling through parts of Africa e.g. Tanzania where being homosexual is still punishable by imprisonment. So now, coming to Namibia and seeing humans of all gender identifications, wearing whatever the fuck they like, dancing however the fuck they want; brings me pure joy.

GnTs in hand, I make my way outside to sit with Twerk Queen and her gang of guy friends. Somehow we get onto the topic of anal sex.

No no. That is only for gay people,’ declared one of the male friends.

I look over at his normally loud buddies and they are silent —not daring to disagree. Filled with confidence from this progressive place, I decide that this is a topic we can safely debate. And so that’s what we do; Mumma Africa, Zimbabawia and I proudly share our views of how men can enjoying all parts of a woman’s body and it does not make them gay.

As the silent friends start to find their voice and agree with what we are saying, I catch the eye of a beautiful man. He’s well over 6ft tall, wearing a bright yellow hoodie, and he’s looking directly at me. I feel myself instantly blush. He waves me over and I excuse myself from the conversation which has now evolved to tips for anal play.

Attendee introduces himself. Besides his strong facial features, impressive height, and stylish get up, he is also beautifully spoken and sophisticated. He’s effortlessly wooing me and The Prowler is letting him.

I’m here with my flight attendant friends,’ he boasts.

He introduces me to his glamourous colleagues. They tell tales of stop offs to Berlin; nights out in the Bergine; ocean dips in Lisbon and attending concerts in London. They come from another world and I am whisked away by Attendee’s stories.

Meanwhile, my gang’s night has come to an end and they are ready to to hit the road.

Are you coming with us?’ questions a suggestive Zimbabawia.

I turn to Attendee, uncharacteristically shy, and he replies:

You’re staying at mine aren’t you?

At this point Twerk Queen steps in and tells him:

She is under my supervision and YOU had better look after her. Give me your number. What’s your address? Call me when you get home AND call me in the morning!

Yes mam! She turns to leave but not before striking him one last watch it glare.

So that’s it. I’m going home with Attendee. Jumping into the taxi I hear the tiny voice of my The Lover protesting. I decide it’s just nervousness, this is my first one night stand, outside of the desert since Durban Boy.

We detour to get late night Nandos and take it back to his living room where the sharing of greasy food allows me to relax. As if a segway into the events ahead — we lick the chicken salt off our fingers and he invites me into his bedroom.

Again the nerves in my belly flare up. I sit awkwardly on his bed waffling on about the cool clothes in his wardrobe. Half listening, he pulls off his jumper to reveal a body I will never forget.

The nerves start to dissipate. This is what we’re here for. We’re not here to make friends. Not here to get to know each other. No. We are here for sex.

As he comes towards me I instinctively reach out my hand to caress this new, beautiful skin. Clearly wanting to do the same he yanks my top over my head to reveal my bra free (always) breasts.

Laying between my legs he takes each breast into his hands and tenderly kisses my erect nipples. He twirls my nipple ring with his tongue and I watch like a voyeur feeling the warmth grow in my body.

I gently put my hands on his spongy hair and encourage him to come up to face me. Finally, we kiss. Oh. My. God. My instant thought is to feel my own lips. Are my lips really that small?

Kissing him again I am in heaven. It’s like kissing the softest, most moist, beautiful black pillows. I’m only just getting started on his pillows when he lifts them off my mouth and moves them down along me; down, down, down, to pussy town.

I am wet with anticipation, if those lips felt like that on my mouth then… OMG he has arrived. He parts me with his tongue and moves his lips around my outer lips. His tongue gently strokes along my clit making me moan.

Because I find it hard to orgasm while the attention is solely on me, I swivel around so that I come face to face with his erection.

His dick; oh my gosh his dick. By now you probably realise I haven’t been with a man whose darker than my breakfast cinnamon. And now, as I take this beauty in my mouth, I am wondering, Why the hell haven’t I?

As usual the distraction of a cock in my mouth allows me to fully relax and come to orgasm. We come back to eye level and marvel at one another’s skin. Running our hands along each other we joke about our differences and then he enters me and colours are forgotten.

We are one union of pleasure, grinding down onto him I feel full of life, lust, and freedom — freedom to explore my sexuality while I travel this amazing continent. With this thought in mind Attendee climaxes and I drift off to sleep in his soft arms.

Yes, yes she’s asleep. Oh no, here she is, she woke up.’

My morning lay in is disturbed by Attendee handing me his phone.

Hello?’ I ask, quite confused. Twerk Queens commanding voice comes through ‘Girl you alright? I told him he has to bring you home’.

The phone call finally finishes with Attendee swearing that he is bringing me home soon. And then, silence falls between us.

We have nothing more to say to one another. Fascinating. How can there be so much language without words when our clothes are off. But when the morning comes it’s like we are strangers again.

When I jump out of his car I look at Attendee in his rather sexy uniform, yet I feel nothing. For the first time it dawns on me that although I love and respect my sexual freedom, The Lover, the connection seeking persona in me, simply isn’t satisfied with just penetration.

At this realisation, The Lover seems to be getting louder; ‘I tried to tell you!

I think it’s about time this twin had some time in the spotlight. I wonder who she’ll meet next?

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Artwork by @_monadoma_

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