Sexual Frustration

Oya Calor
7 mins read
Published about 3 years ago

I'm sexually frustrated. Apparently, I’ve got a lot of options, but they're all so deeply problematic that I decided to hold out for a quality experience. See, I'm 35, which means I've had some years to feel how things go wrong fast, and stick with them anyway, and learn from my stupid choices. These days, I'm not in the mood for a one night stand. This is not to knock one night stands, because I am all for a quality one night stand. But the better it is, the more likely I am to want to turn it into a second meeting. Call me all-or-nothing girl.

Guess what? I'm someone who doesn't want kids, and could take or leave a wedding. But finding that real connection — that glowing orange love — that's on my path. It's gotta be, because it's one of my main diversions.

It's August on my scarce-known island. Everyone's complaining about the humidity, except for me. Twenty-five and humid suits me just fine. Must have something to do with my Caribbean bloodlines. I wake up, roll out of bed, put the strong dark coffee on. I have a single puff of the joint on my bedside table that I've been working on for a week, and I jump in the hot shower. Letting the hot water run over my face, my neck, I close my eyes, imagining the heat on my body is the warm energy from a man, energy that can’t be rinsed off. I forget what it feels like not to want to rinse off.

Walking around outside in my too-short shorts, not giving a fuck, my hair still wet, I am aimless. I feel like I am walking around in a giant dream bubble. No work for the day. I slow my stride as I realize my shorts are getting me aroused. Pleasurable chafing, I suppose.

I think about going back to Donovan. He recently propositioned me again. But as my most recent ex (if I can even call him that, considering we were never really official over the entire year and a half), he’s taboo territory, and besides, I'm not tempted anymore. Not really. I mean sure, he was the best lover I ever had, by far. But the emotional void I felt when I was with him was not worth even the steamiest of nights.

I walk around down by the water, rootless, too stimulated for my circumstances. I see a couple fucking on the bluff, just barely removed from view. I sit within earshot, on the hot sand, and listen to the wind hissing through their sounds. I lay down, not caring. I smell rain coming on. The nearby concrete is getting that sensual summer smell. I can hear the woman moaning, using her "A" vowels all the way to the back of her throat. I can hear her tilt her body up to meet his. I can hear her nails gripping his ass. And I can hear the synergy between them. He’s letting the wind blow through too. His sounds are more muffled, but no less affected. I can hear him groaning like he wants to make a home. Like all he wants is to be on the inside — with no need to ever look out.

My hand slides down, over my stomach to my too-tight, chafing short shorts. I run my fingers along their ridges. I suck in my breath, and let my head fall back, to the earth. There is no one around. Am I dreaming? Or is this a real day? Are these two mutually exclusive?

The woman is circling climax now. She sounds like she's on top, the way she's vibrating her voice. Her frantic song of trying, trying to make something that deserves to be made. I think maybe they're both married and cheating on their spouses. That would account for their third partner, the wind. But then again – I hope they're not. My hand slides into my underwear and I use my middle finger to press my clit like a button. Do I care about the pervert hiding in the bushes? I mean, the hypothetical one? Yes. Part of me is concerned, and part of me aroused. So I don't open my legs all the way, which feels the best. I try my best to maintain a less conspicuous pose, but quickly abandon that for the sake of pleasure.

I slide off my shorts and kick them to the wind. They are holding me back. I kick off my underwear too. Now it's just me with my naked pussy on the sand. Doesn't sound good? That's why a take off my T-shirt and put it under my ass. I tilt my pussy to the sky to avoid getting any sand where it doesn't need to go. I suck and spit liberally on three fingers and use them to rub my clit in tender circles. And then I push them inside myself, dancing my hips back and forth to land at the base of my fingers. Fucking myself softly in this way, skyward, legs spread, inviting the clouds to participate. She sounds like she is crying now, urgently in need of something out of her reach. With my eyes closed, I can hear her holding tight to the back of his neck, and him rocking her deeper.

People are walking toward me. My shorts and underwear have blown away, and I have no recourse for cover. So I continue to lie there moving myself in circles. A couple stops in their tracks when they see me.

"My dear, you know the rains are coming?" says the woman. "You’ll catch a cold undressed like that."

Smiling at her, I continue to fuck myself softly, my fingers moving toward space, creating wetness on a lonely beach. I say nothing, but study the couple, in their 50s – arm-in-arm.

"You're very good at that," says the man, pulling his lady closer. "You should give lessons to women on how to have orgasms. Lesson number one: find a beautiful outdoor location!" At that, the man laughs voraciously, free hand on his chest, as though he is the cat's pyjamas of progressive sex jokes. The woman subtly rolls her eyes, smiling at me knowingly.

"Yes, you're very skilled at pleasing yourself," she says. "But you know you seem a little lonely. Would you like some company while you finish? I mean, I know you've got the wind, and those two lovebirds over there, or jackrabbits, or whatever you want to call them,” she says, gesturing to the bluff, “but we've both got lots of experience with loneliness. And with orgasms too.”

"I – I suppose that would be nice," I hear myself saying. Talking to them is delaying my orgasm, and I can't be sure that the younger pair on the bluff haven't already finished — what with the wind blowing in every direction, and all. I find this possibility somewhat disappointing, because if I'm honest, I wanted to cum with them.

The man and woman each take a seat in the sand, on either side of me. They're both wearing windbreakers and colorful Bermuda shorts. He is tall, stout, and good looking in an older guy Richard Gere kind away. No joke. Her — I think I would compare her to Martha Stewart, but grey not blond, and with sexy smile lines at the edges of her eyes, like sunrays.

"Peter, why don’t you do that thing that you do so well… on my thighs? I always feel so taken care of when you do that," said the woman.

Peter leans forward, parting my already parted legs with his hands. His hands are callous, and feel amazing against my soft skin. He traces my thighs with his rough fingers: from my hip creases down to my knees and back up again. First, the outside of my thighs and then slowly, working inward — that innermost silken road, both hands working at once to keep me skyward. It's hard for me to keep fucking my fingers in that position with him, so I just rub my clit instead. He does it very lightly, very slowly, unassuming. 

"Ohhhhhh," I hear myself somewhere in the breeze. The sun is kissing my stomach now, breaking through, to have a go at me.

"You're making her feel good," says the woman. "You're so good with your hands, dear. Look how she's arching her body. She is closer to loving herself with us around, I think."

"I think you're right," pants Peter. He stops tracing my thighs, tenderly sticking three fingers into my mouth to lick. "That's right sweetie, get those nice and wet. My hands aren't exactly smooth, as you may have noticed. Too much hard work," he chuckles. I suck on Peter's fingers like it was the last cock on earth, while staring up at his wife, or whoever she happens to be. I hold Martha’s gaze as her husband wets his fingers real good in my hungry mouth.

"Honey, would you like it if my husband stuck his fingers inside you and stimulated you that way?" She caresses the side of my face like a mother would as she asks me. I nod appreciatively.

Peter teases my slit lightly with his fingers. I slap my clit to remind myself that I truly exist. They both smile as I do this. I open my legs wider. Peter slides his fingers in, moving the inner circle at my entrance, touching my spiral the way I've been wanting it to be touched. This is not what I had in mind as you may imagine. But it feels divine. Martha runs her fingers over my hardened nipples and along my navel.

"You have a gorgeous body, dear," she says.

"Does this feel good?" asks Peter. He is moving in and out of me now, with a little more force each time. I am split, I am splayed, I invite the elements of change into my body. I moan loudly, contracting around his fingers, squeezing his rough, experienced skin tightly with my juice.

"Yes,” I manage, my breath much quicker now, as I catapult my hips to meet his rhythm. Martha licks her finger and traces circles on my asshole. The added sensation is simply too much to bear. I arch my back to the heavens, the sun nibbling my breasts. My body is on fire. I am touched. I did not think good Samaritans really existed. But I was wrong. I am touched by the sun, the wind, the mist off the water. I am touched, by him and her. And by those others I can't really see or hear anymore.

Martha inserts only the very tip of her finger into my ass. The gesture sends me over the edge. I open wider and clench harder around them both. My muscles love me. I am a shot in the dark, the light. My growl turns into a scream as I expel light outward, and into the world. As I expel both friendly strangers out of me as well, with the sheer force of my core pleasure.

I lie heaving on the ground, naked. There is nobody around. I am impressed that no one has walked by this whole time and wonder how I would have dealt with it. Tears are streaming from the sides of my eyes. I stand up, find my short shorts and T-shirt laying just next to me, and begin to walk in the direction of home. My head full of dreams and my underwear full of sand in spite of my efforts. I slowly climb the escarpment that leads to my road. I can't wait to shower, binge watch some good TV, eat something easy, and chill out for the night without having to interact with anyone. Once inside, I close the door, take off all my clothes, and bring myself to orgasm 4 times. Still craving release, I make dinner, turn down three requests for dates on OkCupid, and settle in for some downtime.

Yet I take comfort in the fact that nothing stays settled. Especially with all the wind we've been having lately on the island, lots of changes are circulating, I can feel it.