“I’m a sex racist,” I told the guys.

Yes, it was to get a rise, and it always worked. That bluntness and my naked big boobie pics.

“Sex is the only thing that you can be racist about, and it’s okay,” I added.

“Oh yeah. It’s true. Never think about it this way,” a guy said.

“You’re funny. Of course,” another replied.

It’s been a while. Two years, in fact, swiping in the circles of online dating and hook-ups. Still searching for the guys who most matched and wanting the dream of having a close set of FWBs to hang with.

Ever since H and I went open, and after chatting with more than three hundred guys, I got braver. Opening up helped me face my sexual self and in our world where cultures mingled and mixed, we were no longer just fucking those with our skin color.

My family was progressive, but if it were marriage, being Asian, there would be some concerns about marrying a person of a different color.

What about sex? That’s a choice that was solely up to each person. No one had to know.

We shouldn’t judge a person by the color of their skin or disabilities, or gender, or whatever, because we won’t want them to do that back to us. Call it a type, but if I have to share a part of myself with someone else in something private and emotional, I have that right to choose. There isn’t any political correctness about it.

“So what type of girls do you like?” I asked. It was a common question I asked the Asian guys. H said he was an ‘equal opportunity lover’ and I wasn’t.

Yes, I agree. My type was strong. My body lusted after what it wanted. I loved the East Asian guys, between the ages of 21-33. Most were light-skinned, smooth bods, slimmer and taller, and easy on the eyes, and I wasn’t into the hairy, rugged, too prideful, overly Dom or overly Sub guys.

“Do you like a buffet?” I grinned.

“Buffet?” A Korean guy asked.

“Yeah. Eating girls of every country, color, age, size?” I laughed.

Some guys say yes, some say no. Some say so long as they are hot, and some say any will do. Even the nice looking guys can be fuck boys.

“I’m doing a test,” I tell some of the young, white men I added to my Bumble. A very select few whom I spoke with more than a day, still less than ten, even today. “You are gonna help me test if I’m a sex racist.”

“What? A sex racist? Hahahaha.”

Most guys find it interesting that I say it as is. We don’t usually talk about our prejudices and stereotypes to a person of a different color, so chatting with me in all frankness was refreshing.

I didn’t care. The fact was I was already objectifying these men, just as they lusted after me because I’m a pretty Asian, MILF with a super hot body, it was fair trade.

I knew my assets. I knew what they wanted. So, it was my turn to get something out of this. After all, in the game of sex, the tango tangle requires the meeting of bodies.

The main result was lust. Can they make me lust for them?

“Okay, so what do you want?” A young, white EMT asked. I liked his looks — pale skin, dark hair, tall, smooth, hot body with not too much hair. The difference was that he had green eyes and was caucasian looking. He didn’t care a fuck and wasn’t trying to mansplain me.

Maybe the reason why I liked him more than the other white guys in the dating apps is that he didn’t have facial hair. I didn’t like the prickly feeling on my lips, my breasts and pussy when their hair rub against me. At that time, imagining it was enough to dampen the mojo.

EMT guy had some great pics, but I stopped him before he could show his junk. White men seemed to like doing that from the start, and it spoiled the game. The teasing and slow reveal to build up the heat was part of the fun. Maybe, they think too much like men and not in a woman’s shoes? Or the pride of their cock blinded their minds to the seduction of a woman needs? Or maybe, white women like that form of mating call but from what I knew, Asian women didn’t.

The East Asian man wouldn’t flash his cock. And having seen so many, some East Asian guys have big dicks too. It was a culture thing — the East Asian man’s humility was part of the like.

Cool and humble on the outside, and a bad daddy behind doors.

Back to EMT guy. Chat and roasting was fun and after flashing more and scheduling time to meet, his erratic work schedule blew our meetings off. He was gone with the wind twice and so I moved on. Determined to prove I wasn’t a sex racist in my quest to find myself.

When the Americans didn’t seem to stir my juices, I thought maybe the issue was location. And so, I switched my Bumble location to London and tested the dating pool.

In the pool of white men, I caught a new fish — a British actor, Cambridge guy with brown hair, light eyes and a sheepish look. He had a beautiful smile and was in his early twenties, handsome but lacking social cues. I figured I was two points up by picking him, and after our polite chats, and sending my pics and vids, I finally got him all hot and ready.

And so we called. He was in London and I was in the US. Not sure how we were going to meet in person but at least we could play.

“What do you want to do to me?” he asked.

His polite British accent ran through my body and down to my pussy and looped over and up my ass to my spine and back to my brain. It gave me the shivers and it was a fantasy of mine when I was a teenager. Having read too many Victorian books, I wanted to be ravaged by an Englishman.

Perhaps, it was colonial mindset and that is why the British, Irish and Scottish actors will always be handsome, dry humored, hot and sheepish blue-blooded than the white men of other countries.

Maybe, it was those V-shaped vest-coats, and tights, the men of that era wore. The equivalent now are the butt hugging, loose gym pants our men wore these days.

Just imagine. The long, hard erection lining up the rough cotton of those tapered Victorian pants that cupped the men’s asses from the back, and adding to it, the tall dark boots. These aristocratic men with society politeness, committing deviant acts — lifting the women ballooning skirts, and angrily thrusted their white manly swords into unshaved pussies as their mouths took pink nipples from low-cut swelling breasts in their mouths.

The rape of virgins. Those were the Victorian stories. Doing the unthinkable of deflowering one of those precious maidens before they got married.

As an Asian woman, I could never be a white woman in those beautiful corseted laced dresses with their breasts displayed like a china platter of white sugared pears. My face didn’t fit, even if my curvy body would look hella sexy in them. I would be every teenage Victorian boy’s pin-up, if photographs were ever invented then.

I wished I could be taken by force by a Lord. Made to breed and birth his descendants and be rich forever. There were Asian versions of the Lord stories like rich guy, king, Chebol, with the tropes of the fairytale poor, smart, pretty woman. Though, when comes to sex, those Korean, Chinese and other Asian dramas cannot compare to those Victorian romance novels.

“I want to kiss you deep, take your tongue between my teeth and suck you hard. You’ll dart in my hot mouth and our tongues will dance as you suck me back,” he said.

“Our lips, wet with each other’s saliva when I pull away from you, kissing your throat, and sucking your Adam’s apple as you moan,” I said. “I want you…” My voice dropped low. “I will release my lips from your throat and go up, licking and kissing your ear.

“I hear you panting, hot breath in my ear,” he said. “I’ll reach over and grab your breast. Massaging with my fingers and weighing them with my hands.”

“First, I’ll nibble your ear and then stick my tongue into your hole.” I giggled.

He gasped because we both knew what I meant.