“Let’s do this!”
He said, despite the odds. Mother Nature was against us. Did we stand a chance?
It was a dark and stormy day. The winds were ninety miles an hour; the trees were shaking. Rain came in loud splatters, and the roofs of homes shook with fear.
He wanted to meet that day - a Korean guy I chatted with online for a few days. He was stationed in the US for six months and was twenty-five, the golden sweet spot I’d often hunted.
Usually, I didn’t bother to go out of my way, but I had a good feeling about this guy. My search for a FWB was a never-ending quest, and I was desperate to find a good match.
He asked for a language exchange, which was a code for hooking up in Korea. He needed to learn English fast because he had to speak to his clients in English every day.
I was naive enough to think that it was what he meant when he said he just wanted to meet as friends. If I had known, I would’ve brought my goodie bag of fun stuff — lingerie, ties, cuffs, and masks.
And so, despite H saying, “I don’t think it is a good idea to go out. The storm is coming.” With the “who” sounds of winds screeching through our house and shaking the bells in our neighbor’s backyard, and still stubborn, rebellious me decided I had to meet him.
He was one of the best ones I have met so far. Fitting my type to the T. The Japanese guy, the previous one, was silent and a hard nut to crack. It didn’t help that he slept for a good two hours after we had sex and TV. Not sure if it was a cultural thing or just his personality.
We had lunch, spicy Vietnamese noodle soup, which K, the Korean guy, didn’t seem to like. We had dessert, and the flirt was slow-baked as the winds blew. We stayed in the car, staring at each other, till he reached out and touched my breast, squeezing it and waiting for my reaction.
“You wanna get a hotel?” I asked him.
“Yes?" he said.
“You should have said it earlier…I thought you wanted to learn English,” I laughed.
He rubbed his hair with his hand. “Why did you think that?" he had a boyish look, even though he was already twenty-five. He often lamented that he was old, which was such an irony for someone who was twenty-one years younger than me.
“Because I kept asking you, and you said yes.” This would become a communication issue we will always have in the later times we met.
The courteous, read-my-mind nature of his culture, which underlined his real intentions, would cause friction, and looking back, I still couldn’t tell if he liked me or just wanted me for sex, and I wondered if he still thought that he just one of the guys I fucked.
I told my “friends” that I don’t usually ask guys to be my FWB because I feel conflicted each time I take that step. It means that I liked that person enough to want to be friends and to see him again and again. It means that I was willing to stop my predatory nature and spend a period of time just to be his, excluding H, who would always get first dibs.
Since the beginning, I had a few professions of FWBness. The first guy made me cry buckets. H and I called him the cosplay guy, and it was because of him that I had a story to tell for all the new guys who came along.
Cosplay guy, with his silent, hard-to-read nature, never told me of his sufferings and difficulties at work and in his life. If he had, perhaps, I would be more understanding.
Back to K. In the winds and pouring rains, we drove looking for a hotel. A traffic light toppled over, and that didn’t stop us. Trees were uprooted, and cars were barely on the streets, and there were no people in sight.
But nothing stopped us. Our need to fuck was so great that it seemed to burst through our veins as we looked at each other.
Yes, this was what I wanted. The passionate sex. The mind-blowing nature of thunder roaring and lightning clashing.
He grabbed my hand as we hurried to the hotel, determined to finish what we had started when we met hours earlier.
At the reception, the woman in uniform shook her head. “I’m sorry. We have a power outage. Our computers are down. Do you still want to check in?”
“So, what now?” I turned to him.
“Let’s get another hotel," he said.
“There’s a storm outside,” I glanced at the lone trees on the street, waving back at us.
“Can you stay longer?" he asked.
I looked at my watch. “Maybe two hours?”
“Okay, check your phone. Find another hotel. Maybe closer to your home. I’ll pay for it," he said.
So we found one, and in twenty minutes, we were there. He was shedding his clothes as I slowly gave him a once-over. I was wearing a low-cut red blouse and jeans.
“Come here," he patted the bed, only in his underwear. One might think I was the lamb, and he was the lion. I told H en route to the hotel that I would do this and where I was going.
“Ok, don’t come home too late and drive carefully,” texted H.
H and I had progressed a lot in our relationship to this point. H had an FWB and met his girl maybe once every two weeks, while I was still searching for the right guy to be with for a long while.
The irony was I had ten thousand and more likes and horny guys who would come just to have the chance with me.
But quantity wasn’t quality, and on this dark, stormy day, I thought I’d finally found the guy.
He loved the blowjobs. I asked him to film, and so he did. It was his first time. My perversions, he embraced without hesitation. The doggies started first, and he cummed. Then he cummed again after resting with a blowjob in my mouth. He confessed during our break that he had not had sex for over a year. He had a scent issue with the first girl he met and was glad I didn’t smell.
Scents. It seemed Koreans and Japanese were most particular about that. I’d talk more about that later, but our sex that day, like the thunder shaking our floor and rain hammering on our windows, wasn’t entirely intoxicating or mind-blowing, but it was fun.
We met three more times after, and he gave himself as my birthday gift. He told me he was hungry for personal career growth and dreams of becoming more than what he was, talking about his sacrifice in coming to the US and how lonely he was.
I asked him to be my FWB in our last meeting. Even though we didn’t meet outside of sex, which made him my f-buddy, I was hoping we could, at some point, meet for a meal.
A week later, after ghosting again, Storm guy said he hurt his back and didn’t think he could fulfill my sexual needs. So, was that a no? He won’t be mine? Communication was always an issue with us, not the language. After his travels, he sent me a message saying we couldn’t do this anymore and that he was sorry.
By then, I had already moved on, having found a good guy who respected my time and his. I told Storm guy it was fine and wished him the best. I didn’t ask why he decided to break it off or why he had ghosted me again and again, making me feel small. Having a year of ghosting, my heart was slowly steel-walling, and the barbs from the insensitivities of others were fingers with thorns.
Ghosting.
The Koreans in Korea were the best at avoiding conflict. Best at making the people who were ghosted feel like shit. It broke me apart many times and told me how this type of behavior affected a society’s psyche and contributed to obsessive, road rage-type behavior. Of course, my comments to all the Koreans reading this are from my experiences and opinions. There are plenty of nice Koreans, too, who are considerate and respectful of a person’s time.
My new guy, S-boy, American Korean, we meant to be friends with bens. A better fit with my Lost culture nature, with better communication. But fate wasn’t fair, and we were pulled apart again for health reasons; we couldn’t meet again.
Explosive sex. Kinks and fetishes were coming together in all its sticky glory. It has become my goal. My rapidly growing need. Did romance books and wrongful expectations drive us to seek the impossible? Did passion equate to happiness?
So, what happens after this storm?