Sex in the Soil

Autumn in Moldova

“When it’s missing then you want it more
It isn’t right
Turning out the door
And back to this
Leave it like it was before
And let me out”
-Warrior: Yeah Yeah Yeahs

We've all been subjected to abuse in some way, shape, or form. Whether it's a broken heart, a parent's abandonment, death, disease, poverty of the soul, or poverty of the mind- it's all there. We've walked down our quiet roads of desperation, swallowing anger, resentment, guilt, and toxic shame. And mostly, the grief is contained in our own private hell. It is in this hell, that we divide from other people and dive deep into our own cosmic experience.

There is an inner division too. Splits occur. Fragmentation sets in. We cannot see the truth in someone else’s experience because we are locked down in our own pain. We cannot gain any benefits from their experience because of our stubborn refusal to examine another’s journey outside of ours. We need open recognition of what our wounds are and the wounds of those around us, before we can embrace an enemy with compassion, or hell, even ourselves.

To make matters more difficult, we forget, the Earth is our greatest healer. We spend an obscene amount of time chasing plastic, only to forget the dirt under our feet and what it feels like. We disconnect and then make excuses for our collective sickness.

"Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord”

I am not a devoted religious scholar, or even a “believer” in the fucked up sense believing entails in modern day society. However, this old hymn runs through my brain every time I ponder the meaning of healing through the Earth. After we come to terms with our own wounds, and can clearly see and put into perspective the wounds of others, we may wonder how to proceed next with the process of, as one of my favorite writers would say, “Getting over thyself.”

Healing requires we get intimate with the Earth. Traveling, then, in a larger sense, represents a quest for release and the movement toward passion and love, as we acquaint ourselves with the Earth. For the thrill of letting go and for a sweet moment of peace, we move, with authority, out into the world.

When I started to realize what my eyes had seen, and how damaged my vision was (literally 2400/20, legally blind eyes!), I knew I had to learn to “see” differently, in order to heal. To see the world and myself differently, I flooded my psyche with imagery in brand new landscapes and sat with it. In essence, I went straight to the Earth for healing.

This naughty little sex writer, then, is taking a few moments from her ass-pounding, fist-fucking world to share, in orgasmic delight, my favorite places. These are the places I must go. I must see them with my eyes open so wide they pop from my head. I must sit on the Earth at each place and run my fingers over the soil and breathe. I must, belly to the ground, lay my ear down and listen.

Vintgar Gorge, Gorjie, Slovenia



Krka National Park, Croatia




Machu Picchu, Peru



The Blue Church- Chisinau, Moldova



Bran Castle, Romania




Lucerne, Switzerland



Travel it all away.

Love,

Sally.

Screwing Strangers

Thank you, Drive thru.

“Look at me, I'm skinny
It never stopped me from gettin' busy
I'm a freak
I like the girls with the boom
I once got busy in a Burger King bathroom”
-The Humpty Dance, Digital Underground

Anonymous sex fascinates me. Typically, we at least learn a potential partner’s name and a bit of their history before we jump in the sack. Now, within the context of an orgy when one is participating in a free-for-all fuck, anonymous sex is the norm and histories aren’t required. For instance, my girl friend is heading to Manhattan this weekend for some Halloween fun at a swinger's party. She may engage in some stranger screwing, which, in the sexually liberated atmosphere she’s in, will be perfectly acceptable. Regretfully, free-for-all fuck situations don’t present themselves often unless it’s in a “promoted event” type format. We don’t expect to meet a stranger at Blockbuster and fuck their brains out in the parking lot. Hell, forget the fact that it’s a stranger, and instead consider your significant other. Would you screw your boyfriend/girlfriend in the car during broad daylight at Chucky Cheese?

The fact is a large majority of us wouldn’t. Most of our sex on this planet is done at night, with lights off, under a mound of covers. We know our lovers, we know what they taste like, we know their histories, and even if the lights are dimmed, we can still find them in the darkness. In contrast, with a stranger, there is no familiarity, and no sense of “home.” We park our body on someone for a few hours and move on. Luckily, I’ve been able to experience both sides of the coin during my life time. I’ve had some loving moments buried deep in the sheets, and I’ve fucked strangers on bathroom floors under the florescent light. And, really, both are illuminating experiences.

So, last night, at the mall, when a complete stranger/store owner approached Sally with a few good lines and sales pitch, I was smitten. I didn’t buy his product, but, I did lick his balls in the bathroom under the bright light of retail. I knew very little about stranger boy before I ran off with him. He told me he:

A) had a girlfriend
B) was a Freak Boy
C) thought my daddy was an Israeli

Physically, stranger boy was right on point. Tall, skinny, longish dark hair, and foreign. Yummy. So, while I waited for him to finish closing down shop, I examined my options. I could walk out the door and never talk to him again, offended because he had a girlfriend, even though he was obviously turned on by our energy. Or, I could follow him to the nearest bathroom, and get down on my knees. Sex was out of the question, neither of us had a condom and I was ovulating. So, knee pads it was.

Alone with him the bathroom, he tasted my mouth first, lifted my shirt, and begged for my pussy. He wanted to eat it like its never been done before. He reached over to shut off the light and pulled me down to the floor. I sprung right up, turned the light back on, and let my pants fall to the floor. The guy had an amazing mouth, soft lips and thick tongue, just the way I like it. Before I climaxed and lost interest, I implored him to remove his pants so we could suck on each other simultaneously. He had such a lovely cock, and when he said, “I’m gonna cum in your mouth, you little bitch”, I melted even further into the cement floor.

During our bathroom bliss, his phone rang a couple hundred times. His girlfriend was on the line, impatiently wondering when he would return. We dressed quickly, gathered our possessions, and shut the door behind us. He nervously inquired about my intentions and pleaded with me not to reveal his infidelity (which is impossible since I don't know his girlfriend). I promised, smiled sweetly, and turned on my heel. I was almost out of shouting distance, when he yelled, “Hey, you forgot something!” Alarmed, I looked back at him, and he replied, “My name! You forgot my name..it’s....” I laughed, shot him the peace sign and continued on.

I’d probably fuck stranger boy if I saw him again. And who knows, maybe I will see him. I’m not at the mall that often, but I do know where to find the dude, after all. Yet, these kinds of encounters are geared toward never seeing one another again. I’ve had little rushes of lust running up and down my spine all day, and I wouldn’t want to ruin it by placing it within the confines of a routine.

Because, as we all know, it's better to have loved and lost then to have never loved at all.

P.S. For those weekend party animals who are enjoying their Halloween festivities this Saturday, make it a good one. I, for one, plan on losing my soul Saturday night. Anonymous random pairings, here I come. See ya on the flip side.

~Little Ms. Slutty Sunshine

Oh gosh, where to start…

Ok, so, I’m in major blog post arrears, I know.

BUT!

Budapest! Prague! Berlin! Yippee!

The trip was absolutely amazing. It was very surreal. Like standing on the moon, and going, “Am I really here?” The curiosity factor was high, and I did learn so much. I was able to keep a travel diary through out the trip and took so many pictures, which, will coming to a future blog post near you.

Until then, just a short note to say, hello, hope you are all well and in good spirits. ~ Sally S.

P.S. A naughty story about twelve unnamed Italians looking for a good time is definitely in the cards.

Taking a Sample from Every Platter

Jump on the Sexy Train

Dear readers, I’m the luckiest girl ever. I get to kiss boys from all over the world. Naturally, during my quest for global awareness, I’ve strengthened my foreign tongue. Not only that, I’ve learned a thing or two about other parts of the world through another’s eyes, which is pretty valuable experience. However, on a more superficial level, I’ve grown quite accustomed to dating outside of my nationality. Could I date American again? Possibly, but that’s so boring! As if dating someone for an extended amount of time isn’t boring enough, but when you add shared cultural expectations/beliefs to the mix, it’s an even bigger snore fest.

Although, my most recent foreign kissing partner expressed concern about becoming an “experiment”, I maintain that I’m conducting very important research. (within the confines of my mind, at least.) For example, during my studies, I’ve found a correlation between nationality and kissing style.

Even though I am in the beginning stages of my research, allow me to share my observations:

1) South African-

South African men are very passionate. They typically don’t focus on one area; kissing is usually a side note, riding on the coattails of all the other fantastic activities you’ll be engaged in. Also, as a side note, many SA have a distinct ass fetish.

2) Croatian-

I’ve had some trouble with Croatians. Their kiss is usually somewhat urgent, sloppy, and over-eager. In fact, I stopped calling one particular Croatian because kissing him was simply disastrous.

3) French-

The French kiss exquisitely, just as one might expect. Their kisses are slow, deep, and long. Seizing one’s entire body by pulling it inward is a common method a French boy may use to enclose another in rapture.

4) Moroccan-

Similar to the French, these boys are tall, athletic and proud, and believe me, they won’t forget it for a second, even while they’re kissing you. A smattering of little pecks on the cheek may ensue before a full-on kiss is achieved.

5) Swedish-

My research is incomplete on this one. I was fairly drunk. Yet, I remember he was extremely polite. The Swedish are known for their happy-go-lucky personas, and here, the situation was no different.

6) Kosovo-

A little bit sadistic, with a tendency to bite, but overall, a good mixture of good versus evil. Kissing takes on a whole new meaning and can last several hours with a typical native. Don’t forget the chapstick!

7) Romanian-

Romanian’s have a tendency to lead with their noses. If they like the way you smell, you can be certain they’re moving in for the kiss. If you pass the smell test, they’re a fairly romantic group of fellows and will kiss with a dramatic flair.

8) Polish-

Ah yes, the Poles. Quite lovely. Their kisses are abrupt, a little shocking, and usually at an inappropriate time. However, one can’t help but find it endearing, they mean no harm. Proving that, sloppy, if done correctly, can be a turn-on.

9) Spanish-

Not my favorite, I’d have to say. It was a bit too stuffy and rehearsed for me.


How’s that for international flavor? Now, where in the world is that Carmen Sandiego?

Latvia, isn’t that by Libya?

THINK GLOBALLY, AVOID STUPIDITY

The general idiocy one encounters during a nightly excursion is frightful. First let me say, my sisters and I are expert liars. Since we are fairly well-traveled, more so than the average South Dakotan, we can pretty much get away with re-inventing our nationality at will. So, on Saturday night we ascended upon our victims with vigor, armed with our fake accents and a hodgepodge of facts.

We arrived at the house party at 9:30 pm, after heavily debating whether we should have “Prom Night” this weekend or next weekend. Let me explain. For Prom Night, each of us will adorn ourselves in THEE most garish obnoxious prom dresses ever- white gloves and all. During this shameless evening of cheesiness we will terrorize the city, one person at time. Sounds fun, eh? Anyway, I’m off topic, back to faking my nationality.

So, here we are, in a perfectly nice neighbor hood, Captain Morgan clutched firmly in my hand, as we walk to the door. Upon entering the house of said victims, we discuss the ins and outs of our plan, and rehash the basic elements of our story. Here’s the breakdown: Our parents, both high-ranking government officials in Latvia, left due to political pressure after the collapse of the USSR. We immigrated to the U.S. when I was about 8 years old, yet often return to our home during the summer months.

We began mingling with guests, using our fake accents as an opportunity to facilitate dialogue. Since the women at the party were out-numbered by the men, it was somewhat easy to lure them in. By 10:00 p.m., we had a host of on-lookers surrounding us, asking where we were form, how long we’ve been here, ect…

During the course of the conversation there were some serious displays of ignorance. Such as, “Oh yeah, Latvia, that’s by Libya, isn’t it?” and “No, No, No dude, Latvia is in Southern Europe, stupid” while he hit another boy on the head with his big gorilla hand. There were other cultural faux pas, as well as the occasional challenge. One guy actually said, “Ok, so what’s the capital of Latvia then?” To which my sister replied, “It's Riga, R-I-G-A” without missing a beat. However, if I would’ve told him the capital was Toronto, I doubt he would have known the difference.

After an few hours of delivering an Oscar-nominated performance, we left the party, dissolving into a fit of giggles as we stumbled to the car.

Score one for the foreign chicks.

Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?

Y’all, this summer I’m going on a va-ka (vacation) to Eastern Europe! I’ll be leaving for Berlin on June 24th, and returning on July 3rd. See the map below of all the cities to be visited:



I’m going to do an OBSCENE amount of writing while I’m on the trip, and will be posting regular updates to my blog as well. If you’ve been to any of the above places, and have any advice on what monuments to visit or cultural activities to partake in any advice would be appreciated. I’m starting to put together a list now.

Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego? (TV Theme Song)
By Yazbek & Altman

Well she sneaks around the world from Kiev to Carolina,
She’s a sticky-fingered filcher from Berlin down to Belize,
She’ll take you for a ride on a slow boat to China,
Tell me where in the world is Carmen Sandiego?

Steal their Seoul in South Korea, make Antarctica cry uncle,
From the Red Sea to Greenland they’ll be singing the blues
Tell me where in the world is Carmen Sandiego?

She go from Nashville to Norway, Bonaire to Zimbabwe,
Chicago to Czechoslovakia and back!

Well she’ll ransack Pakistan & run a scam in Scandinavia.
Then she’ll stick ‘em up Down Under & go pick-pocket Perth
She put the Miss in misdemeanor when she stole the beans from Lima,
Tell me where in the world is Carmen Sandiego?
Oh tell me where in the world is . . .
Oh tell me where can she be?

Ooh, Botswana to Thailand, Milan via Amsterdam,
Mali to Bali, Ohio, Oahu . . . !

Well she glides around the globe & she’ll flim-flam every nation.
She’s a double-dealing diva with a taste for thievery,
Her itinerary’s loaded up with moving violations,
Tell me where in the world is Carmen Sandiego?

Ms. International- Playa with a Passport

So here’s a thought:

Does the “zip code rule”- (see a full explanation of the zip code rule below) apply if you are physically located in another zip code than your home address, but your sweetie is with you? Or do both people have to be located in separate zip codes altogether so paths won’t ever cross? Let it be known, I met some full-on hotties in Paris, seriously. While my own relationship definitely was not setting off sparks in the city of romance, I was feeling it, not with my partner, but with almost every single Frenchman that crossed my path.

My significant other was along on the trip, however, he was quiet, reserved, and quite unappreciative of my natural lusty ways. Of course, this aspect of his personality, which previously went unobserved before, was glaringly obvious in the THE city of romance. Where were my passionate deep kisses by the Seine River? Where were my long-anticipated midnight encounters? Or hand-holding walking through the gardens of Paris? Damn, I can be down-right romantic at times- it’s a curse. Although, the focus of the trip was not to reinforce our status in the eyes of others as a couple, a decent kiss by the damn river would’ve been nice.

Our relationship is best non-relationship I’ve ever had- I can do what I want, we only see each other sporadically, and oh yeah… I can do whatever I want. However, encounters with him have made me stop in my tracks and think, “hmm, yes, I’ve definitely had better.” Ouch. For him, I mean. Well, maybe it’s my loss too as I haven’t had a decent lay in ages. What’s the problem with all the men out there? Why does everyone else besides me leave the party satisfied? Maybe I’m hard to please, but seriously, let’s get our freak flags waving. I think those Frenchmen understand what I’m sayin.

ZIP CODE RULE: You can do anything you like outside your zip code. The more the digits differ, the farther you can go. Something similar to “what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas!”