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KAYE

I love people, but I don’t enjoy being treated like some naïve teen who doesn’t know what’s best for her.

I’m a card-carrying adult, fully allowed by law and motivated by disposition to engage in any ethical activity of my choosing.  Yeah, my short stature, girlish face, and medium-small breasts might freak you out at first sight.  However, if you were ever lucky enough to sample my surprisingly curvaceous ass on your face while I begged you, husky voiced, to taste my cunt, you’d know without a doubt that I’m a one hundred percent grown-ass woman.

Don’t you think I’m obviously classy and humble as hell, too?  That’s what I thought you’d think.

That’s certainly what I thought Miss Thang at the bar would think as well.  Girlfriend was definitely the bee’s knees: long-legged, with a plump booty, juicy titties, and a beautifully mature face.  Just my type, I thought to myself.  Yeah, women who like women think these things.  At least horn-dog ladies like myself do!

I often wonder why I’m not attracted to women like me.  I don’t doubt a lot of it has to do with routinely being treated like a child even though I’m well into my independent adulthood.  I just can’t see myself with a girlish-looking woman.  And, yes, I recognize the irony, being one myself. I understand why people get freaked out thinking of me in that fashion.  It’s damned frustrating, though.

I was feeling my oats and sashayed up to the bar with as much bravado as I could muster.

“Hey!” I shouted confidently.

“Hey,” she answered noncommittally.

“What’s your name?” I asked, looking up at her.  I liked looking up at her.

“My friends call me ‘L’,” she replied.

I sauntered a little bit closer, almost swaggering, and blurted out, “Well, Elle, …care to ring my bell?”

She looked me over like she was examining some interesting new insect she had just discovered.  Then her lovely almond eyes crinkled with merriment at the edges.  She burst out in an honest-to-goodness horse laugh and nearly squirted her drink through her nose.

“You’re funny,” she giggled.  “You’re fuckin’ funny.”

“I’m a charming so-and-so, if I do say so myself,” I bragged, a little less confidently.

She asked, “What’s your name, funny lady?”

Her voice tinkled like bells.  It felt good to hear her talk… and talk to arrogant old me.  Go figure.

“It’s Kaye,” I piped up hopefully.  This woman was making me nervous in the best way.  “Can I get a drink, please?” I asked the bartender.

The bartender looked me up and down.  She grumbled, “I’m going to need to see some identification, miss.”

Fucking hell.

I tamped down my rising anger, reached into my purse, and pulled out my ID.  I side-eyed the bartender hard and hesitated before letting it out of my hand so she could examine it more closely.

“That’s right,” I said.  “I’m Kaye Ayo Mapenzi: card-carrying 24-year-old adult woman.”

The bartender scrutinized my documentation, looked me up and down again, and finally determined I was telling the truth.

“Sorry, lady,” the bartender apologized.  “High-school students with fake IDs try to get drinks all the time in here.”

“It’s not a problem,” I breezily lied.  The bartender sheepishly brought me my drink then left to serve her more adult-looking customers.

I shot Elle a sly look and said, “I’ll bet your fine ass didn’t get carded.”

“I really didn’t,” she snorted.  “You’re kind of young looking.”

“Well, what are ya gonna do?” I said, smiled, and shrugged my shoulders.

“Let’s dance!” Elle said.  She grabbed my hand and dragged me out to the dance floor.  I happily tottered behind her in my too-high heels.

I will not embarrass myself with the description of our “dancing,” if you even want to call it that.  It was like watching a giraffe and a meerkat trying to waltz with each other.  However, we were either too drunk or too happy to care what anyone else thought.

The time between leaving the bar and getting back to her place was a blur.  I stumbled in through the front door on my heels, which I happily kicked off (along with two inches in height).

I looked up at Elle, into those lovely, dark almond eyes, and nearly swooned.

“Come down here so I can kiss you,” I pleaded.

She tentatively leaned her head down.  I stood up on my toes, wrapped my arms around her lower back, and tilted my head back to taste her luscious lips.  As I nibbled at her mouth, I tightened my grip around her waist.

“Woah,” she said.

“I want to take this to the bedroom.  Is that okay with you?” I begged.

She hesitated, gave it some thought, then finally said, “Okay.”

We walked over to her bed and sat down on the edge.  I sensed her nervousness and tried to reassure her it was alright.  I asked to take her shirt off and she agreed.

As I slid her button-down off her shoulders and unhooked her bra, I finally got a good look at her breasts: full, firm, and topped with the most luscious areolas and nipples I had ever seen.

“Geez, you’re beautiful,” I whispered.  My heart was hammering so hard I could barely hear myself breathe.

As I reached to take them in my trembling hands, she grabbed my wrists firmly and said, “Wait.”

“What’s wrong?” I pouted.

“Kaye, you’re a spectacular woman,” Elle said.  “Anyone would be lucky to have you.  I just don’t think I’m ready for that yet.”

“It’s okay,” I said, blatantly lying to myself and her.  I was crushed but I managed to pull myself together.  “I can wait until we’re both on the same page.”

And I did wait.  I continued to date Elle for the next two months.  We went to movies, plays, and concerts.  Any sort of couples’ activity you can think of, we did.  I just never could get past her reserve.  I told her how beautiful she was and how lucky I was, but nothing ever got her comfortable enough to want to get naked with me.  We slowly drifted apart.  I don’t think she ever refused me out of malice.  She just couldn’t get there with me.  She never did give me a definitive answer for her behavior and I sensed it was best not to press for one.  Eventually, I left her.  It was one of the most painful heartbreaks of my life.
________

I threw myself into my work to distract my aching heart.  My pain must have been obvious because even my boss asked me what was wrong.  I, being the consummate professional, blurted out the details of my painful breakup and started sobbing.  My boss, being a real professional, took me into her office to have some privacy to pull myself together.

Outside of my boss knowing that I’m bisexual, I really hadn’t confided in her, or anyone else, about my personal life.  This one lapse was the only time I ever really opened up to anyone at work about myself.
________

One day, I received an old-fashioned letter on my desk.  There was only one word in capital letters on the front: “OPEN.”  I did and read the following.

“You don’t know me, but I think I’d like to get to know someone like you: smart, funny, and enticingly adventurous.  There’s absolutely no pressure, but if you want to give yourself and me a chance, please contact me.  I think we would be really great together.  Don’t let on that you know about this letter.  It will be our little secret.  Read my online dating profile.  I think we’d really hit it off.

Sincerely,

Nakupenda (“Naku”) Barima Wansati”

I folded the letter and placed it back in its envelope.  I thought about throwing it out, but something kept me from doing that.

Who could have sent me something like this?  Was it one of my ex-lovers fucking with me?  Could it be Elle?  I would never peg her as being this capricious and cruel.  Was it my boss?  My boss was, as I said, a supremely ethical professional employee.  She would have risked her job pulling a stunt like this.  Was it some random serial killer hiding behind a creepy veneer of privileged respectability?

I racked my brain and could find no plausible answer.  I looked up Naku’s profile online.  He was slightly, but not unpleasingly, built, with just enough musculature to accentuate his wiry frame.  His smile was enchanting, even boyish.  He wasn’t tall, but he wasn’t short either, at least not as short as me.  Something about this man intrigued me.

What I don’t find attractive in women I find attractive in Naku and men in general: a playful, quiet confidence that doesn’t scream trying too hard, but not so invested in his masculinity that he couldn’t enjoy a rollicking good time.

“Boyish,” I thought to myself and smiled.  That word fit this man well.

I finally concluded that somehow, unbeknownst to me, this man saw me or encountered me and wanted to let me know his interest without being creepy or aggressive.  I would know if he was trying to pull a fast one on me if he ratcheted up the pressure to meet.  However, after weeks of not hearing from him, I assumed he was a decent guy who meant what he said.

His words rolled around in my head.  “There’s absolutely no pressure.”

I finally decided to contact him, but what would I say?  I was at a loss for words.  Then it hit me.  I laughed to myself and smiled.  This is the reply I typed out.

“You don’t know me, but I really want to get together with someone like you: funny, playful, and slightly daring.  There’s absolutely no pressure, but if you want to take a chance on me and our possible future together, contact me at [email protected](x).  I think we’d hit it off and be really great together.”

I sucked in my breath, sent the message, and let out a deep, prolonged exhale.

“Game on,” I thought.
________

We finally met at a restaurant.  We shyly introduced ourselves to each other.  We had our meal.

Here’s the thing.  I could go on and on about the minutiae of what we ordered, how we flirted, and how we joyfully teased each other back and forth.  But none of that is of any importance.  The important thing is this: I wanted this man as badly as I have ever wanted anything or anyone in my life.  I knew that the moment we met.  The details of our courtship, if you even want to call it that, were of no significance to me.

We finished our meal, sat in slightly uncomfortable silence, and waited.

“Naku,” I said, finally ending the tension.  “May I call you Naku, or do you prefer Nakupenda?”

“Naku’s fine,” he replied.  “What’s up?”

“Do you want to get tested with me?” I said.  I thought the whole restaurant heard that, but no one else noticed but him.

He sat slightly slack-jawed.  This time the silence was absolutely painful.

“What are you saying to me, Kaye?” he finally enquired.  He drew the question out in a long, breathless whisper.

“I think you know what I’m saying to you,” I said, meeting his gaze.

I couldn’t believe the words coming out of my mouth.  I felt like someone else had hijacked my brain, but I kept on going.

“I know I want to be with you and I don’t want to waste any time,” I honestly confessed.  “Let’s get tested, share the results, and proceed from there.”

“Okay,” he said and our date was officially over.
________

Weeks later, when our tests came back negative, he volunteered to pay for a hotel room.  I agreed.

We checked in close to noon.  It was a mid-range, three-star establishment: nothing too fancy, but not shabby either.  Once the door closed, as far as I was concerned the universe consisted of nothing but us and our rapidly building desire.

We undressed silently and set our clothes aside in neat little piles where we knew they wouldn’t get stained.  We both approached each other slowly, wordlessly, completely enraptured.

I traced my fingers along his collarbone and shoulders.  I heard him gulp and gasp and watched his erection spring to life.  I stroked my fingertips over his glans, watching the shaft fatten and extend.

“Please fuck me,” I begged him.  I actually got down on my knees and clasped my hands together in the classic supplicant’s pose.

“Won’t you please fuck me?” I whined.  Tears nearly spilled from my eyes.  My moist pussy ached for fulfillment.  I had no pride, but I also had no shame in front of this man.  Everything was acceptable, even my pathetic, sex-starved lust.

Naku grabbed my wrists and jerked me to my feet.

“Kaye!” Naku roared.  “You never have to beg me for anything, ever!”

He lifted me off my feet.  I wrapped my arms around his neck and buried my face in his shoulder.  I locked my legs around his waist and started to grind my clit against his stomach.

We stumbled onto the bed and heard it creak and groan.  I thought we were going to break it but it held.  He unlocked my legs by the ankles and spread me apart, drinking in the view of me: prone, open, and exposed.

I rubbed my clit furiously, gasping and panting and mewling.  He slapped my hands away from myself and began to tease his cock against my labia, rubbing the length of it back and forth.  He spanked my clit a good number of times.  I choked and coughed my delighted surprise.  He entered me slowly, easing himself past the tightness as I clamped down on him.

I watched his boyish face contort in near pain but mostly in ecstasy.  His features took on an almost otherworldly aspect.  I saw the sweat beads on his chest and stomach and I wanted to taste them.

He sped up.  The wet, splooshy plunges got rawer and earthier, resounding like sexual applause.  I was embarrassed and proud, weak and strong all at once.  I halfheartedly tried to kick my ankles out of his hands, but he held me open, using my cunt for all the pleasure he could milk out of it.  I squeezed down on his dick, feeling it throb and stab inside of me.  I twirled my feet and flexed my toes, closed my eyes and rode this sublime pleasure for everything it was worth.

He let go of my legs and I wrapped them around him again.  He rested his elbows on either side of me.  Now I could stroke his chest and tickle his earlobes.

“Fuck me, baby,” I commanded.  “Fuck me good.”  Again he sped up, slowed down just a bit, and sped up again, slapping into me hard and sweetly.

Before he could come and before I was fully aware, I was already coming myself.  Wave after wave of unbridled ecstasy tingled over me, in me and through me.  “Oh my fucking goodness,” I barked and snarled.

“I’m gonna come.  I’m gonna fuckin’ come,” Naku announced.  I drew him in closer and wrapped my arms around his neck.  I could smell his sweaty effort and I inhaled it greedily.  He pushed himself to his hands, I grabbed his forearms, and he pumped me uncontrollably.

“Ah!  Ah!  Ah!” he bellowed, and shot jet after jet of warm spunk inside of me.  His orgasm became my orgasm: a shared and exhausting carnal feat.

All of that happened in about the space of ten minutes.

Naku collapsed on top of me.  We panted together.  He breathed warmly into my ears and neck; I moaned and hummed my satisfaction.

I got up to go pee.  I attempted to close the bathroom door, but Naku blocked it and pushed it open gently.  I understood.  He didn’t want to let me out of his sight.

I sat down on the bowl, looked at him, and pissed.  Like I said, I had no shame in front of him.  I scanned his face for apprehension or disgust, but all I saw was quiet fascination.

I wiped, flushed, got up and washed my hands.  After I exited, he entered.  I stood by the open door, back against it.  Now it was my turn to watch.    He bent down, lifted the seat, and held his now soft penis in his hand.  I watched the pee drain from his dick in a long, unbroken stream.  It went on for what seemed like a long time.

After he washed his hands, we both walked back to the bed and sat side by side.  I leaned over and kissed his mouth gently: he tasted slightly of peppermint.  He returned the kiss slowly and surely.

His cock was hard again.  He got up and knelt on the bed, sitting on his heels.  I understood what he wanted and straddled his thighs facing away from him.  He kissed the back of my neck and nuzzled my earlobes.  He reached around to stroke my breasts with his lean, strong hands.  My nipples hardened and lengthened between his fingertips.

I eased his cock into my slick pussy.  This was going to be what the first round was not: slow and sure and appreciative.  I rocked my ass slowly back and down, then up and forward.  There was absolutely no need to hurry.  My butt patted slowly and gently against him, clapping in a slow, sexy rhythm.  This went on for a good long while.  We consciously held back from orgasm.  We wanted to extend this sensation for as long as we could.

I leaned forward on my palms in a modified doggy style position.  I looked over my shoulder and smiled at him.  The same smile spread onto his face.  He leaned back on his palms and pushed his hips forward.  I rocked my ass back and forward to meet his thrusts.  The wet, splashy sounds of our fucking were a soundtrack that accentuated our lovemaking.  In this position, nothing connected us but sex itself and it was glorious.

He grabbed my ass cheek and squeezed it.  I moaned my uninhibited approval.  Now he positioned me in full doggy: on my hands and knees on the edge of the bed.  He stood behind me, pressed his dick inside of me slowly, grabbed my hips, and fucked me with confident abandon.

The tip of his dick hit my g-spot repeatedly.  I stroked my clit slowly, humming and rocking myself to a warm and deeply pulsating orgasm.  My cunt stroked the come out of him in warm, trembling bursts.

We repeated the same cleanup procedure as before.  Now it was my turn to show him what to do.  I directed him to get on the floor on his knees.  I stood above him and played with my pussy.  He reached out to touch it and I slapped his hand away.  I grabbed the back of his head and directed his tongue to my clit.  He slowly and wetly licked me.  I felt his tongue press between my pussy lips then back to my clit, not quite sucking but definitely tasting me and lapping me.  I took his hand and directed his fingers inside of me.  I clenched down on his talented fingers and grunted.

I stopped him from touching me and directed him to get on all fours.  I rubbed myself furiously in front of his eager face.  We both knew what was about to happen and he welcomed it.  He opened his mouth and panted like a dog.  He twerked his ass in waiting anticipation.

I couldn’t hold back any longer and squirted: hot, steamy, and unrelentingly on his face, in his hair, and over his shoulders.  I drenched him with my desire.  His eyes were closed and he basked in the sensation, raising his hand to his face, wiping it from his brow and cheeks, and licking it from his fingers.  He pressed his face forward into my cunt and licked me clean, like a hungry kitten drinking a saucer of milk.  I shuddered, trembled, and smiled.

We had the cleanup procedure down to a science.  Now it was my turn to service him.  He sat in a chair and spread his legs.  I had unimpeded access to his balls and cock.  I kneeled in front of him and licked his perineum, his taint, playfully.   Then I moved up to his balls, slowly sucking one into my mouth and releasing it with a pop, then repeating the same loving procedure on the other.  I bathed those beautiful orbs with my tongue and saliva.  I opened my eyes to see his head thrown back in ecstasy, jerking himself off madly.  I stopped him from coming too soon and replaced his hand with mine.  I stroked his dick slowly and firmly, licking his balls all the while.  His low, guttural groans filled the room.

I pressed my pinky against his asshole and he tensed for a second.  I enquired with my eyes if this was okay and he nodded his head yes.  I switched to my middle finger and pressed it slowly into his anus.  He choked and whimpered out a cry of need and discovery.  I sucked his cock into my mouth now, wetly slurping it and twirling it past my lips, almost to the back of my throat.  I wiggled my middle finger up against his prostate and slurped and sucked his dick, taking it out of my mouth to lick and tease the glans, then sucking it back into my mouth to increase suction around his cock.

His anticipation increased.  I left off from mouthing and fingering him and stroked him up and down, pumping him hard and fast with my fingers.  His warm come shot up almost a foot in the air, splashing down onto my forehead and into my hair, dripping down my chin and onto my breasts.  I luxuriated in the sharp smell and salty taste of him, loving and savoring his drained and trembling release.

I could go on and on about that afternoon turned to night.  Yes, it was literally hours of discovery, passion, and revelation.  It was and wasn’t just sex.  It was a melding of bodies and hearts.  It was kindred desires meeting and acknowledging each other, dispelling loneliness and misunderstanding from unfulfilled lives.
________

I was thoroughly transformed.  Naku, my beautiful Naku, changed as well.  I quit my job and followed this man, not out of subservience or insecurity.  I did it because of our grand joint adventure, our mutual undertaking.  I knew I would find employment elsewhere and eventually did.

But that job never gets in the way of our beautiful fucking, our glorious sex, our respected and honored lust.  It enhances and bolsters the times we can be together and is never a cause for argument amongst us.

Yes, I am still bisexual and, no, we are not monogamous.  We practice monogo-meh, if you will.  Occasionally, we invite others into our bed and our lives.  Everything’s above board and discussed beforehand: no deception or jealousy necessary.  Freak out about that if you will, but so be it.  I still love and desire women.  I could have left a disinterested man and ended up with a highly sexual woman, but life didn’t turn out that way for me.  Society sees a man and a woman together and concludes that they’re straight when that isn’t always the case.

Some people think bisexuals are indiscriminate perverts who will fuck anyone.  That’s not even remotely true.  Plenty of bisexuals are deeply and profoundly monogamous.  I’m not one of them.  That doesn’t mean any old person can end up in my bed.  This bisexual adventurer has specific and discriminating standards, thank you very much.

Believe it or not, there are still discoveries to be made and passions to be explored.  We’re planning our first male-male-female threesome.  I tremble and get wet just thinking about it.

********

NAKU

Look, I like men, but I really get annoyed when men that love men exclusively wrinkle their faces in disgust when they find out that I like women, too.

What is this shit, anyway?  I get that there are gay men that hide their exclusive attraction under the bisexual banner.  Maybe they think the straight world will find that designation more acceptable than homosexuality, but let’s get real.  Straight men see lesbians and same-sex female partnerships as sexually intriguing and decry gay and same-sex male partnerships as disgusting and barely tolerable.  The reverse is true for straight women.  The only parts they tolerate are the straight parts or the parts that fuel their same-sex fantasies.  That doesn’t mean bisexual men like myself and gay men need to resort to misogyny.

Brad, my ex, was just such a gay man.  I’m surprised I didn’t spot it at first, but in hindsight, it’s appallingly clear.  Brad is tall, muscular, handsome, and has a large, pleasure-giving cock.  I do not have a large cock.  Most men don’t.  Regardless, I can get satisfaction from big ones, medium ones, and small ones.  If I’m attracted to you, I’m going to find a way to have fun with your dick.

Playing with Brad was amazing.  He had the self-assured confidence of a man who, from adolescence to adulthood, had his attractiveness confirmed by nearly everyone who met him.  Sometimes I would literally pinch myself and wonder why this beautiful guy chose to be with me.

I guess it’s because I’m colloquially what is known as a power bottom.  Look it up, people.  I’m not going to do your work for you.

When Brad fucked my ass, I would feel the confidence of a man who’s had plenty of experience in fucking other men’s asses well.  I just wanted to break through that reserve in some fashion.

I sometimes teased him with, “Is that all you got, tough guy?”

He grabbed my hips and sped up or slowed down based on when he wanted to come.  That’s when I knew I was getting through to him.  I could send him over the edge any time I wanted to.

I just laid there, chest against the mattress, butt up in the air, with a goofy, self-satisfied look on my face.  I waggled my ass back and forth as if this was the most nonchalant thing in the world for me.  That absolutely enraged him.  He just started pounding and pounding away at my asshole determined to make me gasp and moan.  I just wouldn’t do it, even though I desperately wanted to.

Instead, I pushed back, slapping my ass hard against his hips, feeling him quiver in unexpected ecstasy, trying to regroup and maintain his calm and nerve.  I felt him failing and me winning.  The head of his dick hit my prostate in just the right spot and I spurted thick streams of come right onto the bed sheets.  But I still refused to give him any confirmation of my deep satisfaction.

“Come on, big boy.  Fuck me like you mean it,” I taunted.  I crossed one ankle over another in the classic pose of supreme indifference.

“Oh… my… god.  OMIGOD!” he wailed and moaned.  I felt his shuddering, climactic ejaculation deep inside of me and I was thoroughly content to reduce him to jelly.

Brad collapsed on top of me.  I craned my head around, kissed him deeply, and taunted him, yet again.  “I guess you did an okay job.”  I was relentless.

“Shut up, you little mind-fucker, you!” Brad bellowed.  We giggled and laughed our way to mutual blowjobs.

Yes, people, we were tested and were clear of disease.  Yes, we used plenty of lube and I was thoroughly relaxed.  No, he did not go from my ass to my mouth without washing and cleaning his junk first.  No assholes were harmed in the making of this sodomy.  If you wouldn’t be overprotective of straight people’s anal sex, don’t worry about ours.

I could have continued on this way with Brad indefinitely.  But troublesome signs kept showing up that didn’t sit well with me.

Whenever we were out and it was known that this or that man was claiming bisexuality, he would loudly proclaim, “She’s not fooling anyone!”

Or when women would show up at the gay clubs we frequented, he and his friends would holler, “Fish!  Throw it back!”

They never caught on to how deeply hateful these kinds of statements were to women.  He never understood how invisible it made me feel when he disregarded the other half of my sexuality.  We eventually broke up because of his insistence that his experience as a gay man made him impervious to perpetrating bigotry on others.  It was truly disheartening.

My next relationship was with a woman: a tall, statuesque, imposing classic beauty.  She was truly breathtaking, even though her manner of dress and presentation deemphasized her attractiveness.  She agreed to almost everything I could think of sexually, but something always seemed missing.  I tried everything I could think to do, such as pussy and clit licking, ass fucking, slow sensuous missionary, doggy style, side-by-side cuddle-fucking, dirty talk, and spanking.  Nothing ever seemed to really get her there.  I finally got the nerve to ask her what the deal was.

“You’re great,” she said.  “I really love being with you and spending time with you.”

“Well, what gives?” I enquired.  “Is there something I can do for you?  Am I doing something wrong?  Just tell me and I’ll give you what you want.”

“Nothing,” she said.

“What?” I asked.  “What are you saying?”

“Naku, if you want to keep having sex with me, then I’ll have sex with you,” she replied.  “But if you’re asking me what I want…” she trailed off.

“You want… nothing?” I whispered.  “Is it that you want nothing from me or is there something you want from someone else?”  I didn’t like where this was going.

She sighed deeply and continued,  “I mean that I’ve never wanted anything from anybody, ever,” she said.  “I can have sex, and I understand on an intellectual level what other people get out of it.  I just don’t really want it for myself.  Every time I do it, it feels like I’m watching someone else, like it’s not me that’s involved.”

I was crestfallen.  “I didn’t… I didn’t… rape you, did I?” I stammered.

“No, Naku.  No!” she exclaimed and hugged me.  “Of course you didn’t.  You didn’t do anything I didn’t agree to.”

I could feel tears filling my eyes and I turned away from her.

“Naku, please look at me,” she begged.  “I like you.  I really do.  I enjoy spending time with you.  I’ll even agree to have sex with you if you want.  But you asked me for the truth and I felt you deserved it.  What do you want?”

And that was really the dreaded point.  Even though I didn’t want to confirm it, we both already knew the answer.

I didn’t want to be with someone who didn’t, or couldn’t, want me back with equal intensity.

“I’m sorry,” I sputtered.  “I have to go.”  I got up and headed for the door.

“Naku, please don’t leave that way,” I heard her beginning to cry.

However, I was already out the door and headed home.  I waited till I was inside my own place with the door locked before I started weeping uncontrollably.
________

It was a long time before I dipped my toe back into the dating pool.  I was still gun-shy and raw over relationships.  I instituted a new rule: no sex until I was absolutely sure someone wanted me as much as I wanted them.

I went out on a couple of dates.  Nothing really clicked with anyone.  I’d dance and flirt tepidly, but whenever I felt desire of any kind, I intentionally shut myself down, not wanting to hurt or be hurt so thoroughly again.

One day, I checked my dating profile.  Most of the responses were easy to dismiss: people a little too eager to date, narcissists, those with impossibly specific requirements for partners (and oddly missing details about themselves), people who set off stalker/harasser/bigot alarms, and so on.  But one particular response caught my eye.

“You don’t know me, but I really want to get together with someone like you: funny, playful, and slightly daring.  There’s absolutely no pressure, but if you want to take a chance on me and our possible future together, contact me at [email protected](x).  I think we’d hit it off and be really great together.”

Wow.

This message had no bullshit and no bragging.  It even had a way to confirm whether this person was bullshitting or not.  It was confident, slightly mysterious, and seemed to suggest this person already knew we’d be compatible.  You’ve got to respect that level of direct self-awareness.  Yes, I was intrigued.  Even though my break up was still fresh in my mind, that pain wasn’t enough to stop me from responding.
________

We finally met at a restaurant.  I looked down at her.  By first sight, I thought she was a sophomore in high school.  She barely looked old enough to have a driver’s permit.  I wondered if someone was playing a not particularly funny practical joke on me.

She must have seen that doubt and dealt with it repeatedly in her life because the first thing she did was hand me her ID, place her hands on her hips, and state, in a deep, womanly contralto, the following:

“Hi, I’m Kaye Ayo Mapenzi: card-carrying 24-year-old adult woman.”

I liked this woman right off.  I then noticed her obviously womanly hips, shapely legs, and what I assume was a delightfully round woman’s rear end (which I later confirmed).

After I gathered myself, I said the following:

“Hello, I’m Nakupenda Barima Wansati: a 26-year old adult man who should learn to conceal first impressions much better than he actually does.”

And we laughed together heartily.

Here’s the thing: I knew the minute I met Kaye that I liked her.  But from past experience, I wanted to make sure she liked and wanted me back.  She obviously had read my profile and knew where I was coming from, but that still was no guarantee.  I bided my time and hoped the feeling was mutual.

Our dinner was coming to an end and I hoped for a second date, but steeled myself for rejection anyway.

I was scarcely paying attention to our small talk when I heard Kaye say, “Do you want to get tested with me?”

My whole damn life changed after those words.
________

I could tell you about what we did at a hotel weeks later, but I won’t.  That was akin to a wedding night, even though we’re not married.  That memory is private and precious to me.

However, I will tell you how Kaye fills my days and nights with other delightful depravity.

One day, Kaye came walking into the living room in a T-shirt and sandals.

Big fucking deal, you might be thinking.

She came into the living room wearing nothing but a T-shirt, sandals, and a pink-handled butt plug.  This is the kind of shit I would do to her if I had her imagination and daring.

She went from room to room pretending everything was completely normal, never mentioning her attire or acknowledging me.  She overemphasized her walk, switching her hips back and forth in an exaggerated fashion.  She occasionally stopped to twerk right in my face then depart to some other part of the house.  She sashayed back into the living room, the pink dot in her ass occasionally flashing into view.

I pretended to read the magazine I wasn’t even paying attention to anymore.  She dropped a bottle of anal lube in my lap and said, “Am I a classy lady or what?”

“The classiest!” I chimed in.

I pushed her, giggling, over the backrest of the couch and proceeded to play with her butt plug.  I watched how it stretched her out as I removed it, then filled her back up as I pressed it slowly back in.

“Umph,” she groaned.

I came over to the side of the couch where she could unzip my pants.  She did so and I wriggled out of them.  My cock was now erect and eager for her touch.  I also was wearing only a shirt and no pants.  She gave me a silky-smooth blow job.  She licked and sucked my cock with practiced skill.

I continued to play with the plug.  I removed it so I could work some lube into her puckered asshole.  I pressed my lubed fingers into her and felt her quivering response.  I rubbed lube over her lower half, taking time to fondle her lovely, womanly thighs and derriere.

She took the bottle from me, lubed up her middle and ring fingers, and slid them into my asshole, working my prostate the way I like.  Her mouth never left my cock as she did this.

I reversed her over the couch so I could fuck her ass.  She fingered her asshole to make sure it was lubed, relaxed, and ready.  I stuck the tip of my dick in, waited, felt her squeeze then relax her sphincter, then I pressed slowly in.

Unbeknownst to me, she had access to the universal remote.  She turned on the television set and our streaming device.  Did she play a dirty movie or an erotic film?  No.  She started a kid’s cartoon.

There’s something delectably depraved about fucking your girlfriend’s ass while watching animated characters bonk each other over the head.

There’s something enchantingly warped about having your cock in your girlfriend’s asshole and smacking her ass in time with the cartoon characters’ “bonks”.

There’s something pleasingly perverted with trying to contain your laughter and orgasms while fucking your girlfriend’s asshole in time with a kiddie show.

Kaye switched off both the set and the streaming device and said, “You know you’re wrong, don’t you?”

“Not as wrong as you are!” I replied and we both cackled ridiculously.

I reached underneath her hips to stroke her clit and varied my angle inside of her.  She smiled and bucked herself up against me, wriggling and shaking her deliciously round booty.

I couldn’t wait any longer and popped myself out of her warm, welcoming asshole.  I rubbed my dick between her butt cheeks, back and forth, back and forth, and then finally let loose a shower of come over her ass and back.  I was still trembling and hard and I rubbed my cock between her ass as she fingered her clit to orgasm.

That’s my Kaye.  This woman quit her job for me, moved in with me, and found other employment close to me, purely on the promise that I would never disappoint her sexually.

I am going to do my damnedest to never let her down.  And yes, I’m still bisexual and I still fancy men.  I just fancy Kaye more than anyone else.

********

NAMUSA

I have the potential to love all kinds of people, but those who assume I’ll love them back specifically the way they want me to love them back get right up my nose.

Apparently, I am considered conventionally attractive.  That has never served me well.  Men, in particular, have harassed and bothered me ever since I was a young, naïve teenager.  Unfortunately, women haven’t treated me much better.  Those who didn’t hit on me themselves assumed I was after their boyfriends when it was their boyfriends who were being inappropriate towards me.  So many people have slut-shamed me simply for being tall, having large breasts, and a womanly physique.  Even dressing down doesn’t help because it’s my body and appearance they have a problem with no matter how I’m clad.

In college, everyone automatically assumed I had tons of partners.  I never did and I never really wanted anyone, at least not in the way other people described their partners.  They would talk about sneaking into movie theaters and the back seats of cars to have sex and relate all of this with a breathless, secretive excitement.  I got that this was a very important feature of many lives.  I just for the life of me couldn’t figure out why I wasn’t interested.

Sometimes I’d see someone and feel warm, fluttery, friendly, and something else I couldn’t quite figure out.  Occasionally, I would attempt friendship with women, men, and anyone I seemed to care for.  It would always start out great.  Then, inevitably, they would make some sort of awkward move to feel me up or kiss or touch me in a way that made me uncomfortable.  I would stop and they’d accuse me of being a tease or a slut, and I would cry over the ruins of our broken affection.

I thought maybe the problem was with me.  I even went to see a psychiatrist that said I suffered from “low libido".  She recommended that I masturbate, read erotic fiction, and watch dirty movies.  I took her advice.  I did all of these things.  My body can respond in some fashion, I guess.  But my brain never interprets these feelings as pleasurable or compelling.  They’re not off-putting or gross.  They just feel weird.

I even sought out adult companionship online.  I met someone I thought was really funny and cute.  I liked him very much and felt the stirrings of… I couldn’t quite figure it out.  He was clearly a sexual person and I thought if anyone could “cure” me of my disinterest, he would.

His name was Nakupenda Barima Wansati.  His friends called him “Naku.”  I threw myself into his sexual world hoping something would stick, hoping something he seemed to know would rub off on me.  And we tried everything short of piss and poop play.  I could see he was enjoying it and I moaned and moved in response like the people in books and movies did.  I tried to convince myself that this is what relationships are like, even though it never felt fully “right” to me.  But when he finally asked me what I want, I ignorantly told him I wanted his love and affection apart from sex.  I ended up breaking his heart, which broke mine.

I threw myself into my work, thinking adult relationships are something I wouldn’t ever have.  I met a cute and funny woman at work and we had the typical, but superficial, relationship that work colleagues often have: a brief greeting in the morning, enquiries about the weekend or weather, and a goodbye at the end of the day.

I caught her staring at me occasionally.  “Uh oh,” I thought to myself.  “Here we go.”  Maybe I reminded her of someone.  She certainly reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t figure out who.  She never acted on what I was pretty sure was her attraction to me.  That made me at least like her more than most people who acted on feelings without regard to the feelings of others.

One day, I entered the office and heard someone crying.  It was the short, young lady I thought had a thing for me.  She was clearly in distress about something.  She was talking with her boss about this.  They didn’t notice me and I should have left, but I stayed to get the scoop.  I found out her name was Kaye Ayo Mapenzi, that she was bisexual, and that she had just broken up with her girlfriend due to sexual incompatibility.  Kaye was ushered into her boss’ executive office. The door was then closed so Kaye could have some privacy.  I left the office undetected shortly thereafter.

I don’t know why Kaye’s breakup bothered me so much, but it did.  I thought about her predicament for days, rolling it over in my mind.  And then, out of the blue, it hit me.

Kaye reminds me of Naku.

I tried to dismiss the idea as unwelcome meddlesomeness.  But the idea kept getting stronger and stronger.

I think Kaye and Naku would be perfect for each other.

After work hours, I looked over Naku’s online dating profile and it seemed to fit this woman to a tee.  They seemed so much like the same kind of person.  Inspired, I decided to be rash.  I composed a brief letter as Naku, asking Kaye to get in contact with him but instructing her not to reveal the fact he’d seen her or sent her the letter in question.  I printed “OPEN” in capital letters on an envelope, sealed the letter inside, and placed the letter on Kaye’s desk when she wasn’t around.

Weeks went by.  Nothing I could detect had changed in Kaye’s personal life.  I forgot about being a busybody and let the matter rest.  I was somewhat surprised to find out one day that Kaye had quit her job.  When I found out through the grapevine that she had indeed left her job to move in with none other than Nakupenda Barima Wansati (my ex-boyfriend that no one in the office knew about), I was smugly pleased with my prescience.

Yeah, I got it going on like that.

But the issue of my increasing loneliness did not abate.  And that’s what it was: loneliness.  I did want to meet someone.  But I knew, I just knew, that sex wouldn’t be a part of having adult companionship.

I researched the matter further.  I finally went to an in-person meeting for people who had questions about their nonexistent libidos.

Many of the speakers’ presentations turned on lights in the dark room of my adult life.  Everything they were revealing and sharing struck a chord deep within me.  I finally had a name for what I was, but I didn’t yet have one for what I was feeling.

I’m asexual.

As I got up to leave, I bumped into someone and knocked the purse out of her hand.  I apologized profusely, retrieved it from the floor, and stood up.

When I looked at her face, I was rendered speechless.

I was looking at a woman who, apart from her more fashionable attire and more feminine presentation, could have been me.

We both stood there, too shocked to say anything.

I finally remembered that I was holding this woman’s purse and found my voice.

“I’m sorry for being so clumsy,” I said and gave her handbag back.

“That’s okay,” she replied.  “What’s your name?”

“Forgive my manners,” I sputtered.  “My name’s Namusa.  What’s yours?”

“My friends call me ‘L’,” she said.

“As in Elle Macpherson or Elle Fanning?” I enquired.

“No,” she laughed.  “Like the letter ‘L’ in Loveless.  My full name’s Avena Loveless.”

We attended more sessions together.  Our understanding of ourselves and attraction for each other grew.

Avena Loveless, despite her surname, is anything but.  She is now the love of my life.  I hope I am the love of hers.

When we hold each other in bed at night, I know who I am and what I am and everything is right in my world.

My name is Namusa Hani Ngono.  I’m a panromantic asexual woman in love.