Adults of all ages and facets of life have likely felt some level of self disgust following a questionable sexual experience. That sort of regret, although rare for me, is most memorable in a single instance.
My husband and I spent a week filming high adrenaline adventures and intimate sex scenes for PlayboyTV’s Sexcape in South Africa. When we weren’t on camera, we were enjoying the company of the small, mostly male crew. We bonded quickly and easily, sharing hours of laughs and personal conversation. They were intrigued by our lifestyle and posed numerous questions. My naturally flirtatious nature set the tone for our down time. Two of the cute camera guys were obviously smitten. I ate that shit up! What girl doesn’t love attention? They confessed how much watching us fuck turned them on. Knowing those hotties were jerking their cocks to the thought of what it felt like to be inside of me made me feel powerful. Sexually liberated women are a rarity in their culture. Their wives and longtime girlfriends weren’t the sexual being I was. They couldn’t wrap their minds around the fact that we shared our bed with others in such an open, honest way. Or that I divulged my most personal experiences and preferences to strangers. My dirty bedroom talk made their jaws drop and their pants bulge. One claimed he didn’t think women like me existed in real life, only in porn. A bit ironic, as we were there to make porn, but I was authentically me both on camera and off. During a break near the end of the week, one camera guy and I were flirtatiously chatting. I described my love for anal sex and the mind blowing orgasms it forces. He looked me in the eyes and confessed what he dreamt of doing to my pretty little asshole. I bit my lip, unable to wipe the devious smile from my face. He adjusted his pants, displaying an impressive protrusion. He laughed, “Look what you do to me. I can’t go out there like this.”
On the last night, after a free day sight seeing around Cape Town with the crew, we get a knock on our hotel room door. The two attractive camera men greet us, tossing a pack of condoms on the bed. I was a bit taken aback and exclaim, “I’m not going to fuck you!” Yes, we’ve had graphic sexual conversations. Yes, we’ve been flirty and suggestive all week. You’ve seen me naked and watched me get fucked numerous times. But where in there did I invite you into our bedroom? Was it based on assumption after hearing lifestyle stories? Flirting with a married man is one thing, having sex with him is another. I’ve always been repulsed by infidelity.
We hung out for awhile, making small talk. Next thing I knew, the more daring man was rubbing me sensually between my thighs. The rush of hormones and blood flow towards my pussy had me throbbing immediately. It felt so right. I continued to verbally resist, fighting off my body’s attempts to proceed. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the massage. He pressed the seam of my jeans against my tender clit over and over again. A few short minutes of that left my panties moist with anticipation and desire. I looked at my husband for approval. His raging boner and eager nod encouraged me to continue. I undressed, revealing a tiny black and blue thong and coordinating blue lace bra. (Both of which I can’t bring myself to get rid of years later.) “I won’t have sex with you, but we can mess around,” I clarify.
I initiate everything. You lick my pussy while I suck two cocks. I stroke these two while you’re in my mouth. My husband fucked me from behind while I alternated jerking and sucking on our crew friends. It ended abruptly for one guy when he accidentally came during a blow job. He pulled out suddenly and caught the load in his hand, grumbling apologies of disappointment and embarrassment. I wasn’t disappointed. That’s a compliment. You’re welcome. Now go lick my pussy from behind while I continue blowing your friend. And he obeyed. Again making me feel like the sex goddess I am. The second guy’s orgasm left a lasting impression on my husband and me. I could feel the intensity growing, he grabbed my head and thrusted further down my throat. His hips were circling, his head tilted back, his open mouth released moans and groans of ecstasy. I could feel him getting close and whispered, “don’t cum in my mouth.” He pulled his cock out of my mouth and exploded ALL over his stomach. His body trembled and spasmed. His muscles clenched in a seizure like motion. The sounds that came out of his mouth were unexpectedly loud and reminiscent of a wild animal. It was intense, to say the least. Neither of us had experienced such a thing. We were equal parts perplexed and amazed.
We clean up, redress, and meet them in the lobby for drinks before our send off. The other crew members looked at us inquisitively as we couldn’t hide our smiles and the secret behind them. It was a light hearted, appreciative farewell. No awkwardness. We shared a natural high from a week filled with a variety of newness and rush. We all felt very much alive. It wasn’t until we got to the airport I started to feel uneasy. The impending return to reality forced me to consider the consequences of my actions. The fantasy was gone and in its place were sadness and disgust. These men weren’t mine. One had a wife and child, the other a long time girlfriend. They had previously described their mates’ jealousies and insecurities about them filming such risqué material. They spoke of their coverup stories for what their work week entailed. Their significant others would never have been open to sharing their husbands with another woman. I knew all of that when I let them into our hotel room. I was aware of those things when I took off my panties. That information was in some corner of my brain while I was gagging on their dicks. My eyes filled with tears as I considered those things. Instantly I put myself in their wives’ place. She didn’t deserve to be disrespected. He would go home, kiss his wife, and live the rest of his life as if nothing had happened. There’s something unsettling about living a life under false pretenses. And I had contributed to that. I was a home wrecker. I had never felt so immoral and impure. My husband wrapped his arms around me, assuring that his view of me hadn’t changed. He accepted partial responsibility since he had promoted the situation, yet had no regrets. Despite his encouragement, I continued to cry on and off for hours. I sulked in the comfort of his embrace. He loved and accepted me when I couldn’t love and accept myself.
When I think of regret now, that self loathing experience remains at the forefront. I’ve come to terms with it. You’re shaped by your experiences, good and bad. Some of life’s basic principles are more naturally followed and don’t require a test round to verify their validity. Others aren’t as meaningful until you’ve endured the consequences of trauma, misfortune, or poor decision. It’s all about growth, as we accept ourselves as imperfect beings. History shall not repeat itself. Regret and self disgust lead to change. The classic line rings true. Live and learn.