바람핀 유부녀
In the vast range of sexual experiences one might have, there are a few rarer ones you can’t decide how to feel about.
My first true, consistent lover was a married mom ten years older than me, Song Ji. She was madly promiscuous and experienced, and she was unfiltered with me about her extensive history, preferences, fantasies, and all. She told me about her past lovers. She told me she had too many to count, and when I asked her to grade my sexual performance, she said, “C… minus.”
Ouch.
But I was OK with that. She really loved the way I looked; nearly worshiping my hair, face, height, my voice, and athletic physique with sappy praise and sincere, loving eyes. And though I hadn’t thought about it before she brought it up herself, she attested to my “hotdog” size (as she called it, and she called her genitals “honghap”; clam), being “not my largest ever, but large”. Better yet, she sometimes gave me props on improvement in my fuck game, and as a young guy, I thirsted for that kind of validation. And we fucked soooo often.
She justified her cheating on the grounds that her husband had cheated on her first, as in immediately upon getting married. He was a traveling salary man for a big chaebol, and as that subculture was notorious, he’d go out with his office-mates for hweshik, get drunk, and go back to the love motels with prostitutes. I’d read a survey around that time that found ~50% of Korean husbands anonymously admitted to having cheated at least once, so this backstory all seemed plausible and likely to me. He’d repeatedly promised her he’d stop, crying and begging on his knees for her not to file for divorce, and she’d relent for the sake of their two kids and not to give her parents a heart attack (having a divorced daughter is a big stigma and shame under conservative Confucian notions). But she didn’t forgive him, and unbeknownst to him, she was banging foreign men one after the other in a serial epic multiracial procession.
Why foreign men? Koreans are particularly reputation-sensitive compared to Westerners. A married mom isn’t penalized socially for cheating in itself, but if it becomes public, if it enters the gossip stream, if her kids’ friends’ moms get word of it, if her husband’s family and friends learn of it, she’s doomed. Sadly, they sometimes commit suicide when exposed. I’d got word of one in the town over who jumped out of her apartment window when her husband cornered and confronted her about her secret life. So, you see, foreign guys don’t socialize as much with the locals, there’s a language barrier, and so word of dirty deeds slipping out into the light is less likely. Foreign guys don’t get so attached either; they’re virtually all in the country temporarily, and these flings and affairs are convenient, contained, and compartmentalized. Those are the practical reasons, but then there’s also the xenophilia and occidental fetishization beneath the hood driving it. Many Korean women hear a man speaking English and get the ovary tingles the way American women do for French or British accents. That’s not my explanation; this is how she explained it to me.
Her best friend, “Rose”, seconded that, by the way. Her best friend was also a cheating married Korean mom who would sometimes come along with us on excursions and dates, and I learned a lot listening to her. If Song Ji was insightful and unfiltered, Rose was doubly so. Rose laid it on thick; her hatred for her husband, the amazing fucks she’d had with foreign men that made her husband look sexually handicapped in comparison, how she kept it strictly secret for years and years, and so many cruel details I winced, cringed, and flinched to hear her talk. If Rose had a drink, she could talk an hour straight and blow my fucking mind with the shit she said. No married man would sleep well after listening to her, but I had to hear every word.
I mentioned there are sexual experiences one doesn’t know how to feel about.
One day, Song Ji came over to my one-room apartment, as was her habit, this time with food. After we ate, we rolled around in bed naked. Nothing unusual. It was about lunchtime, and I didn’t need to be at work for a couple of hours. I started fucking her in missionary. Her chest turned pink, and she got sopping wet. She was the most pink-turning, super-moisturizing woman I’ve been with since, and it’s what stands out to me to this day. She would occasionally self-deprecate her flat chest, too, and despite being a serious big boob appreciator, I smooshed my face in them just the same. Small tits have their own appeal, too, and somehow East Asian women tend to pull it off.
I consider it my superpower that I can last as long as I want to last, and I had been enjoying her in missionary for an inordinate duration when her phone buzzed. It had happened before, and she’d always ignored it, but this time it buzzed repeatedly. After the fifth buzz, it rang, and I told her, answer it. She looked at me like I would pull out so she could, but I didn’t want to. I repeated, “Answer it.”
And she did. You can probably guess, it was her husband. I could hear his voice through the speaker; he was calling her during his lunch break at work. Yes, they talked over the phone while I continued fucking her. She kept her voice so normal, I stayed quiet. My Korean was only good enough at that time to understand he was telling her he missed her, he asked her where she was, she told him she was driving to a hiking trail (plausible, she was a real hiker) and pulled over to talk to him safely. So much for my ability to hold it in, what a little devil she was! It hit me then how absolutely EVIL she could be. I gripped her hard around her narrow waist, squeezing her about her tight core, lifting her groin into me, and went hard and fast, pounding her while she continued talking to her husband. I suppressed the sound of my breath, but the wet-clapping sound was so loud she hurriedly grabbed for a pillow to place over her lower parts and muffle us.
I heard him tell her again he loved her and that he’d see her around 5 pm, adding he’d like to hike with her “like a happy couple”, that she didn’t need to hike alone, another I love you and she reciprocated the words back to him, “Salanghae, nampyun.” – I love you, husband. And in the last few seconds before she hung up, I released in her. She tossed her phone somewhere onto my nightstand, I threw that pillow between us off into outer space, and I collapsed into her neck, noming at and kissing her ear, the same ear she’d just pressed her husband’s voice to.
