Boys with Curly Hair

Leaving Durban was a shit-show. Between us we had slept for about 10 hours but were due to pick up our rental car at 10am. A couple of near roadside chunders and a million hire forms later, our classic South African road trip down the Transkei, Wild Coast, and Garden Route began. Our first stop was intended to be Coffee Bay, however sleep deprivation wouldn’t allow the distance and instead we found a local little town, Kokstad, to rest our disheveled selves.

I decided here was the perfect location to get my first African braids! The local ladies and their unforgiving braid mastering fingers, taught me to R.E.S.P.E.C.T. all people who endure the monthly agony of braids!

The tribe was feeling pretty slick when we rolled into Coffee Bay with our VW Polo and myself with my new bad girl Rhi Rhi look. We were staying at a talked up hostel called the Coffee Shack, renowned for its FREE sunset mussels and oysters, as well and $6 surfing.

Unable to pass up a bargain, the tribe (still minus broken Mumma Africa), and 15 other backpackers set off for a day of surfing, or in my case; paddling around for 30 minutes because I feel like Australians should like this sport, but actually I hate it. Our tribe was surrounded by the the largest amount of travellers we had encountered in our entire African travels. I guess there is a global belief that South Africa is an ‘accessible’ African country to travel, though it later revealed its own complexities.

Striking up some conversations I was quickly reminded of my European travels, and the repetitive ‘where are you from,’ ‘how long have you been travelling,’ ‘where are you coming from/going to next’ questions.

Eager to avoid these surface level conversations I soon found myself hanging out with a couple of Germans and a sweet little English lass called Sunny.

Sunny was younger than me, but oozed maturity. She was travelling alone, had the same style as me (outrageous mix match of whatever colour/pattern combination you feel) and was sporting some serious armpit and leg foliage with absolute pride. We got off like a house on fire and arranged to meet at AfrikaBurn.

After a while, my attention turned to the only male of the Germans. He was having his first go at surfing and doing a pretty fine job, plus I was enjoying watching him in a wetsuit. How could someone with bleach blonde floppy curls, piercing blue eyes, and an absolute rig be a first time surfer? I told him that though he might not have the surfing technique yet, he certainly had the surfer look. He obviously enjoyed being complimented, and we spent the next few hours bantering and practicing yoga moves.

That night, once we’d all scrubbed up, and Zimbabawia had remained alive having stood on a LIVE snake, I spotted Floppy Curls Boy looking almost as good dry as he did wet. I decided to put on the moves and spent the evening being the hilariously charming, big fat flirt that I am. The night was winding down, so myself, Floppy Curls Boy, and his now rather intoxicated German lady friends, began a game of guess how old I am? The game alone told me that, oh dear, this one’s gonna be a youngin’. I claimed to be 21, and he to be 23. Both knowing we were lying, he insisted to see my ID, and I said that I needed his first. He reluctantly produced it, and alas, staring me in the face, was that age I seem to have become addicted to…19.

This revelation didn’t exactly put me off my little friend, after all, the others had proven that age did not dictate skill. I was however concerned that his age meant he didn’t have enough game to shake off his lady friends, and end the night with me. I mean really, it’s taken me a good few years to get my game this strong. Giving him a helping hand I said goodnight to the girls and dropped the not so subtle hint to Floppy Curls Boy, that before sleeping I would be reading in the empty lounge room.

Sitting on the couches I was just beginning to wonder whether my hint had been received, when Floppy Curls Boy entered the lounge. To my surprise I saw that supported under his arm was one of his lady friends. Apparently she was absolutely wasted, and having a broken leg she was in need of his assistance to return to her room. Being a gentleman, and an idiot, he came to the lounge before taking her back.

To further prove his innocence he allowed the cripple lassy to sit between us on the couch. She plonked down, sprawled out over the top of us and immediately passed out. After some awkward minutes of whispering over her passed out corpse, I accepted that it was going to take me to get this thing cranking.

I removed her cast from my lap and crept my way over to his side so we could speak more quietly. The small talk was dragging on and I could feel my groin getting hotter and hotter from frustration and anticipation. I was bloody attracted to this baby faced floopster. Fed up, I leaned over and kissed him, this was clearly the go ahead he’d been looking for as he grabbed my waist and immediately pulled me onto his lap. We were making out intensely with me grinding his quickly growing cock. Breaking apart for air we looked to our right and remembered that, oh fuck, there’s a passed out cripple centimetres from us.

Proceeding with more caution, I went to kiss him again, but instead he made me stand up. Not wanting to talk, I tried using gesture to ask what he was doing, but he simply reached up and pulled my underwear off. I was totally taken aback and delighted by his new confidence, he then stood me upon his lap and started to eat me out. H.O.T. I was absolutely dying and loving it, but the small part of me that is shy was also absolutely hyper-aware that we were in a public hostel room and there was a PASSED OUT GIRL next to us. I let the exhibitioism continue for as long as I could handle, then told him that we HAD to go and find somewhere to fuck.

Inside the girls shower block we quickly got each other naked while he told me that he’d thought I was flirting with him, but had doubted himself because of his age. I told him that 19 year olds were my new jam and that he shouldn’t doubt his handsome, sculpted, kind and funny, floppy haired self again.

I was sure I wouldn’t be the last cougar on his list.

After grabbing the conveniently free condoms inside the bathrooms (cheers Coffee Shack) he turned me around, just the way I like, held me up and slid that lovely cock inside me. I already felt like a bad bitch with my braided hair, but this was a whole new level. Being fucked against a shower wall is flipping hot, especially standing under the running water (if warm!), but height differences can make it challenging and my Floppy Curls Boy eventually got tired. I led us to the floor, straddling him whilst he lay down, there we finished off with a nice wet-cow-girl move.

After we dried off with lots of cute kisses he asked if he could come and snuggle. Fuck yeah you can. I recently listened to an episode of Juliet Allen’s podcast – The Authentic Sex, where she states that she only fucks people who she is happy to wake up next to. Yes, I wanted to wake up next to this sweet little thing. We snuggled on my squeaky top bunk for a whole four hours, then yet again, I had to wake up early and leave. Sneaking out, I kissed his sleeping floppy hair goodbye.

This time I forgot to exchange details and was feeling quite disappointed, I messaged Sunny asking her to give him my number, and she replied saying that he had literally just asked her for my Instagram. Oh my gawddd, snap.

Happily Ever After……..NOTTTTT!

Because not all that glitters is gold, and I don’t want to paint the illusion that I’m a beacon of happy sex story endings, I will add a footnote:

Now having each other on Instagram, once I reached Cape Town I saw that Floppy Curls Boy was arriving later that afternoon. I messaged him and told him where I was staying, thinking that he would obviously come to where I was. Not hearing back, I figured he was delayed and that I’d talk to him the next day. The next day came and no message, bugger it I thought, I’m the sexy older woman I can double message.

In response I received: Sorry I’ve got dinner plans and then I fly tomorrow, cya!

Sometimes it’s better to just leave the glittery one night story without a sequel.

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