“You got all the muscles and the features I want, and I want what I want, my love”
– Troye Sivan –
“What’s your type?”
The question got thrown around on dating apps as if one’s visual aesthetic is the sole factor in gauging your appeal. So my question is, what’s your view on physical attractiveness? Do you often find yourself falling for the same type of person over and over again? Do you limit your dating pool to a specific definition of beauty? I have encountered many people who exclusively date the same type of person. Heck, some even wear their preference as a badge of honor. Rice queen, size queen, daddy hunter, you name it.
The more important question is: as a person on the receiving end of the attraction, how would you react to it? Would you find the admiration flattering, or would you be offended that your existence is reduced to your melanin level?
(Didn’t I mention I was going to write about a rice queen in the previous chapter? Well… here it is!)
I was on a not-so-relaxing walk on Sunset Boulevard one afternoon, casually checking Grindr hunting for a new guy to write about. When I saw the profile of this muscular, all-American guy sporting a shameless bathroom mirror selfie, I was immediately intrigued. *You know how a thirsty, superficial bitch like me will always fall for a classic bathroom mirror selfie of a hottie wearing nothing but a pair of basketball shorts*. Upon doing my preliminary assessment of his eligibility to trespass in my backyard, however, I noticed something quite jarring about his bio. Basically, he pointed out that he’s a top who’s exclusively attracted to Asian twinks.
Okay, here comes unnecessarily long sentences where I attempt to justify my foolish train of thoughts. Back then, I I didn’t know why some find a racial preference to be a problematic issue. Some even say that racial preference is borderline discriminatory and dangerously perpetuates negative racial stereotypes. While I do understand both sides of the arguments now, I knew nothing back then. My insecure, thirsty ass was elated that someone as good-looking as him found me attractive and wanted to get naked with me.
Physically, we were a perfect match. With dirty blonde hair and a chiseled body, the seductive rice queen looked like West Hollywood’s version of a Disney prince. Judging from his shirtless mirror selfie, he had got all the boner-inducing physical traits I’m usually attracted to. Let’s just say he’s objectively a pretty good-looking guy, no matter if he’s necessarily your type. And luckily, I fit all the criteria of what he’s looking for: an Asian twink with minimal critical thinking skill who appreciates taking an average-sized penis in the ass. After the usual exchange of tasteless pictures of our private parts, the hunky rice queen was inclined to sample my soft and supple rice. And I, a self-proclaimed parched ho, was beyond ecstatic for the opportunity to savor every inch of his glorious chopstick.
So one evening, he invited me to come to his apartment in Downtown LA, to which I responded with a resounding “hell yeah!”. So after I had completed the typical, tedious douching process, I hopped on my car to deliver my juicy and steamy buns to his apartment. It wasn’t until I was 300-feet away from reaching my destination that I finally realized that my hunky rice queen lived in one of those magnificent LA skyscrapers.
I notified my man that I was having difficulties with my car parking situation, so my handsome rice queen came down to the parking garage to save me from unnecessary auto body shop trips. When those garage elevator doors opened up to reveal a knockoff, human-sized Ken doll, I was mesmerized. My boy walked towards me in a cobalt blue t-shirt that perfectly hugged his muscular torso and short grey sweatpants that didn’t leave a lot to the imagination. The wondrous sight almost impaired my far-from-perfect parking skill, but eventually, I managed to keep my car spotless. At that moment, I thought,
“My car isn’t wrecked tonight, but my bussy *certainly* will be.”
The long walk to his apartment room, albeit filled with sexual tensions, was dull as fuck. Our conversation felt like two exhausted coworkers having a meandering chat on a Tuesday afternoon. It felt like the endless water cooler chat was almost enough to deplete my energy from wanting to continue on with sex. I’m not saying that he’s inherently a boring person. However, even a fake ass bitch like me, who loves to chameleon my way to a guy’s pants, struggled to find a mutual interest for me to build a foundation for our emotional connection. No matter how hard I tried to ignite the spark, the chemistry just simply wasn’t there.
The moment I stepped into the rice queen’s apartment, things started to turn around. I was utterly mesmerized by his one-bedroom apartment as it felt like it belonged to a Hollywood rising star. It was so spacious that one could comfortably throw an epic house party with 50+ self-absorbed Angelenos. But the thing that caught my eyes the most was the balcony. Overlooking the iconic Walt Disney Concert Hall, the balcony offered a VIP view of the majestic Downtown LA skyscrapers. Paired with a California sunset that inspires many chart-toppers and cliché Instagram captions, the balcony itself was enough to give me a boner.
And the thought of having sex on that balcony suddenly intrigued me.
Passionate sex with a hot guy under the pastel California sky?
Yes, please!
Although our social interaction felt excruciatingly boring, our chemistry in bed was a completely different story. The handsome rice queen comfortably positioned himself on the large, dark blue couch while giving me a seductively inviting stare through his light-blue eyes. His intense gaze snapped me out of my admiration for his stunning balcony and reminded me of the reason why I was there. I sensually made my way to the gorgeous boy in the blue t-shirt and immediately targeted his lips.
When our lips touched, I felt an instant, inexplicable gravitational force drawing my lips to his.
I spent the next fifteen minutes being enthralled by the pleasure from his gentle touches while I was repetitively claiming my handsome rice queen’s mouth with mine. His hands and my skinny bum were like two opposing magnetic poles; my boy couldn’t stop caressing my gluteus maximus like his life depended on it. The next thing I knew, our shirts were on the floor as I continued marking my territory all over his naked body with my tongue. Everything was perfect, and our sexual tension was through the roof.
Being a self-proclaimed adventurous bitch, I naturally suggested the idea of getting dicked down by the apartment balcony, which, to my surprise, was responded by the handsome rice queen with enthusiasm.
I’m going to spare you with the details of the fornication as I already bombarded you with overly-detailed, Bridgerton-Esque narratives earlier. What I can say is this: the sex with the handsome rice queen, by itself, was fantastic. However, what makes it remarkably memorable is the added outdoor element to an already spectacular dick-riding session. It felt liberating when the gentle evening breeze touched my dehydrated skin and bare hole. The possibility of creepy neighbors peeping our forbidden affair through a telescope didn’t even cross our minds as we were busy overindulging in sexual pleasure. We could hear the chatters coming from pedestrians walking on the busy streets hundreds of feet below us, but we couldn’t care less. Even after moving things into the bedroom, the lack of natural scenery didn’t stop him from giving me a mind-blowing sexperience. From start to finish, my man was giving me a 10/10 performance.
We did continue hooking up at least five more times, but it never developed into something more serious. Unfortunately, our steamy affair had to end because I decided to relocate to a different city. (Why did I choose to leave the dreamy Los Angeles, you might ask? Don’t worry, I’ll spend the next few chapters explaining my reasonings). Years after our semi-adventurous rendezvous, we, surprisingly, still remain in touch despite living on different continents. Our interaction, however, is mostly comprised of sending many indecent pictures and my handsome rice queen reminiscing the greatness that is my hole.
The most fucked up thing about this virtual interaction, however, is that he’s having this illicit affair with me behind his boyfriend’s back.
To be completely honest, most of his life choices are questionable as fuck. One night, he even confided in me that he felt trapped in his relationship seconds after sending me a video of him ejaculating. There was also this one time when he got so caught up in the moment that he sent a video of him fucking another guy, whom I presume is his boyfriend. And don’t get me started with his lack of interest in having a “normal” conversation because he either merely views me as an object of desire or doesn’t want to develop feelings due to his pre-existing relationship.
But then again, who the fuck am I to judge when I voluntarily indulge in the said adultery? In my defense, I’ve been sequestered at home for centuries due to the pandemic, and my only option to satisfy my biological needs is through virtual sex. A boy has needs, okay?
Do I feel bad for potentially being a homewrecker? Yes. But just like Tinkerbell, I need validation from a hot guy telling me how ravishing my booty looks to survive.
So yeah… sorry, not sorry.
SquirtTale 