Paleo Sex

There’s a flyer that I get every year from a place in Massachusetts. They come in the mail and they’re for people with too much time and money in their lives. They call themselves a center for yoga and health. The flyer isn’t really a flyer. It’s more like a photo shoot with course descriptions;it’s full of beautiful attendees meditating on flowering hillsides, practicing ecstatic and woke poses, gathering in holy spaces like adoring and living crop circles. You can study programs like Ageless Ensoulment, Introduction to Facilatative Realizations, Radical Mindfulness and Meditation. The guides and instructors smile the calm, self-possessed, and self-realized smile of people who know they’ve scammed a job selling their beautiful lives for $500 dollars a person.

But I snark.

I was browsing through the flyer/booklet while eating my scrambled eggs on toast. That’s when I noticed a course on Paleo Sex. Paleo Sex? The first thing I checked out was the instructor. He was— Gorgeous. His hair was long and flowed over his shoulders. He had those wide open mirada fuerte eyes. You know, that strong gaze some Spanish men have that takes a girl just with the eyes. They were—totally Paleo—and his jaw, and his shoulders. His name was Morocco a Pelo, which sounded curiously like Paleo, but probably meant something in his native Spanish. I couldn’t be bothered to Google translate. There was a little bio right there. He had been teaching singles and couples about Paleo Sex for a decade. He had forty-three children and he was from Spain, France and the Algiers. He was multi-lingual, was a concert pianist as a hobby, ran his own business and loved giving massages.  A cascade of alarm bells and warning signs went off. Sometimes a woman has to listen to her intuition.

I signed up immediately.

The center for Yoga and Health is totally beautiful. There are beautiful fields, gentle mountains and a lake nestled between the fields and forests. Just being there makes you feel elevated in a karmic sort of way, like if you died you and your new haircut would ascend to nirvana together. You paid a lot for that haircut. I found a place to park, registered, and quickly found my paleo tribe. There were some couples, single men and single women like me. Eventually, in the afternoon, Morocco manifested himself. The photographs of him didn’t do him justice. They say that ovulating women prefer men with pronounced jaws and pronounced eye brow ridges, you know, the Neanderthal type. I was definitely ovulating.

Morocco stood among us like a sun-burnished God among addled cave dwellers. His voice was rich and sincere and he had grown a long black beard and mustache since his promotional photo. “I bring you fire!” he laughed and smiled. All of us response-laughed in adoration of our new God king. “What do I mean by fire?” he asked.

“Like Prometheus!” said a man among our group.

“Knowledge. But not any knowledge, knowledge that purifies and transforms. We want to eat healthy, to eat the food that evolved with us, food the earth freely provided us tens of thousands of years ago and still provides today; so why do we want our sex processed, packaged, watered down with expectations, additives and the distractions of modern life. In our week-long program we are going to remember what sex originally was and is: raw, wild, natural, passionate, healthy and slimming.” Morocco’s speech lasted several minutes. He promised renewed libidos, straighter posture, sexual satisfaction and better skin.

I knew it was all true because he was beautiful.

The next day we went foraging. Oh, I forgot to mention: if we were in couples, we weren’t supposed to make love and if we were single we weren’t supposed to masturbate. We were supposed to oxygenate our sexual chakras. I know. But you had to be there. There are mansplainers, little ‘m’, and then there are Mansplainers, capital ‘M’. The Mansplainers? Tell me everything, I say. Explain to me every little detail. I’m just a confused and dazed girl. I really need your rock-hard Mansplaining. And maybe a firm hand, a little disciplining, Sir? And Morocco exuded Mansplanatory pheremones. You just knew your children would thank you for his genetic material. But I digress.

The next day we went foraging, but it wasn’t just for wild berries and roots. We found a secluded hilltop, because nobody can see you if you’re on a hilltop, and undressed. We traded our clothes for these little white cloths we tied around our waists. They were like unisex mini-skirts. Morocco explained to us that clothes were a minimalist thing in the Paleolithic—and white I guess. He explained to us that clothes are like additives and dilute our sexual, spiritual, aesthetic appreciation of each other’s beauty. We used to forage each others bodies the way we foraged for food, he said. We should forage for sexual gratification the way we forage for good, he said. With our fingers, tongues, smell, hearing and our eyes. He encouraged us to touch each other, to lick each others skin if we wanted a taste, to look at each other. As the day went on, some of the guys felt my ass or ran their hands over my hips. I did the same to them. Some of them were hard too. Curiosity got the better of me. Each one felt a little different. I was picking an apple, and the next thing you know a man or a woman has my nipple in their mouth, tasting me. Some of the men, and the women, let just a finger’s tip slide into me. I don’t know what they were finding out, but by the end of the day I was bending over an awful lot. You know, for those berries that are really low down. Somebody has to pick those. And I’m not that flexible so I had to bend over with my legs really apart. It’s a thing. By evening we were massaging one another. My sexual chakras were definitely feeling oxygenated.

The next day we went paleo-foraging with Morocco again. Today we didn’t wear our spiritually white loincloths. We went naked. The way our diet suffers by the addition of modern excesses, that’s what clothes are like. They distract from the natural, paleo, sexual expressiveness of our nudity. Now see, I would have said that clothes could be pretty frisky, you know? What’s sexier than mystery? And wasn’t this all just an elaborate way to get all us women naked? I said this to Morocco, except for that last part, and he smiled at me like an alien visitor from a distant and advanced civilization. Sugar, he said. What? I asked. Sugar, he said again. Clothes are like sugar. Of course if you put sugar in your cereal, breads, your rice, your drinks, your yogurt, it’s all going to taste better. But sugar isn’t healthy for you. Somewhere deep inside alarm bells were going off, but it was all so obvious when Morocco said it. I was totally addicted to sugar and we both knew it.

The third day we found another discrete hilltop and this time we brought paleo bone flutes and paleo tambourines. We weren’t allowed to bring any instruments that couldn’t be made by hand. Music, Morocco explained to us, was the rhythm of sex. In the evening, we took turns playing our instruments while other classmates danced around a little fire. All of our chakras were, like, dangerously oxygenated. But it was cool, you know? Because you could tell the men liked being looked at. It’s always men who are catcalling and wolf whistling, and who needs that? But deep down I wondered if all these men don’t wish women would cat call and wolf-whistle at them?  I know, I know, it’s not the same. Men have all the power, so its scary and really quick; and what woman wants to be some perverts sex object? It’s disgusting. But I wondered if there weren’t some men who wished they didn’t have the power. When some of us women were beating our little drums and playing our bone whistles, the men were totally showing off and all but one or two were hard. I didn’t know which I liked better. Seeing their limp little cocks bounce wildly around while they frantically danced or seeing them big and hard, like Satyrs’ cocks, ready to hook one of us poor fawns on the barb of their abdomens. We cat-called and we wolf-whistled. We made lewd comments. We told them to smile for us. Hey bitch, we said, turn around and let us see your face! I’d fuck that one without a condom! we said. They loved it. Of course they would, but it was still kind of sweet. It was totally raw. Morocco told us not to bathe because our body odor was paleo.

On the fourth day Morocco said we would be spending the night under the stars—our last night together. Paleo sex was like a paleo diet. Having sex in a house, on your bed, was like preparing your food in a kitchen. To get back in touch with the Earth and nature, we needed to sleep, and fuck, he said, on a bed of earth and under a sheet of stars. That’s the way Morocco a Pelo put it. So we shed our clothes, took our musical instruments, and built a fire in wooded glen. No, it really was a glen. My thighs were glistening. The stars were out. The moon was out. Men and women were dancing naked around the fire. After the previous days of, quote-unquote, foraging, sweating, dancing, all of us were feeling the ‘paleo’.

Our chakras needed to be de-oxygenated. It didn’t take long. One of the married couples didn’t even make it to the fire ring. The woman was on her knees and knees. He was behind her. His fire-lit butt was thrusting hard. She was yelping with every thrust. You know how it is when you’re really horny and you see another women being fucked. You can almost feel that cock in your own pussy, hitting that place that makes you grunt and scream just like that other woman, and you want him to make her scream the way you’d like to scream. One of the men who had been flirting, and the girl who had been flirting with him, started fucking her mid-dance. She had her back to him. He took her hair and the next thing you knew she was being fucked from behind right in front of the fire. They were both standing. Her back was bent like a drawn bow. Then he bent her over. She spread her legs with her palms flat in the dirt. There were three of us beating drums and tambourine. We beat them faster and faster. His thrusts kept time until he threw his head back and howled like a wounded animal. Her pussy couldn’t keep it all inside, but ran glittering down her thighs.

I was going to have a paleo panic-attack if I didn’t have a cock in me soon.

But I couldn’t decide. The truth was, I wanted Morocco a Pelo. I wanted his cock inside me. I was ready to be bred by him. Isn’t that funny? Women aren’t supposed to think that way, and I wish men didn’t make it so hard to admit it, but sometimes we’re not interested in a man’s mind. Dull, boring, mansplanatory minds. We just want their cock where we can really feel it—all of it.

That’s when I spotted two women whispering to Morocco and glancing at me. A thousand alarm bells had gone off at the mere thought of fucking our spiritual guide, which is why I confessed to two of my classmates as quick as I could.

Morocco raised his hand and the music stopped. Two couples were groaning. One with a woman on top, and the other on her back with her knees drawn up and apart. They didn’t stop. Morocco laughed and said that all women were beautiful and worthy of strongest and most virile men. Then he looked straight at me. His lovely cock rose straight up almost touching his belly button. I so wanted Morocco’s cock in my mouth and in my cunt. I claim her, he said. Does any man challenge me? The two women came to me and had me stand between them. They twined wild grape vines around my wrists, made me kneel, pushed my cheek into the leaves, then pulled my wrists between my knees and tied my wrists to my ankles.

After that, Morocco and the other man who wanted to inseminate me, inspected the prize—my waist, my hips, my pussy, the way my spine already arched for a paleo-fucking. A place was cleared, a wide circle was drawn in the earth, and the first man to push the other out of the circle would win the right to inseminate my womb.

The competition was beautiful. Both the men were hard. They grappled each other the way Greek Olympians did on those vases in museums and Wikipedia. My cheek was still in the leaves, and my pussy was still lifted and open behind me, ready to receive the paleo sperm of the most virile and paleo man. The men gleamed and littered with sweat in the flickering red of the fire’s light. It didn’t last long. Morocco, the muscles of his arms and legs swooningly bulging, finally forced the other man out of his circle. I think wrestling with another man must have turned him on even more. I had never seen a cock as thick or long as his. I know. I know. Erotic cliché. Blah. Blah. Blah. Men and big cocks. But I like my men with rugged jaws, pecs like iron, hair like rugs, and hung with the hugest horse cocks totally ever. I can’t help it. It’s girl instinct. Anyway, Morocco looked at me like he’d won the best prize in the world. I kind of liked that. A clear web of anticipation dripped from the tip of his cock.

I was already hyperventilating when he stepped behind me and knelt. At first he just ran the underside of his cock back and forth between the divide of my butt cheeks as if he didn’t want to hurry. I hate that description. Butt-cheeks. But I don’t know how else to describe them? Butt-mounds? My glutii? Then the warm length of flesh was gone. When I nest felt it, him, the cock, the crown was pressing at the nook of my cunt. I was already whining with anticipation, each breath a pitched complaint, and then the the most virile and strongest cock sunk into me. My eyes rolled and my cheeks puffed with little gasps. What could I do? I couldn’t move. I was his reward. After that, the music began again, the chanting and the dancers, and the thrusting, deep and knocking at the door of my fallow abdomen.

And then it happened. I had my first orgasm from behind. I screamed like a stuck paleolithic boar, back arched, head lifted, fingers and toes spread, and could feel him shooting his warm paleo sperm into my womb—hard, powerful, spurts that I swore I could feel in my throat. When it was over I lay there, ass in the air, wrists tied to ankles, and in a stupor. The women danced around me like I was a holy female totem, freshly fucked, freshly impregnated, their own hips full of come. Morocco’s cupped in my moonward pussy, dripped into my womb a drop at a time.

Yeah, if not for getting knocked up, paleo sex is slimming. But that’s how all my fantasies go. My boyfriend doesn’t get it. Neither do my girlfriends. Do you really want a baby? Are you kidding? But don’t you love it, I say, the way a guy fucks you when he thinks he’s making a baby inside you?

Maybe it’s just me.

Anyway, Paleo sex has totally rejuvenated me. It’s so raw. Don’t knock it if you haven’t tried it.


Yrs, in love, Susie Suede: All true. No lies.

Categories: Erotica, SusieSuedeTags:


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