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Maltese Lover

I feel unduly proud of myself for having sex in a car with a Maltese lover, because they are rare. Malta is small and placed at a nautical crossroads, but the defining characteristic of the archipelago called Malta is that it has no source of freshwater. This has limited and shaped Malta’s use and growth for thousands of years. 

Photo of the Medterranean with a corner of a red oil tanker through a stone opening in Valletta near which I had sex in a car

Unfortunately now this limit is being stretched by greedy developers.

Photo of Smart City, Malta

Malta’s future hangs in a balance. Malta’s past crumbling.

Photo of an oil tanker sitting in port at Valletta near where I had sex in a car

Those that are born on the rock would have every right to look on those that are not as water-hungry in every way, down to our larger stature – we are water-greedy just by being the size we are. We are not evolved for the island, we are not made from the rock. We are terraqueous beings. 

Photo of boats at the pier in Malta where I had sex in a car

Malta has the only Semitic language in Europe, and when I ask my Maltese lover if he can understand Arabic, he says that indeed he can get by without ever having studied it, depending on the country of origin of the Arabic.

Rocks stacked impossible at ancient Maltese ruins

Standing in front of the giant rocks and pillars of the megalithic temples that weigh tons and tons, I’m not believing the story that tree trunks were used as levers. There are no trees that grow tall and strong and straight, because there is no freshwater. They say there must have been trees some 6000 years ago when these rocks were erected. I’m not buying it.

Rocks stacked impossible at ancient Maltese ruins

I don’t know what I buy.  Humans are astounding.

Stacked pillars of ancient rocks in Malta, doorway

Underground in the Ħal Saflieni Hypogeum I marvel at the oldest remnant of European society being a necropolis dug chip by chip from stone with stone, and how this fits so well my concept of Europe – that it is the epitome of the Olde Worlde – that this is a proverbial swamp, an intentional tomb: a place dedicated to death. 

Photo underground at the Ħal Saflieni Hypogeum

This piece of the planet so crunched and dense with people dying on top of one another and being tamped down into the energetic base of Europeanness for millenia. So much death here they had to spread it far and wide just to keep the wheel turning. I feel the people haunted, trying to escape their legacy like a blindered horse’s best efforts to get off the track, jerking its head, never able to see the pale wraith holding its reins.

Locals call the island “The Rock”. 

View of the Mediterranean and a cloudy sky from a Maltese fort near where I had sex in a car

It is gorgeous. Turquoise waters. 

Beautiful Maltese cove I visited with my Maltese lover

I meet my Maltese lover on Tinder, though I also see him on OKCupid. On arriving to the island I am enamored with the men. Some strange mixture of so many cultures, dwarfed by generations of island living. They are dark-skinned and Mediterranean and small-minded and passionate. 

And they are short. Because freshwater, remember?

I turn on my dating profiles even though I am leaving in days.

The island whispers to me. Is it mystical. It is powerful. 

Night view of Maltese fort

“Let me have you.”

My Maltese lover has a heart-shaped face, thick long, brown dreadlocks framed in dark brown curls too short to have locked into the rest, and large green eyes ringed in brown and set forward in his head. He is an exotic, deeply handsome, gorgeous-faced human being, off the charts when it comes to physical beauty, but he doesn’t quite know or embody it, and perhaps these things are subjective.

I still have my own dreads, and whisper to myself as I do when I see someone delicious with ropey locks…

“I’d tie my hair to his…”

My Maltese lover is a decade younger than I am. On our first date we talk for hours over food. He is into psychedelics and Ayahuasca and consciousness and growth. His Maltese accent is hypnotizing and his voice is deep and beautiful. He is a marvelous, moody, creature and we have so much in common, and at the same time – so much not. Different paths to the same destination.

Maltese street and buildings

He talks of quitting smoking weed and I talk of how my lifestyle keeps me sober, but when I am not, I get pulled into overuse as well. And then we smoke a joint, in his car, that he kindly rolls for me the USAmerican way; without tobacco.

After the date we hug goodbye and I leave, because it’s the night before I fly out and because I can’t foresee sex in a car. I want him badly, but say nothing.

And then we text…

“At the end I also was feeling to inclination to get to know you through your kiss as well, but was not sure if it was a good idea or not …” On reading this I blush, and my heart starts to race.

“It was probably a great idea. But for some reason we both held back.”

“… what to do?”

“I’m torn between saying that you should come kiss me right now and saying that I’m sure I will see you again, because whatever I want happens and it’s not hard for me to visit here again. Both are true. I know I would keep you up all night and both of us can’t do that tonight. Or maybe that’s just a story…” I wonder.

“Maybe it is just a maybe. How do u think u can keep me up all night? Mind u, half night u succeeded already.” he asks.

“You’re so incredibly hot. I’m curious about you and feel like you’re a deep well. Even if it was just kissing I could do it for hours, but I’m certain it wouldn’t stop there. I’d want to taste every inch of you. We’d end up having sex in a car. You’d have to tell me no pretty firmly.” I admit.

“Ur making it so tempting for me to come for those kisses Zoe….”

“Maybe it’s time for our second date then?”

“U think?” he asks.

“Yes please.” 

And at that, my Maltese lover picks me up again, not 30 minutes after he dropped me off, for our “second date”. We drive in silence to the edge of the water, some place he knows on a point with a parking space view of sloshing waves in every direction, where it looks like we may roll off into the sea. We have sex in a car.

Tilted nighttime photo of lights over water

And to the sounds of water on rock, I kiss him. 

And the door to his soul swings open, and his depth reveals itself. There is so much more to him than his mind can embody. 

He is as deep as the ocean, and as hard as the rock.

Kissing. It surprises me, when I kiss him, how sensual he is. At first I imagine in mistrust that he’s reading me and just giving me what I want, that he’s a shapeshifter, but then as we deepen into breathing into each other I feel what he wants is what I want. Electric shocks slide down my thighs.

Sex in a Car

Kissing in his car. In Malta, they drive on the left, and so I am in the seat that is most familiar to me as the driver’s side, but in this case it is the passenger seat. And he is on top of me, and I am so, so glad for his short stature in this moment that allows us to steam these windows up in this standard size sedan.

“Can I tie my hair to yours?” I ask him, in a pause from our frenzy. 

“Sure.” he shrugs. I do. Just to have actually done it. In 17 years of dreadlocks, it’s the only time I ever have a lover who also has them.

We have a safer sex conversation. I learn he hasn’t made love to anyone in three years. I wonder if his last was sex in a car.

This exotic yet familiar Maltese lover opens to me and I feel his deep, supportive vibe wrap around me even when his arms are not. Our connection is romantic, passionate, intense but not fierce.

I’m scared we won’t be able to do it in the car, but he’s not.

He looks me in the eyes with question marks as he pulls on my leggings, as I nod he pulls them over my hips and also pulls the lever on my seat and pushes it back as far as it will go, and as well the other lever so I am lying back half naked as he kneels in the footwell, grinning, admiring my naked, dripping, cunt.

And then, with broad, soft strokes and no hesitation he is lapping me, and I am melting into the seat, soft and wet, his spit and my juices pooling under me. 

He is grinning into me, slowly unfolding all the joy he has in giving me pleasure into my clit. Soft, juicy licking with no friction or break in contact, sensual circles. He settles and deepens into it, and I can tell he is loving every moment. 

It is exquisite, he is one of the best givers of oral pleasure I have ever encountered. He knows without me telling him to keep going but move his focus after I come the first time, for the second time he slides one finger just a knuckle into me, teasing me just at the entrance…

…and I am screaming as I come effortlessly for the third time, handprints on the window, gripping his hair.

“I want you inside me.” I say, surprised at my own intensity. 

He isn’t. 

He has a condom ready before I know it he is sliding into me, moving against me. Rocking me to the rhythm of the sea that pools itself around this tiny rock that humans have called home for 8000 years. 

In his eyes I see islands.

“I want to be here, inside you.” he says, fucking me, holding me. 

I ask him to speak to me in Maltese and he does, while he fucks me, in short, swift strokes. The sight of him over me and the sounds of the language and the surf penetrate me to the core, the place and the person so special. 

View of green field in foreground, blue Mediterranean in background, fluffy white clouds in blue sky

This is another of those stories that is best if I end it here, when it is still a story about sex in a car.

Malta remains in a sweet and loving place in my heart as does my Maltese lover, but I’m in no hurry to see either of them again.


Sex in a car. Where else have I had sex?

Plane Sex.


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6 replies on “Maltese Lover”

Thank you so much Sandra! I’m just getting started so comments like these make my whole week. I’m really glad you enjoy my writing! Please do subscribe to the post alert (at bottom of site), all I ever send is a digest of posts, twice a month. 🙂

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