Sex.com Gossip
A World without Cum on My Face
I don’t want to live in a world where a man won’t cum on my face. I
know that sounds a bit absurd, but really this is an issue I’ve been
faced with (no pun intended) time and time again. Perhaps it’s because
I’m a bit of a pervert, or perhaps because I’ve been dating
particularly unadventurous men, but I’ve suddenly found myself alone in
my desire for freaky sex. These last few boyfriends won’t spank my ass
(at least they won’t do it hard enough), tie me up, choke me or call me
their dirty little whore. And they certainly won’t blow their load on
my face. And this makes me sad.
Have I been so twisted by my last 10 years in the porn industry that
I find myself scaring the kind of men I like to date? I’ve always
sought guys outside of the adult industry, simply to get away from the
incestuous nature of dating people in my line of work. (The problem
with dating people in porn is that they’ve already dated everyone else
in porn, so you all end up as one big semen-swapping family. No
thanks.) The problem seems to be that I want a normal guy who hasn’t
contracted every STD in the book, but in bed I want the kind of sex
that I film for my website. But it doesn’t seem to be working that way
for me.
On the other side of the coin, I have been in a relationship where
the sex was perhaps a little too exciting, a little too freaky. I dated
a Dom briefly and found myself in an S&M relationship that lasted
about three months. Though it was some of the best sex I’d ever had, it
became a bit too much. He pushed me to my limits and tried to get me to
go even further, into territory I was uncomfortable with. Every sex act
involved bondage, whipping, or at least some kind of rough play. We
couldn’t even have lazy Sunday morning sex without him slapping my face
a few times. I found that I longed for some simple, vanilla sex at
times. I also thought about our future and what would happen if we were
to get married and have children. Would he continue tying me up to his
play horse and flogging me when I was in my 40s with two young children
sleeping downstairs? It was a future I couldn’t imagine.
But I also can’t imagine a future without some of that deviant sex I
covet. If you really want to break the cum-in-the-face thing down to
semantics, consider this: My face is where I wear all my expressions,
where I convey my emotions, and if we’re dating, my love for you. Your cum is a cocktail of your sperm, that biological soup that carries your
genetic makeup. It’s really the essence of you: your DNA and your
ability to create life. To release your seed onto my face is really an
act of love: your life-giving fluid all over my smiling visage. If
that’s not romantic, I don’t know what is.
Sounds good, right? I certainly convinced myself of the valor of my
blow-your-load-in-my-face pursuit, and I carried on through the
precarious dating world, hopeful in finding my knight in shining armor
brandishing his semen-spurting sword. And on a lovely sunny afternoon,
I found him.
In passing, I mentioned to him this very article I was working on
and its subject matter. He must’ve been listening, because the very
first night we had sex he came on my face. As I lay there in bliss,
waiting for him to return from the bathroom with a warm washcloth, I
realized that my eye was starting to sting. Though I’d closed my eyes
at the moment of ecstasy, that tricky liquid seeped through my lashes,
past my contacts, and into my eye. I spent the rest of the evening with
a throbbing right eye and a mental note to reevaluate my romantic
notions about the whole idea. After all, it’s all fun and games until
someone loses an eye.