Love Song to Oral Sex: An Essay

For some women, the act of kneeling before a man's raging erection is only the act of a sex slave. I do not believe so. I have always enjoyed performing oral sex on a man and it is, by far, one of my favorite sexual activities. Love needn't be involved. Love is not necessary. It is, in my view, one the nastiest, most beautiful things a woman can do for a man. Some find it degrading, and I can certainly understand that point of view, but I do not agree.

It's an extremely intimate act, more so than intercourse itself. The mouth is an intensely erotic organ, the way it speaks and giggles and gurgles and slurps in amorous, passionate activities that take place in between the heated sheets at midnight.

I remember when I was quite a bit younger, in my twenties or so, my mother and I were talking of sex in the slightly jilted way that women sometimes do. She said, with much bitterness and resentment, that she "gets on her knees for no one." At the time, I wondered why I didn't possess her strong pride and then I realized the truth: I didn't want to.

I needn't have self-respect or pride because, while those things are lovely to hold onto, they do not keep you warm on a cold winter's night. They're not fun and moist vice can be a wonderful way to pass the inertia that life can sometimes dole out; a moment that was once platonic can turn sexual with a bit of luck, alcohol, and raging hormones.

When on my knees before a man, there is not much that I don't want to experience or relive. To me, handing out blowjobs like little candies never gets old: it always seems to hold the same thrill since the first time I did it: the wetness upon the lips; the hard erection inside of my mouth, shrouded by a soft layer of skin. The thick, heavy balls that stop at my chin, so full of the man's desire and of which I have always hungered and hankered for. I long for the seed of sperm inside of my taut stomach only to grow a garden of passion there.

But, thus far in this essay, I am almost making it sound as if it were some otherworldly, supernatural experience. And sometimes it is. But other times it has the seediness of the underground, the grit of the gutter, and the leaking glasses of beer in a pub. And that's cool. Aside from the most passionate of sucking and pulling into oneself, it holds the thrill of deepthroating, facefucking, facials, and swallowing. And these are all things I embrace with open arms (and open lips).

The type of deepthroating that I've experienced is nothing short of an orgasmic experience that can connect two people. It can be passionate, it can be rough, it can be brutal, but it's never dull. The extent of training a woman must do to open up her gag reflex and to, essentially, ignore it, is a skill that, once learned, can gather into one's corner even the most reluctant of lovers.

The head of the cock teases at the back of the throat, mingling with the uvula. The uvula hangs like a bell at the back of the throat, almost a hand of protest not to do this. The head of a cock doesn't slide down easily like that of a melted chocolate; it is rather a struggle, in fact. But it is a struggle that can be won by the efforts of the woman. Gagging and gurgling are always part of the routine, but once that velvet, precum-covered dick slides its way passed the resistance, all hell breaks loose.

Once that barrier is broken, there's not much that can't be done in terms of oral sex. The cock sliding in and out of the throat, making a home for itself there, possessing the woman, pushing into her one of the nastiest and seediest of sexual activities. By some men (and in certain positions), the outline of the man's beautiful cock can be found along the soft, feminine outline of the woman's throat: a red, velvet glove fitted especially for him. With the hormonal rages and slight sadism that this brings, it almost inevitably leads to facefucking.

To be fair, facefucking can be accomplished with or without deepthroating, though it is by far more brutal and more fun if facefucking is involved. As I write this paragraph, I can almost feel a pair of strong masculine hands on either side of my head, a big man above me pushing himself into me. There are times I want to be treated like a lady, but this is not one of them. Slipping in and withdrawing, back and forth, God, that pattern is so lustful in itself that, as I write this, my pussy is dampening. To dream of a cock tickling my tonsils is almost as good as experiencing it in real life. But it is not enough.

The man must cum. The profusion of his love can be one of the most wonderful things that a woman (and man!) can experience. It is white magic. It is a wand splayed into one thousand stars. The wish has been granted. But what to do with it all? That is the question.

They say facials are good for the skin, and I quite agree. I pose on my knees before him, eagerly awaiting the arrival of his ecstasy. In between squinted eyes, I look up at him: his hand is working furiously to get himself off. His chin is either tripled as he looks down upon me like a god would, or he is looking heavenwards, unable to bear the sight that is before him. My mouth is open, eagerly waiting for my prize like that of a baby bird in a nest, cheeping and chirping for what Mama has brought home from her hunt. Only this time I am waiting for Daddy.

And, finally the most glorious moment arrives: each thread of white, creamy rope defiles my face. It stains my skin, giving it a glorious glow and shine. I close my eyes in the process, but I can feel hotness on my face: some here, some there. The man -- though sweet -- is inaccurate in his aim. I don't care where you aim, I just want it on my body. I want to devour it through the infinite pores of my skin, having it seep into me the way a hot humidity does.

But facials are by no means necessary. To swallow a man's seed is an event that cannot be rivaled. I needn't close my eyes during this, for, with my lips wrapped around a man's hard tool, I can feel his strong, big fingers into my hair, hanging onto me as if I were a life preserver. I smile around his cock at the thought of this. My lips are stretched, my lipstick is staining his most intimate of skin. In all likelihood, he is moaning or whispering my name in mad thrusts of passion. I can feel my moistness dripping onto the carpet beneath me. At the time of his near-explosion, the lust is unrivaled: we are both working like sex maniacs to get him off. I am sucking as though I am nursing him, taking him in and out, head bobbing, working in a frenzy. And he too, pumps his big dick in and out of my mouth, in a quest for a desperate release.

And so, he cums, and it is a wonderful moment. Of all the sweat and whispered dirty talk, the ultimate has been accomplished. The woman has submitted herself completely to his ardor. We've given ourselves wholly to the man and it is, many times, without regret. I know for me personally, I needn't receive oral sex in order to give it. I love getting men off and I love it even more so when those efforts are accompanied with my mouth because then I receive the full benefit of taste and feel of that spurt of life that squirts itself either on my face or in my throat.

To call it a "blowjob" is an inaccurate name because it certainly is not a "job" for those who enjoy doing it. I don't consider it a job or a duty, I consider it one of the most delicious of all the pleasures that a woman and man can experience. Though, with the case of blowjobs, while the man is ultimately the one in physical power, it is the young lady kneeling before him that holds the power of the mental kind because both people realize he cannot cum without her permission; a realization that is unspoken but recognized in the recesses of the brain.

With this said, a man can easily bend to a woman's way the way she does for him. In the desperate grabs of passion, the woman, kneeling in submission, is his keeper. His orgasm depends on her and though women may complain about the habits of men, we certainly wouldn't alter that balance of power even if we could.