Ode to a Blowjob
We can fight, we can stress about bills, taxes, that co-worker who talks a little too closely. But when we kiss and her hand goes almost directly to my cock, I know she has been waiting, wanting. For women are not like men, direct in desire, but direct in thought, pondering, scheming, rolling over the movements long before her hand undoes my zipper. She is mentally, if not physically wet long before our initial kiss.
“Let’s sit on the couch and watch something dumb,” is her way of saying, “It’s time to pleasure.”
She slides between my legs and when she pulls down my pants, I know that my scent fills her nose, a hearty man scent though washed, is that of perpetual sweat and warm, tarnished skin. I have seen her with other men, me the voyeur, her luxuriating in mustiness under their balls, licking, lapping, disregarding the hair while regarding its wiry masculinity.
Her nose comes close to the tip of my cock and her tongue touches the tip as if tasting a breeze, a snowflake. I can see her desire tip, and spill. She places all of me in her mouth, closing her eyes, accepting the penetration with a quiet, soulful release. Her breath comes hard upon her own saliva. Bubbles form, just below the head, but are immediately flattened by her lips, her throat, mouth, and head moving to enrapture the same penis that had consumed her thoughts only minutes ago. I am old enough to know that it is not my penis she desires, but the swollen flesh that violates her regularly. Her lips upon my penis is femininity gently conquering that which is sordid and vulgar, pulling from it an essence that is deeper and darker than passion, but a bitter, unyielding, omniscient male urge.
She looks up at me with those eyes, whites dotted by small black pupils, a lusty surveillance of my state. Have I submitted, she wonders, or am I somewhere else, in my head, lost to a river of diverging thought? My penis, the saliva coating her mouth, her occasional gag, her hair bunched in my hand, is aesthetically twisted, the act of perpetrator submitting and the submissive perpetrator, a rapturous dynamic that excites us in mind, then later, body. When I push myself deeper into her throat she freezes, stunned, and I become more engorged, for these are not roles, but a reflection of our basest wants and needs, and a release from the civilized reality that we endure every day.
Taste, I think. Taste and swallow me whole. My release is her vanquishment.
