Isn’t the Bible meant to make people feel good about themselves?
What can make people feel better about themselves than sex?
Let’s take a random passage. Say, Luke 17:20–21. The Pharisees ask Jesus when the Kingdom of God is coming. And what does he tell them? He says, ‘the Kingdom of God is within’.
I’d say that’s pretty self-explanatory. No real mystery there. I’d say he could only be talking about one thing.
Come.
And what is that if not a synonym for God.
Here’s another thing I’m going to state for the record:
I’m a true believer. I worship come.
But I’m a relatively new convert to the cause. I wasn’t always this way. In fact, precisely the opposite.
If I think of the word ‘cum’, and visualize it, it shouldn’t be any great surprise why even the thought of letting a guy ‘cum’ anywhere near me, or on me, used to be one huge turn off. It’s just not sexy at all. It doesn’t speak to me of the transcendent rapture experienced during the human orgasm, whether female or male. It sounds like what’s left over when a man’s done using you. Or the used rubber you drop in the trash afterwards. So, to me, ‘cum’ was always something dirty and obscene. It disgusted me. I didn’t want to see it, I didn’t want to feel it and I definitely didn’t want to taste it.
Right out of high school, I had a boyfriend who was constantly trying to finish on my face. That was his thing and he wanted it be my thing too, so he’d have an excuse to do it whenever he chose to. One second we’d be fucking, the next I knew he’d pull out and would be scrabbling up my body, trying to straddle my face, like a puppy trying to paw at a door and then pouncing into its owner’s arms when it’s been left alone for too long. Except, he was just a pathetic boy who’d watched way too much porn and didn’t have the slightest clue how to please a real live girl. I’d bat him away, like a puppy that won’t stop humping your leg, and the closest he ever got was my belly. But even that didn’t feel right. Not the texture, the temperature. It just didn’t make me feel good inside. Just the idea of it made me feel sick to my stomach.
After him, I dated a college football player. All-star body and a face to match. But when the lights went out, so did our sex life. His personality was as non-existent as his imagination in the sack. I always tried to climax before him, because once he did, it just killed the mood for me. When he reached orgasm he would whine like a little boy on the verge of crying. I always wondered if he was on steroids and never could tell if he had any real desire to fuck me or was just faking it.
Then something changed. You could say I had a revelation, whether through the call of love, or lust, or maybe a combination of both. But I remember it vividly, as if it happened this morning.
It was the eighth time Jack and I had sex. And it felt so special. Jack was really the first guy who even made me feel comfortable being naked around him. I was on top, riding him, we kissed passionately, and just as he was about to come, he looked me right in the eyes and asked… he actually asked me if he could come in my mouth.
I panicked at just the thought of it, but was so overwhelmed with this new love-lust that all I could do, all I wanted to do, was smile and nod my approval and give my permission. He asked. I was in control. He cared to ask, and that alone made me want it.
From that time on, I lost all fear of the sticky substance associated with that dirty word. I was no longer even afraid of what it might taste like. I just wanted it. It turned me on. I loved it. I was fascinated by it. I craved it, just as I craved Jack’s tender arms wrapping themselves around me, his lips giving me soft, sweet kisses. Sex was just one big disappointment before I met Jack. I guess it was all down to finding the right person, the one who would open me up, show me the way and teach me how to find pleasure in sex.
You know that line by William Blake about ‘the world in a grain of sand’? Well, I can see the universe in a grain of Jack’s come. When I think of Jack’s come, I think of how it got there, how great the sex was and how I never wanted it to end. When I think of Jack’s come, he’s always with me and it’s like we’re never apart.
I like to feel his come. I like to feel it shoot into my mouth. I like when he shoots it into my hair and makes it thick and sticky and matted, the way you feel when you walk into a cobweb.
I like to tell him to come on my tits so I can smear it around in messy circles, the way a painter mixes paint on his palette. He is the paint. I am the painter and the canvas too. I like to paint with his come on my body so I can feel it dry, harden and contract, pinching the skin as it does. I like the way it flakes away in scales as I brush it. I like to hold a flake of his dried come on my finger and look at it the way you look at a snowflake, trying to discern the crystalline pattern of nature within.