Today, it begins when your hand cups my cheek, gently, firmly, an offering of steady warmth. I’m on my knees; you stand in front of me. I close my eyes as I lean into your palm, like a cat saying hello, a moment of tenderness and gratitude, a sigh, and that little push that says, Yes.
Another quiet breath or two, and your thumb shifts slightly and grazes my lips, rests lightly across them. Pauses. My lips part, just a bit, just enough for both of us to notice. I never quite know whether you dragged my lips apart or whether I let them fall open, but I know both of us were a part of this. It’s the same opening that happens to my thighs when they are simultaneously pushed apart and falling open because you want an entrance and I want to create one for you.
Something between us shifts along with this opening. This is a different kind of yes now, a dash more demanding on your part, a drop more yielding on mine.
I breathe out, warm, damp air onto your skin, and my tongue starts rising inside my mouth, thick, slow, like a languid snake drawn towards the evening sun.
Your thumb stays across my lips, you add an ounce of weight, the slightest hint of pinning me down, and my next breath comes with a clenching of my stomach, as if my body wants to jerk towards you. Just for an instant, though, because right now, the distance between us is still delicious, filled to the brim with maybe. My mind flashes to the line, “I see you shiver with antici…pation,” and the way this movie scene’s reaction shot perfectly captures this eager, full-body wanting, waiting, straining, and the shuddering release once the maybe has finally turned into a yes.
But we’re not there, not in that moment. We’re here, still within maybe. It’s a good place to be. For now.
I swallow the tide that has swelled in my mouth.
My tongue is still rising and curling inside my mouth, bumping against my front teeth, trying to find the way towards your skin, until I open my jaw just a little bit wider and the wet tip of my tongue connects with your thumb. It could almost be accidental.
How will you respond? I never know. I never know whether I’ll end up feeling embarrassed for licking your finger like that. I never know if you’ll end up feeling awkward, holding your hand up to my face like that, as if your finger is some kind of treat that you’re not sure I’ll want. Even though we have done this before, I’m never sure where this will go. I don’t think you are.
I just know that I’m suddenly thinking that you might be thinking— …because I know that I am thinking— …and wouldn’t it be great if we were indeed thinking the same thing? Wanting the same thing?
Today, your response to it, another small shift, tells me that my tongue is indeed welcome on your skin, that this is not embarrassing. So I become bolder and lick that skin again, a little more of it, revealing once and for all that this is not an accident.
It is a question, a challenge, an offer. Are we thinking the same thing? Do you trust me? Do you want this?
I look up into your eyes to let you see the possibility in my gaze, let you see my willingness, my desire, my own vulnerability. And because I don’t want to miss any nuance of your response, whatever it may be today.
We are in a liminal space now, the space between here and there, between this and that, between yes and no, not quite sure yet where we’ll go. This is a fragile, tricky place. This could still fall flat. This could still become embarrassing and awkward and a fundamental misunderstanding.
Sometimes at this point, I wish for the security of words (as illusory as it is), to make this all less ambiguous, more defined. However, I strongly believe that this is a time where words would extinguish the magic that could arise. And sustained ambiguity is pretty much what this particular magic is all about. This is the risk we take. To misread, mismatch, miss. Or to ignite this into a profound source of heat and mutual recognition.
So I don’t say anything at this point and hope you won’t, either. Not now. Not yet. Talk is for other times (and we do talk, then).
This time is for the way we reach an understanding of what is happening here without spelling it out.
Your thumb presses into my lips a bit harder in response to the touch of my tongue. Or your eyes unlock another level of their depth for me to see into. Or you growl a little, all the way back in your throat. Or your other hand grabs me tighter wherever it is holding me. Or your thighs become firmer against my shoulder. You don’t say anything, though. Your first reaction is never in words.
Along with it, yet another shift happens. It is tangible in the air between us, like a sudden change of weather, like a spell that has been cast, but I never know what ultimately caused it. It doesn’t feel like there was a conscious decision by either of us, just a realization of something that has already happened in both of us, simultaneously.
All there is to do is acknowledge that this shift has indeed happened.
So I slowly lick the whole length of your skin, upwards from the root, covering as much of its surface with my wet tongue as I can, and then I take your whole cock into my mouth.
I probably moan at this point. Because that first moment of enclosure is always significant. I never take for granted that any of this happens; it’s always remarkable to accept a part of you inside a part of me, to be touched on the inside of my body. A relief from being so separate so much of the time.
A small, distant part of me is aware that outside observers would likely still think that I’m sucking your thumb, but a bigger and more present part of me knows that this anatomical reality had ceased to be the relevant truth here. I know I’m sucking your cock. You know I’m sucking your cock. And I know that you know that I know, and you know that I know that you know. It sounds really complicated and philosophical and abstract when I think about it. But in this moment, it really is quite simple: your hard cock is in my soft, wet, hot mouth.
And so I suck your cock, let it slide in and out between my lips. I stroke its underside with a wide tongue, I swirl around its tip, exploring how we fit together today, paying attention to what you like now, and trying to know what you want next.
Maybe there’s a moment where a bit of the factual anatomy blurs into the truth of this cock-sucking when you grab my chin with the other fingers of the same hand, to pull me closer or to hold me in place as you fuck my mouth. But for me it all makes perfect sense, nothing is disturbed by these coexisting realities, all is smooth. And hot. It’s all simply a part of how bodies are awesome and how I like being with yours. And you see me, too, simple in my complex desire for you and at home in the permanently liminal lands of your embodied gender.
My own body exists only on the edge of my awareness. Maybe I’m straining to keep up a challenging position so the smoothness of my mouth on your cock isn’t disturbed. Maybe I’m all lips and tongue and teeth and open wetness; maybe there’s thick drool pouring forth from the depths of my throat when I let your cock slide in as far as it can go, touching me on the edge of gagging, just this side of too much, and then try for a bit more. Maybe I’m trembling, because fuck, this is intensely hot. Maybe there’s a faint awareness of a warm, wet mess between my legs, where specific body parts flow together into melting softness. Or maybe there’s a sharp sense of clit straining forward, yearning to be touched, not right now, but soon, soon. Please.
Most of my attention, however, is focused on sucking your cock, infinite repetitions of favorite rhythms by now, with only small variations here and there. All it really needs at this point are the simple basics. Suck, cock, wet, hot, fuck, yes. Maybe these are the words you say to me. Maybe they just run on a silent loop in the leftovers of my brain. Maybe distinct words have ceased to exist altogether and there are only moans and grunts and growls, hard breaths, and the slick sounds of my wetness sliding around your hard length. I can get lost in this, all sense of time falling away as everything that matters anymore is your cock, my mouth, and the dance between us. You push, I yield. You rest, I move. You set the speed, the rhythm, and I adapt my body to your signals, follow your lead.
And there are your sounds to listen to, small ones, but from deep within, that reverberate within me. There’s the way your whole body becomes ever more hard and still and then, eventually, erupts into this sequence of delicious shudders. Which always makes me feel honored and flushed and a little bit proud because I got to do this to you, for you, with you.
And maybe that is where it ends today. Or maybe it doesn’t. We’ll see.
The original #Kinktober prompt for today was “deep-throating,” but I wanted to share this instead.
Because there are many kinds of cocks in my queer reality. Some of them are fingers most of the time, some double as needles or whips, others are made from silicone and are never anything but a cock; some of them are rather small and pulse with blood between my partners’ legs, others are big and smooth and cool (at least at first) and grow from wherever they want; some are made from nothing but hot air, and those can be the ones I feel most deeply. And all of them are amazing and deserve a love letter like this.
I suppose I could say more, about they way gender works in shared queerness, about how we believe things into existence until they are a solid truth, about the specific vulnerabilities involved in this specific act for each of the participants, about the permanent liminality of it all. Not today, though. Not here. Because this is for feeling, not for analyzing. This is my queer gaze, untranslated.
(If you are the one person who has seen an earlier version of this text elsewhere, thank you for asking me to write about this. Please keep my identity to yourself, though. And perhaps let me know that you’ve found this blog?)
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