Girl on the Net

When I’m feeling shitty, I like to suck cock. One of the most frustrating things for me about not having a live-in partner any more (if you discount the fact that, you know, I miss him terribly) is that there’s no easy-access dick to suck when I’m feeling unloveable and down.

I like to suck cock for the same reason I like to write silly poems with nice rhythms, or smash out ranty blog posts demolishing easy targets: those moments when the words trip easily from my fingers make me feel really good. Skilled. Like I know what the fuck I am doing.

It cheers me up to do something well.

His thighs tremble when I suck him, and I like that. I press my palms against them, almost like I’m holding him still. But I’m not trying to tame him or calm that tremble – in truth I’m hoping it will guide me. Noises and words are the best kind of feedback, and he throws a few of those in as well so I know that this part is working. And I press my palms to the flutter in his thighs, relishing the knowledge that I made him do that. I did. Fucking me.  

Don’t get me wrong: I would never claim to be a cocksucking maestro. Though my ego compels me to tell you that it’s the Sex Thing for which I receive the most spontaneous compliments, I wouldn’t ever tell you I have objective expertise in anything sexual. Sex is a deeply personal, subjective thing – that’s why universal Tricks To Blow Their Mind In Bed always miss the mark. Everyone likes to have their dick sucked in different ways, and although I’m very adaptable, my success with other dicks in the past doesn’t guarantee that the next one will respond quite as gratefully.

So I’m not telling you I’m amazing at sucking cock. I’m just telling you that – with the right cock, and a recipient who appreciates how I do it – sometimes I like to suck cock as self-care.

He’s touching himself, and the way he’s doing it is new to me. Very gentle grip, almost featherlike strokes, in a very specific place. Rhythmic and soft and mesmerising. I watch it for just long enough that it makes my mouth water, and when I ask if I can suck it he says yes. Of course. That’s why he was touching it in the first place, I think. But I never want to assume. I like sucking cock, but I won’t be presumptuous: sometimes a cigar’s just a cigar. And sometimes a man masturbating in my living room is just a man who wants to have a wank. The guy in question would laugh at the idea that I might have been unsure. He is charmingly free with compliments on how well I suck his cock. That’s the point. 

I’ve been feeling fairly down recently. Not in a way that means you should message and check in, just a low-level grumpiness caused by darkness and The World. It’s been here for the last two months or so, and it’s proving hard to shake. But it does fade sometimes. It shuffles into the background of my brain while I focus on something else.

There are three things guaranteed to nudge this feeling into the background:

1. Smashing out a new personal best on one of the cycle routes I ride to keep me happy. Wind behind me, playlist* on the money, my thighs powering me swiftly down well-known streets. I know how wide to take that turn and when these lights will change. I know when I’m approaching a set of drains or bumps that’ll slow me down, and exactly where to point my front tyre to sail right through the middle of them. It makes me feel good, cos I’m good at it.
   *Safety first: if you’re riding, especially in the city, you should be able to hear the cars around you. I use these awesome bone-conductive headphones, and never set my tunes so loud I cannot hear the traffic. Grab a pair if you like music and cycling, they’re brilliant. 
2. Writing something that flows neatly and satisfyingly from my fingers. Composing a blog post that comes easily to me, which is peppered with jokes or oozing horn or burning with fiery rage… I love that. Recently my writing mojo has been a little bit absent, but I did get that feeling with this piece on chocolate dick, and something else I wrote a couple of weeks ago which hasn’t yet been published. Basically, I like the flow of writing, when it works. It makes me feel good, cos I’m good at it.
3. Sucking cock. Ditto.

As I say, I don’t claim to be good at it for everyone, but I do know that there are some people who appreciate my dick-sucking skills in particular. That’s why, at these times, I suck dick as self care. I want to revel in the pride that comes when I feel like I’m truly good at something. The guy I’m thinking of when I write this post? He makes me feel very very good at it.

The tremble in his thighs ebbs and flows like I’m twisting a dial on his sensitivity. Only there’s no change in him here, it’s all me: I’m just running my tongue in this exact place, or sucking with exactly that pressure. I’ll build speed and intensity, press my palms against those trembles, then taper off for a softer break, purely for the joy of holding him exactly where I want him. I’m not trying to get him to come, but get him to whimper. That is the skill I want to show off, and that’s what makes this soothing to me as well as him. 

This isn’t sucking cock as obedience, or a blow job as release at the end of a hard day’s work: this is cocksucking as self-care. I’m not in it for his orgasm, I’m in it to show him my tricks. The difference between this blow job and others is that with this one I just want to hold him in the palm of my hand (or on the flat of my tongue) and keep him there, twisting and writhing and twitching while I play. Showing off my moves, and getting marks not for the pace at which I make them, but for the variety of the ones I managed to combine. Scored not on speed, but finesse. Like the difference between downhill skiing and a truly beautiful jump. Not the Grand National, but dressage. 

As I say, I’m down right now. And when I’m down I often struggle to fuck. It takes work to haul my brain into a place where I’m confident enough to tear off my clothes and get down to it. But when the light is dim and my mojo’s less-than-shiny, sucking eager cock can pick me up.

I can keep my clothes on and my hair tied back. Focus not on me but on whoever’s sprawled on my sofa. Resting my palms on the thighs of someone horny, mixing-and-matching tricks I know they like with the same certainty and confidence with which I carve up the well-known cycle routes of London. Building him up and up until he reaches a crescendo of pleasure, in the same way I’ll layer jokes upon rants upon profanity to lead a semi-decent blog post to a halfway shareable conclusion.

I do not claim to be good at sucking dick. But I know that I’m good at sucking this dick.

When I’d had my fill of being skilled and realised I was ready for more, I asked if I could climb aboard and ride him till I came. Those trembling thighs, that twisted expression of part-lust-part-agony as I rode him firmly and slowly – keeping him on the edge for as long as I could – that made me feel happy. It made me feel confident. Competent. It made me feel like an expert.

I’m not feeling great this week, my friends. But there’s comfort in cycling, or in writing something fierce. And there’s comfort, too, in thinking of this man. And how fun it is to suck his specific, eager cock.

I class it as self-care. A treat. And although it’s fun to do, and it makes me wet, those aren’t always the headline benefits. Right now I want to suck his cock because he makes me feel so good at it.