Girl on the Net

When I was young – maybe ten or eleven – one of my Mum’s friends gave her an entire display box of Mars bars to say thanks for a favour she’d done. Incredible, right? In case you aren’t familiar with them, Mars bars are tasty sticks of nougat with a layer of chewy caramel on top, enrobed in delicious milk chocolate. And thanks to my Mum’s friend, our family now owned an entire box of them! What?!

We were very poor back then and neither I, nor my siblings, had ever seen such a vast quantity of chocolate in our entire lives. For a week or so after the box arrived, each of us was allowed one Mars bar a day. We could eat it whenever we liked – take it to school for lunch if we wanted to, have a treat when we came home, or (as I did) savour it after dinner, seeing how long we could make it last while watching Eastenders. One whole Mars bar a day, each! There was no catch to this arrangement – we didn’t have to do chores to get it or save up our pocket money and go to the corner shop. We just owned it. We could eat it whenever we liked! We, who had been poor, were suddenly absurdly rich in Mars bars. Like royalty. Like GODS.

Those Mars bars taught me a lesson that I’ve carried with me through the rest of my life. No matter what else happened over the coming decades, I would try to never take abundance for granted – I would trip through life being grateful for what I had, because it may not last forever. I would always appreciate bounty when I had it in my grasp.

Apologies for the abrupt change in tone, but now we’re going to talk about spunk.

Bareback me, baby

I do not get nearly enough spunk these days. There’s a cum-drought in my life. This is not the fault of any of the men who are kind enough to fuck me, it’s simply the way the world works. If you’re shagging a few different people, safety comes into play, so you can’t just go greedily hoovering all their spaff into your ravenous cunt like no one’s ever heard of an STI.

Spunk, even in abundance, isn’t something that I take especially lightly. When I was in a relationship where all my sex was bareback, and my partner asked where I wanted him to dump his cum, I treated that question with the reverence it deserved. I enjoyed choosing where I would take it (usually in my cunt or my mouth, but sometimes elsewhere too like pumped hard up against my ass so it drizzled down the crack as I lay in the sticky afterglow) and I was always grateful to receive it – savouring it like those daily Mars bars when they were my abundant treat.

Since I became single, not only am I even more grateful for the spunk I might receive, I’m also thirsting for spunk that I don’t yet know is mine. Laying claim to this or that load like a friend eyeing up your portion of cheesy chips in the pub. Thinking ‘is it cheeky if I ask…?’ and wondering whether a raised eyebrow will suffice or whether I’m hungry enough to beg.

For a brief-yet-blissful period of time, I was able to harvest my toyboy’s spunk on a semi-regular basis. The end of No Nut November, naturally, called for something better than a condom-clad conclusion, so we both got tested and made the most of the epic spunk-torrents that a month’s worth of abstinence brought forth. And later, thanks to some supplements designed to increase his semen volume which absolutely worked a fucking treat, I could enjoy being pumped full of cum without the hassle of a month-long build up in advance. Fountains, oceans, torrents, geyzers of jizz. Not wishing to objectify him too much (we also have a lovely time together and he is a very nice boy) but to put it bluntly: this man was my display box of Mars bars. And I was very very grateful.

But I can’t bareback him any more and I am super fucking sad about it.

Are you allowed to cry over unspilled dick milk?

If he’d dumped me, or been mean to me, or cancelled three dates in a row because I’d fallen down his priority list, I’d feel justified in crying on friends’ shoulders as I processed some teenage-emo feelings. But there’s something almost obscene about weeping on pals because my spunk pipeline’s been cut off. We have cultural scripts surrounding emotional loss, but few about the sadness of missing out on a specific Grubby Sex Thing. You don’t tend to see conversations on TV and in books and films about how precious spunk – fresh spunk, bareback spunk – is to those of us who love it. You’re allowed to mourn when your heart gets hollowed out, but not when what’s empty is your cunt.

I feel almost ashamed of myself for being so upset about not getting spaffed in. It seems disproportionate and abnormal. Part and parcel of being ethically shaggy is embracing safer sex practices – being Cool With Condoms and all that. And I am! I am so Cool With Condoms! I have a selection of different sizes and types and everything! I’m down with safer sex and I won’t ever bareback more than one person at a time (or anyone who is barebacking people besides me). But being Cool With Condoms also means that I’m not allowed to whine like a hungry puppy if I don’t get to ingest all the jizz. It means not sighing wistfully when yet another precious load of cum gets bagged up like last night’s leftovers and chucked in the nearest bin.

Pretty please will you consider my application to be bareback-fucked and spunked in?

As someone who’s more used to monogamy than multiple-partner stuff, I’m not really ready to have this conversation with men (and obviously not all men have dicks and not all men produce jizz but all the men I am currently fucking do). I won’t just ask outright, because there’ll be other people they are shagging who might have priority over me when it comes to spunk distribution. People they see more often, or fancy more, or who have already laid claim to it. If the answer is ‘I can’t bareback you, GOTN, because you’re geographically inconvenient and I only see you once in a blue moon’ I can live with that, but if it’s ‘sorry, there’s someone far better to spunk in’ then I will have to dig a hole in which to bury myself forever. When you balance your fragile self-worth on the precarious knife-edge that is ‘men deigning to use you as a cum-dumpster’, you probably shouldn’t go barreling into situations which invite men to refuse you the honour of being promoted to cum-dumpster status. In short: if a ‘no’ will shatter you, do not fucking ask.

But then on the other hand… maybe my desperation for spunk should be enough to nudge me into asking. Be bold, GOTN! Perhaps people just don’t realise how desirable their spunk is. Maybe no one else has laid claim to this precious bounty and this or that dude is just waiting for someone to beg for it. In that case, I should be the one who begs – right? The person who says ‘obviously I’m Cool With Condoms, but I’m not barebacking anyone else so if you’re not either, and you’re up for it, I’d really love your spunk.’ Perhaps other people don’t care as much as I do, after all. I find it hard to imagine that anyone could want spunk more than me. ‘As much as’, for sure, but not ‘more than’. Maybe someone’s other shags could take or leave that precious white sticky gold, or they aren’t on other contraception, so they don’t much mind if this thirsty bitch swoops in and guzzles it down. But what exactly am I gonna say?

I’m just a girl, standing in front of a selection of guys, asking at least one of them if he has a bareback slot in his fuck-rotation so he can gift her an epic load of spunk. (?)

And then… THEN… what if they all say no? Processing the emotional turmoil caused by simply typing that sentence will take a minimum of six months’ of therapy. Far far better not to ask. This blog post, incidentally, does not constitute me ‘asking.’ Men I fuck know that if I want to ask something, I will say it directly to them rather than writing a blog about it. They also know that in the meantime I have a job to do, and sometimes that job requires laying bare all the weird private thoughts that normal people keep inside their heads. Dating me must be a nightmare and frankly it’s a miracle that anyone’s willing to sling one up me in the first place. But I digress.

I could get back on The Apps to find a bareback-buddy, I guess. Exhausted though I am by the very thought of doing it, this is almost certainly the solution I’ll resort to eventually. But if I’m going to be ethical about it, I should actively look for someone who is also ethically nonmonogamous, and those people all either have bareback partners already or are likely to find one who is more worthy of their spunk than I am, thus knocking me back to square one. I’m not going to tell someone that if they bareback me they’re never allowed to swap out for someone new, or that they can’t go condomless with other people on a whim: it’s their body and they get to choose what they do with it. But being surprise-replaced will absolutely destroy me and I hate to risk it: see above references to self worth/being a jizz receptacle/If Something Will Shatter You, Do Not Fucking Ask.

Perhaps, as a final resort, I could accept one of the inevitable ‘I volunteer as tribute!’ replies that this blog post will receive. Because the sort of people who say that, in total ignorance of the safety issues involved in letting strangers spunk uncontrollably into my cunt off the back of no more than a blog post? These are exactly the people I want to invite into my life.

GIVE! ME! YOUR! SPUNK!

I’m making light of this like it’s funny so I’m sure some of you will think this post is purely comic, but I’m actually just throwing jokes in because I feel like it might be taboo to say this in earnest. I mean it though, believe me: I have wept about this. More than once. Jizz matters! It matters to me! It matters so fucking much! I have not run any significant tests on how it affects my outlook on life, though I’m tempted to keep a mood diary to log the change when I finally find a bareback buddy, but… yeah I’m gonna say it… I am actually going to say it… I genuinely believe I’m a happier person when I get spunked in on a regular basis.

I’m certainly a much grumpier person when I have to listen to dudes telling me that condoms have their downsides. You lose sensation, you say? You find them annoying to put on? Cry me a river, sweetheart, at least you get to bareback spunk in someone’s mouth every once in a while! That must be a bit of consolation, surely? Certainly more satisfying than any of the alternatives I can think of to getting my cunt thoroughly spaffed in. Please don’t gorge on ten Mars bars and tell me you’re still peckish while I’m licking the chocolate-smears off a week-old wrapper that I had to dig out of the bin.

Sorry, I don’t mean to get tetchy. I’m not angry with any of you, I’m angry with the world. The world which means I won’t get the chance to scoff all the Mars bars until I’ve earned a place at the top of someone’s jizz hierarchy. And sure, when I’m missing bareback spunk there are other things I can do, like suck people off. I can ask them to cum on my tits or face. I can ask them to describe in exquisite detail exactly how hard they jizzed the other night when they were wanking. Close my eyes and picture the way the tip of their cock shot thick ropes of it up their stomach and chest. But you know what I’m going to say here, right? It isn’t the fucking same.

It’s not even close. It’s a thousand-word essay about the scent of fresh rain that you read when you’re parched in the desert. A picture of a Mars bar instead of the actual thing. Soft cocks pressed against the flesh of your bum when you need to ride one that’s marble-hard and throbbing.

Now that spunk is absent (or nearly absent) from my life, I thirst for it so utterly that I worry I’ll eventually go mad with pure want. I fantasise and obsess over jizz. The taste of it. The smell of it. And above all… oh above ALL… so far above all that it can only be seen with NASA’s Webb telescope… I dream of the forbidden, unattainable sensation of someone pumping a huge load of spunk right to the back of my cunt.

I’m a sad plant, wilting on a windowsill, desperate for a few drops of water. My leaves are drooping and I’m dry and crispy and all I need is for someone to take pity on my withered, miserable ass and please oh god please… just make it fucking rain.

Note before you comment: this isn’t a problem I need your help to solve. I’ve got it in hand, ta. But sex blogging is my job, and if I never posted about problems until I’d already solved them, you’d miss out on extremely high-quality jizz-thirsty content like this.