Mess Me Up

In the early spring of 2017, a friend from my hometown visited me in my unitown. I was dealing with Some Shit™ in a big way, so I had about five mixed drinks of steadily increasing strength while we predrank, then we got on a bus to a bar.

I was and am skinny and short, taking a hearty dose of antidepressant medication, and perpetually underfed and dehydrated. That night, I had eleven shots, and a couple more mixed drinks on top.

This is relevant because Drunk Morgan is a force to be reckoned with. They are, in essence, Sober Morgan minus the anxiety: they want all the same things with the exact same intensity, but they’re a lot less afraid of pursuing those things. In spring of 2017, I was enduring the slow and painful demise of a relationship with someone who was genuinely lovely, but who was always going to be incompatible with me – monogamous, uninclined towards lifestyle kink, probably frightened by the intensity of my feelings and maybe his own. So, in spring of 2017, every iteration of Morgan wanted to feel desirable.

Drunk Morgan didn’t want to dilly-dally about it.

I messaged a guy I’d fancied for literal years and laid all my cards on the table. Somewhere along the line my hometown friend managed to scoop me into a taxi and we both made it back to mine in one piece, still shy of 1am. When I woke up, Hungover Morgan found that Drunk Morgan had made plans to meet up with this guy I fancied that afternoon.

I was on the fence about shagging him for a number of reasons (lingering hope for the miraculous success of this doomed monogamous thing I was in, a somewhat alarming age gap, couldn’t go back to his place so we’d have to fuck quietly in my uni accommodation…) but reader, in the end, I did. I shagged him a lot. Lots of little things added up to lead me to this decision, but two things stick out in my memory:

  1. He called me “little miss” more than once. (When I told my girlfriend about this in a compersion-fuelled debriefing session, she made an odd sort of noise and said, “So you took him home immediately, right?”)
  2. He told me, after a bit of snogging and groping in the back row at the cinema, that when he nipped to the toilet before we went in search of food, a “huge glob” of precum dripped off him as soon as he took his dick out to pee.

The precum thing made me swoon. I actually said to him, somewhat petulantly, “You can’t say that. That’s illegal.” It was so. Hot.

That fling lasted only months before he broke up with me over WhatsApp in a distinctly unkind manner. I was heartbroken, naturally, and spent a number of days crying and insisting I would never date or fuck a guy again before simmering down a little and starting to unpick just why I was so devastated. The abrupt end of a lifestyle D/s dynamic was certainly a kick in the teeth, as was the seemingly inexplicable U-turn from “I’ll always be here to support you” to “You need too much support with your mental illness stuff and I don’t have the spoons.” I knew I could only sit with those feelings of abandonment and rejection until they subsided on their own, but something else kept nagging at me.

Yes, reader, it was the precum thing.

My thought process started with I miss the sex far too much, considering he was above-average at best and then broke my little heart. Then I asked myself why I missed the sex so much – what did I miss about it? Between the decidedly-taboo age gap, the frequency of the fucking and the precum thing, I realised that my focus was on how desired I had felt, not on the actual mechanics of the sex we were having. I didn’t miss the sex – I missed the evidence that someone wanted to have sex with me.

Once I arrived at that conclusion, I felt a whole lot less like an obsessive creep whenever his drips of precum crossed my mind, even if they did so while I was attempting to wank. I managed to incorporate hearty doses of precum into my sexual fantasies without incorporating my ex, aided by a slathering of lube on my vulva and the toy(s) I was using.

When I started seeing a penis-owner on the regz again (this time in a much more stable, well-negotiated D/s dynamic), I actually Googled something along the lines of “make more precum”, to see if there was a way I could encourage the production of the slick, clear fluid that produced such joy in me. One of the very first results was an article titled, “How To Deal With Your Boyfriend’s Excessive Precum”. (Bonus points for the cissexist assumption that a penis has to be attached to a male human, of course.) I literally felt my eyebrows rise in horror.

Deal with?

I confess, reader, I didn’t click on the link to find out whether the article simply said, “Eat it up, bitch!”, so it’s possible that the title was clickbait and the article was secretly in celebration of one of nature’s tastiest lubricants. Either way, the idea of “excessive” precum left me reeling. It was the first instance of shame-based “advice” that had surprised me in a while – maybe because I hadn’t come across many articles about ways that body parts commonly read as male or masculine are “wrong”, “gross” or otherwise undesirable, or maybe just because I can’t even comprehend someone disliking precum.

I like precum so much that I asked an ex to take me back because of it. I like precum so much that I Googled ways to create more of it. I like precum so much that I’ve written this ~1100 word blog post about how a cock dripping with its need for my attention turns me on like little else.

I like precum so much that I’ve used the word fourteen times so far within this piece (I think), so that if anybody else Googles a question about “excessive” precum, they will hopefully see that plenty of people are not only willing but excited to lap that shit up like it’s an Oreo-flavoured shot they’ve spilled all over the back of their hand.

I also like shots, and I might write about all the trouble they (and, by extension, Drunk Morgan) have gotten me into over the years.

One day.

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