I Wrote Some Poetry About Sex

A close-up of some rope marks on a white person's (my) torso alongside a cute little mole, because choosing an image to represent the abstract concept of poetry about sex

Hey, folks! I’ve been having a really rough time with my mental health, and writing whole blog posts is a bit beyond me at the moment. However, apparently writing poetry (mostly while stoned) is not beyond me, so I wrote some poetry about sex. I’m really self-conscious about my poetry – even, like, the ridiculous poem I wrote about Christmas – so please be kind about it. And if poetry isn’t your thing, don’t worry, because I do have a few blog post ideas up my sleeve and I might one day soon have enough executive function to actually write and publish them.


how do you write poetry about people having sex?

 

how do you make magical someone 

(or maybe more than one someone) 

mashing their body against yours – 

 

or how do you speak that magic to strangers, 

without letting some of it be stolen by the breeze 

impossible to translate in its sweetness

 

how do you say, convincingly,

that even as the hot-wax-sting bit your skin

the flame on the candle was beautiful

 

or that feeling fingers stretch your cunt

felt so good, felt so fucking good

that when you came, you felt God 

 

how do you explain, fully,

that you bit her because you love her –

and she loves you in part because you bit her 

 

and that your bruises are like love notes

left liberally across your flesh

along with licks and kisses 

 

how can you replicate in words the dark glow of the dungeon

where you made half your closest friends

and where you once got choked half-unconscious

 

or the sound of cum hitting your skin, the heat of it

the heat of other people’s holes around your fingers

and the way their muscles tighten to hold your hand

 

how do you talk beautifully about the twitch of a dick in your mouth

the texture of someone’s scrotum under your tongue

and the melody of moans you can elicit with your lips

 

how do you bottle the lightning that arcs between you?

how do you capture the magic and the mess?

how do you write poetry about people having sex?

Cum: The Devil Is In The Details

Selfie taken by Morgan where the top half of xir face is cut off and xir cleavage is covered in a lube which looks a lot like cum

Welcome to my new miniseries, The Devil Is In The Details, where I get unreasonably in-depth about certain aspects of sex or kink that fascinate me! This week, I’ll be talking about cum…


I have a complicated relationship with cum.

In theory, I love it. I fantasise about all the different ways I can interact with it – about being spitroasted and having cum squirt into my mouth and my cunt simultaneously; about being splattered with it in unrealistic quantities by one or more parties; about going for a walk straight after being creampied and feeling it ooze through the fabric of my pants and start to dribble down my leg. In all of these fantasies, I am enthusiastic about it, because in all of these fantasies, it isn’t cum-textured.

I might be alone in this, but I find there’s a particular squeakiness to cum on skin that gets my autistic hackles up somethin’ fierce. It’s akin to the creak of teeth against fabric – something I also can’t stand – and it turns my stomach every time I experience it. I love the sensation of being covered in or filled with something thick and wet and hot – but I can’t stand it on my skin for any longer than a few long, sexy moments. I can cope with it in my cunt, as long as I don’t have to touch my cunt, or have it touched by anyone else. I do, however, like the sensation of it dribbling out of my cunt, especially if it’s then caught up by fingers and fed to me (be they my own fingers or someone else’s).

The ideal place to put your cum, though, is my mouth. I love the taste of it – the way that some notes of it differ between each person while the bass line of human-tasting tanginess remains the same. (Forgive the weird music analogy – I have a lot of synaesthesia around tastes, smells and sounds.) I have no objections to the feel of the actual substance in my mouth, and I relish the moment that it hits my tongue, whether it be sucked out of someone and pulsing gently towards the back of my throat or shot hard into my mouth as a reward for someone’s handiwork – be it me, the person who’s coming, or a third party. I love letting it drip off my lower lip as I stare, dumbstruck by lust, at the person who put it there, but I also love dutifully swallowing all of it, including those last few drops that can be squeezed out at the end of an orgasm.

The other thing I love about cum is this: it’s tangible, physical proof of a job well done. It’s hard to argue that I’m not sexy or that I’m bad at sex when somebody has just ejaculated inside or all over me. Sometimes, in role play, I act as though I dislike or am indifferent to my partner’s cum, and that it only exists as a necessary byproduct of my obedience when ordered to suck them off or lay still for them – but it’s definitely acting. I definitely want the cum. I’m therefore far more comfortable in the role of desperate slut, whose sexual greed knows no bounds and who can only think about getting their holes filled, getting to come and getting covered in and filled with the cum of another person (or other people, plural) – which, to be honest, is kind of the case for me a lot of the time anyway. If you catch me daydreaming, there’s a solid 60% chance that you’ve caught me thinking about the tingle at the back of my tongue that cum can sometimes give me, or the way a dick looks when it’s twitching and spraying cum everywhere, or any other thing related to cum and how much I love it.

Who knows; you might even have caught me having that one recurring fantasy where I jerk someone off in the shower and then lick their cum off the tiled wall.


The pandemic and subsequent semi-lockdown that’s going on right now means that I’ve lost a lot of work opportunities (because every other fucker at my agency is snagging jobs before I can). If you also want to give me a birthday present four months early, consider buying me a coffee or commissioning transcripts or captions from me!