MissCalico: blog

Inspired by my most popular ‘tweet’ to date, and Alexa’s question, “Why do you like it?” which defied answer in 140 characters or less.

PSA: Cock first. Choking second.

I love challenging sex, like deepthroating and facefucking, because my partner and I need to be incredibly tuned in to each other’s bodies. Often we can read the other better than ourselves. I don’t realize I’m on the edge of gagging until he lifts his hips, feeling me tense, and I grab a needed breath. And when I realize from the trembling in his thighs that he is going to come, I can swallow him deeper for that one last thrust.

When I welcome a cock into my throat, it’s because I can’t get him close enough. Sometimes when we’re fucking and he’s inched into my cunt, pushing as far as he can go, I can press down on my abdomen and feel the shape of him. That’s a close second. He’s incorporated, a part rather than a visitor, like a new and necessary bone graft.

The vocabulary breaks down — it’s not enough to fuck. I want to subsume him.

I can only deep-throat from a couple of positions, which I think is more common than not. I prefer to be in control. Only when I align my mouth with my throat just-so can he slide past the sphincters into the esophagus. Sexy, right? I know I sound clinical, but that’s because I find magic in the mechanics of it.

And if you’re squeamish, skip this paragraph — but it brings me to my last biology class on dissection day, staying late at the request of adult students who heretofore hadn’t shown a flicker of interest. They were riveted. I want to see the brain, my lab partner pleaded in her heavily accented English. And so we opened the pig all up, going through the organs just because we could. Can I touch it? she would say each time. With her gloved finger she would stroke it, experiencing its anatomy through her fingertips in some way she understood – the tough little heart that turned the scalpel; the bones, still flexible; the wrinkled brain, soft like quiche.

I understand her wonder in how we are all assembled and joined. When a cock is down my throat far enough, I can actually put my hand below my jaw and feel the bulge of it, stretching the passageway, inching past the first few cartilaginous rings. Tell me a more intimate act that two people can do.

Why do I like choking? A few years back, a friend of a friend died that way. I love you, the friend said to me, don’t do breathplay, and so I obediently had a crisis about it. But I went back to doing it. The tame truth is, if I get choked too much, I will tip over and stop sucking cock, and that’s no fun for either of us.

Being held tightly summons feeling of my lover’s body on mine after he comes. When he gives weight, I’ve brought him to a point of utter abandon. He can’t even help himself from hurting me.

I want to have him touch my face, twine his fingers in my hair, and draw me in with a low groan, sinking himself into me as far as he can possibly get. I’ll look up at him, letting him feel my pulse under his knuckles, my stopped breath, that same wonder I am trying to communicate with my eyes. I can’t speak, but in that moment, I hope he is marveling with me at how deeply we are interconnected.