Oral Sensualist

I'm a committed oral sensualist. As Sommer Marsden mentioned in her guest blog entry last weekend, biting can be quite erotic. It makes a nice change of sensation between blows on a well-paddled bottom, or so I gather from the gasp and moan. 

My significant other loves to watch me eat. It makes me incredibly self-conscious, but he says the obvious pleasure on my face when I taste really good food is worth watching. Last May when I was in New Orleans for the wonderful Saints and Sinners Literary conference, DL King and I went to Acme Oyster house. I ordered a half dozen roasted oysters for the appetizer. When I took my first bite, she said that she had to try one since I looked practically orgasmic. Not that I'm greedy for multiple mouthgasms or anything, but I ordered another half dozen oysters for dessert instead of the bread pudding.

Despite my oral fixation, the whole whipped cream, chocolate sauce, honey, whatever dribbled on a lover's body than licked off doesn't do much for me in the real world because I'm one of those people who, instead of surrendering to the moment, thinks, "Great, now we have to wash the sheets which means the load of towels has to wait." Sometimes, I wish that I could stop being so practical in those situations, but until I find the off switch in my brain, that isn't likely to happen.  I can't shut off the voice when I'm reading either. I believe that Donna George Story (correct me if I'm wrong), one of the great foodie erotica writers, wrote a story about a woman dribbling crème de menthe over her lover's cock. Having done the Altoids trick, I know that peppermint oil adds an interesting dimension to a blow job. But there I was, reading that hot erotic scene, and all I could think was, "That's going to leave a dark green stain," followed by "Sticky, and not in a good way." My apologies to Donna, or whoever that writer was, because you did such a great job with that story, but I couldn't enjoy your craftsmanship because of my issues. That was truly a case of "It's not you, it's me."

And since I'm already proving how particular I can be about food and sex, I will also mention that I have a huge issue with flavored lube.  No matter what flavor it's supposed to be, it tastes terrible. But that's not my real objection.  The problem I have - and this extends to honey, chocolate sauce, and whipped cream- is the idea that the natural flavor of a lover's body is so unpalatable that it has to be covered with other stuff before it goes into the mouth, or that the lover is so afraid of how s/he tastes and smells that they feel that they have to hide behind artificial flavors. Barring bad hygiene, which is easily fixed by a sensual shared bath, or some medications, the raw flavor of a lover can be the biggest turn on around. Once I get down near my lover's groin, I rest my head on his thigh and take a long whiff of his scent before I do anything else. It builds his anticipation, and it kicks my appetite into high gear. He can't see the look on my face, but he knows that when I finally get his unadorned, raw, personal flavor into my mouth, my expression will be of pure ecstasy.