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Bullseye, Or, How I Learned To Keep My Mouth Open And Eyes Shut

A proper soul suck, that’s what I wanted to bestow upon this sweet, cardigan-wearing young man.

February 3, 2021

Victoria Drake
woop, there it is!
// edited from Wikimedia

liked Glen a lot, in a “sort of” kinda way.

He was bespectacled, timid, round of tummy, and pretentious about cars, beer, and music. Glen was peak “hipster” back when that word was intriguing and not just plainly obnoxious. He was awkward, smart, and didn’t seem to know he was sexy.

But I did.

We flirted, made outrageous entendre talk through text and in the drive-through headset at Starbucks. At precisely three years my junior, I wanted to show him a thing or twelve and put another notch in my confident, sexual female belt.

As suspected, it didn’t take long. If there’s anything “cool” people like to talk about, it’s all the super obscure bands that will “totally” change the way you feel about Scottish jam ensembles or whatever. So, I casually asked my future mustache ride if he knew any awesome bands I’d maybe be into, and like any hipster worth their Pink Himalayan salt: he did. Check.

His apartment may as well have been a movie set, but that was alright with me. What’s a fantasy without a little window dressing? I took in his Hokusai print, the cinder block bookshelves filled with Mao, Kant, and Shakespeare, and rolled my eyes.

Fine, I’d let the neon rays of his ironic retro lava lamp backlight me as I rode him into a sex haze.

Otis Redding’s Cigarettes and Coffee hummed into my vagina from a turn-table on display in his living room, and my breath caught a little as he leaned in to greet me with a hug. He smelled like soap made from oats and unnecessary shit like daffodil stems, and I must say: I was into it.

We made some excruciating small talk, and I pretended to try whiskey for the first time. But, I didn’t come to sip, I came to gulp, and I let Glen know as much. With a green light to both my interest and consent, we were off.

Having probably read a book on it somewhere, he was a delightfully skillful kisser. Deep searching kisses with a timid, “Is this okay?” lurking just beneath the surface. I could feel his cock digging into my stomach as we tumbled all over his apartment, and I decided to go ahead and get out the big guns.

Dropping to my knees, I looked up at him through my lashes (they love that shit) and opened up my mouth nice and wide. I figured he didn’t get too many women willing to unhinge their jaw to pleasure him, so I was grotesquely pleased to see the look of sheer doggone excitement on his face.

I felt like a first edition Lord of the Rings or whatever the hell those guys like. I gave him my absolute A-game. And I like giving head, to be honest. There’s something so empowering about it. Not the sad head you give because you don’t want some childish Incel to troll you DMs, but the kind of head you give because god dammit, you feel like blessing somebody.

A proper soul suck, that’s what I wanted to bestow upon this sweet, cardigan-wearing young man.

He was not ready. After not too terribly long, I heard the breathless affirmation I was looking for. “Wait, hold on, I’m gonna!” Oh yeah, that sweet music. I doubled down and really gave him the full esophageal tour.

That’s right. Welcome to the front and back of my throat big boy.

I felt some clutching around my shoulders, a clear signal we were about to wrap up, and slowly slid him out of my mouth.

“Come on my face,” I said, staring up at him again, letting him feel powerful there above me.

“Are you sure?”

“Oh yeah, let me have it,” I said frankly, eagerly. Once again, I opened my mouth wide in vulgar invitation.

And then I screamed with the force of a diner lunch whistle as he blasted his entire load directly into my right eye. Sheer agony.

How semen doesn’t eat through our guts the minute we swallow it down, I will never know.

As I clutched my smoking eye socket, titties akimbo, I felt a flush of shame creep up my spine and settle firmly in the lake of hellfire churning behind my sweet baby browns.

I have never been so embarrassed in my life. I wanted to die, but couldn’t bear the thought of a coroner writing “spunk eye” as my official cause of death.

Glen went from after-glow to horror, to absolute schadenfreude within seconds. I could see a smile twitch the ends of his stupid beeswaxed mustache as he tried to administer first aid without collapsing into hysterics.

Fuck that guy.

After flushing my eye with cold water (not helpful), I hobbled to my car with diminished depth perception, cried my twice salty tears, and immediately Google searched eye pregnancy and cannibal sperm.

I didn’t feel completely confident I wouldn’t lose my eye in the coming days, but it didn’t seem to warrant a trip to the ER, so I took my ass home and reevaluated some shit.

I greeted the following day with a bit of redness and a squeaking sensation whenever I looked too far to the left.  Not sure if he ever told anyone, but I sure got an awful lot of winks.

The lesson, if there’s one to be learned here: Mouth open, eyes shut. Stay safe out there.

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