"Bukkake is a sex act...in which several men ejaculate on a woman, or another man. Bukkake videos are a relatively prevalent niche in contemporary pornographic films. Originating in Japan in the 1980s, the genre subsequently spread to North America and Europe...."
There’s a word for it?
Wow, I never knew.
Thirty (or so) years ago, at that awkward age where girls first get together and start discussing the fantasies they have stockpiled through adolescence and beyond, what we now all know of as bukkake was just one more in a long line of dreams that one or another of us thought we’d dreamed up single-handedly, which we were then astonished to learn that at least a few of our best friends shared. It was usually the football team who starred in these dreams, and the opening conversation went something like this:
“Hey, did you hear the rumor about them all getting together and jerking off on a pizza, and the last to cum had to eat it?”
“Oh my god, I know...”
At which point, if you will pardon the pun, it all came pouring out. We called it “the pizza,” and through college with some of the same crowd, an innocent bystander only had to ask if anyone wanted a pizza for us to collapse in unseemly giggles.
And soon, I was being pizza’d for a living.
How I started
It was the late-1980s and I was dancing in that part of town that the locals once (and maybe still do) referred to as the Combat Zone, but which other cities would call the Red Light district. Not that I considered myself a card-carrying member of the community, drifting into dancing as a way of paying the bills and resolutely refusing ever to remove more clothing than the bare minimum we were permitted - that is, a bikini that scarcely lived up to the name.
There was, I knew from my coworkers, more cash to be had from showing more skin, but a combination of a Catholic upbringing and my own sense of what is and isn’t “proper” somehow seemed to balance the shortfall in my tips. Besides, in terms of what the guys were paying the most cash to see, I knew I’d always come up short compared to the array of Venuses and Aphrodites who worked the later shift: narrow hips, small breasts, skinny legs. My “selling point,” I decided very early on, was eye contact. Nipples and pubic hair would just be a distraction.
Exotic dancers, bare-all strippers, call it what you will but there is one thing I am certain of, we sell fantasy, not flesh. We all know the guys get up to in their laps while we dance, and it’s amazing how easily a lick of the lips, or a swift downward glance, can make the difference between a two-figure tip and a three-figure one. I will never forget the first night I received a hundred dollar bill from one guy, especially as he gave me another three of them before he finally stood, smiled shyly and left. I would not have wanted to be the guy who mopped up around his chair that evening.
So when I was asked if I wanted to work a private party, to be staged in one of the rooms upstairs from the main club, my only concern was for the barrier that I had erected between entertainer and audience. They can look but they cannot touch, which my employer assured me was not a problem.
I knew the room. About the size of my apartment (very small, then), with three raised daises on which the girls danced. A bar along one wall, a few projection screens, and a light show that someone told me had been around since the late 1960s, all oils and filters and strobes, controlled by a middle-aged Deadhead who had been running it since his teens.
A private party with private rules. Downstairs, patrons were bound by law to keep their personal activities to themselves, if you see what I mean. We knew they were masturbating, but house rules (not to mention local obscenity laws) recommended that they shouldn’t be seen to be doing it. Upstairs, on the other hand...the law was the same, I’m sure. But its enforcement was more relaxed, and the two girls who I was dancing with, both stripped down and naked, were quickly surrounded by guys who had no compunction about whipping out their weiners and jerking off in front of everybody.
I, on the other hand, had four of five positive angels around me, and an empty tip jar as well. And then somebody on the other side of the room announced that the bar was now serving pizza, and I cast an eye over at my getting-rich-quick companions and I knew what I wanted to do.
What was the appeal?
We’ll take the financial aspect out of it. Most people like making money, but we all have our limits as to what we’d do to make it. And I hope I’ve shown you that I’m no different in that regard. No, tonight might have started out as a way of boosting the bank account, but all I was thinking of now was a fantasy I’d nursed for who knows how long...and grasping what I thought could turn into an opportunity to make it happen.
So, the appeal.
I’ve read a lot on the subject and heard a lot of opinions too, and the general consensus seems to be that it’s an act of degradation...self-inflicted or otherwise. A chance for men to show a woman their disdain. Demeaning. Barely a step up from rape, or at least a brutal gang bang.
There is some truth to that if the woman is unwilling. In the same way that every sex act can become twisted and sick if one person is forcing it upon another. Remember the first time you were making out with a guy and he put his hand on the back of your head and started to push your face down to his cock? A lot of girls find that twisted and sick as well. Girls who don’t want to do it. Girls who do, on the other hand, could argue that it was one of the most thrilling things ever to happen to them.
At the same time, though, I don’t believe most guys think in those terms. They might play out the occasional rape fantasy if their significant other demands it, but the majority of men (in my experience) want their sex to be consensual. And they want to know that the woman is enjoying it.
Which makes me wonder, what do guys get out of the pizza? For me, it is a strictly feminine fantasy, caught somewhere between idealistic wantonness (all the studs you want, any way you want them, and all with zero consequences) and fantasy rape for those whose imagination moves in those directions.
It is about being the center of so much rapt attention, being at the heart of so much rampant lust, and knowing that I was in total control of it all, because I’m not the dude standing around with a bunch of other guys, maybe friends, possibly strangers, beating my meat and hoping that my cock’s as big as everyone else’s, that my orgasm’s as dramatic as the big guy on my left...all the myriad insecurities that must surely bubble through a guy’s brain in a roomful of his erected peers.
I wouldn’t do it, but it’s great watching them!
I didn’t quite kneel; rather, I shimmied down, still dancing, still turning, my breasts at male lap height and my fingers tracing across my own flesh. I was laying it on thick, squirming just inches away from the erections that I knew lurked beneath the pants that surround me, and slowly...but surely...my audience began to unzip.
I closed my eyes. In my mind I measured the distance to the showers at the back of the club. I gently removed the occasional hand that fell on my flesh. I shifted away from the occasional brush of a hard cock against my face or breasts. You can look but you cannot touch.
But still, the first lash of hot cum, splattering across my breast, shocked me, jerked me out of my reverie and it struck me for the first time. I. Am. Really. Doing. This.
I don’t know if the surprise registered on my face; I’m sure it did, but I doubt that anyone noticed. Because no matter what effect it had on me, the sight of the first orgasm had an even greater effect on the other guys. A cry to my left, a moan to my right. And now I was being hit from all sides, and was so close to cumming myself that I had to fight to retain my own bearings, to keep that distance, to be looked at, but not touched.
One did try to push himself into my mouth; another, I know, pressed up against my back and smeared his cum into my flesh with his cock. And there was a few more near-misses as well. But for the most part, I danced and they came from a respectable distance, and after all those years of wondering, I knew how that pizza felt.
Lessons you quickly learn. Not ever guy comes hard, not every guy shoots his load. Some drip, some dribble, some miss the mark completely. Looking in the mirror once it was all over, I’d say three, maybe four of the guys actually gave me a soaking (or even a splashing) that would be worth the name, out of I believe nine who surrounded me. And yes, it was a bitch to clean off, dripping into places I had never imagined it finding, and gumming up my hair as well ( nail scissors and one of my fellow dancers, snipping strands in between fits of giggling, fixed that).
But I’d done it and afterwards I readily announced that I’d be happy to do it again.
And the money was good as well. Amazingly so.
Highs and lows
Word spread. Two weeks later, I performed again. The weekend after that as well. I set a few boundaries: no more than twelve guys at a time was the first; and somebody on standby in case things got rough was the second...once, early on, I had a bad experience when this one man grabbed my hair and tried to force me to blow him, while the others looked on, uncertain what to do, not knowing whether this was a part of the deal as well.
I had to fend for myself (successfully, thankfully) on that occasion, but I always made sure I had a minder in the future, and I’m pleased to say that he was only ever called upon twice. Once for another guy who just got carried away. And once for someone who definitely didn’t fit into the “most guys don’t” generalization.
I had to inure myself to name-calling and insults, too, although a lot of the things I got called, I admit, probably weren’t that far from the truth. I guess, when you come down to it, I was a filthy cum-slut, and yes, my mom probably would have been horrified if she knew how I earned enough to afford the down payment on my condo.
I would never have told a boyfriend what I did, either, although in my experience, there are girls who did a lot less than me who felt the same way. More than one girl I danced with back in my bikini days was forced to quit her job because her boyfriend didn’t like it, and more than one quit her boyfriend because she found she preferred her job.
For the most part, though, the guys who came to watch me perform (and perform alongside me, although I don’t know if they ever thought of themselves in that role) were respectful, even polite. Again, I was not doing something that they would approve of their own wife or partner doing, but maybe that was a part of the appeal - being permitted to partake in an act that is so far beyond the realms of any conventional relationship that it transcends simple sex, and becomes something they will probably never forget.
There is something almost ritualistic about it, about the low build, the teasing dance and glances...never was I content to simply kneel motionless while they jerked off around me; I needed to be moving, seducing, undulating, gyrating. My hands would be roaming across my body (and no, I never removed my bikini!), my eyes would deliberately slip from a participant’s face to his fist, pulling his glance down as he followed mine; every trick I had learned while dancing, I employed, every silent come-on I could muster was out there. They may have been masturbating themselves, but I was fucking them with my eyes all the same.
The end of the dance
I finally quit in the mid-1990s, I guess because I got the fantasy out of my system. I still enjoyed the work, but not with the same all-consuming fire, nor with the same uncontrollable passion. I was working a regular job, and I’d met the guy I was going to marry.
But more than any of that, I’d got my first internet hook-up and had suddenly discovered that the pizza was a lot more widespread than I’d imagined. Girls were doing it all over the world. They were competing with one another for who could take the most loads in one session, filming them and posting them online, making DVDs to sell to fellow aficionados.
Quite frankly, they made me look like an amateur; and now I find that there’s even a role play sim in the Second Life virtual world dedicated exclusively to girls and guys who like pizzas.
But you know what really put me off? It was learning that it had a name. A “proper” name, an established name. Once I thought of myself as the Pizza Princess. And now I was just another bukkake babe.