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It's raining men

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The third in a series of interviews with some of the sex industry’s lesser-known and occasionally least understood practitioners.

Bukkake is one of those sex acts that most of us discovered on the internet and, the occasional fleeting fantasy aside, we're content to leave it there. But what if it had a different name? Or if it didn't have a name at all?

Note: I've chosen to present this strictly in the words of the interviewee, removing my own questions and prompts.

  The First Time

I stepped off the stage and began slowly turning, catching every guy’s eyes and drawing them around me. The handful who were already there obeyed instantly; a couple more drifted across to see what was going on.

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.

How boring.

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Comments

tubist  

"Not ever guy comes hard, not every guy shoots his load." WHEW! Good to know

11/01/2012

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