"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...."
Really?
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?”
“Ewwww.”
“Double ewwwwww.”
“Lucky pizza.”
“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.
Until....
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!
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?”
“Ewwww.”
“Double ewwwwww.”
“Lucky pizza.”
“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.
Until....
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!
"Not ever guy comes hard, not every guy shoots his load." WHEW! Good to know