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Funky Spunk

“I want your cum.”

The blond bottom in the gay porn flick I had just downloaded reminded me of me, and he was riding the brunette top (who reminded me of a recent ex) with such aplomb that the words were not really required to make the scene hotter. But they did. It’s one of the most erotic phrases I can hear or utter during sex. Oh, I know that as a gay man who’s lived his entire life under the shadows of HIV and AIDS, it probably shouldn’t be, but I’m not going to deny that despite this fact, cum is one of my favorite things.

It’s true: I am a cum slut.

I like it in me, and on me, and all about me. So one can just imagine the shock I felt when my first boyfriend removed my dick from his mouth just as I was about to come, looked up at me, and said, “I’m sorry. I don’t like cum. I just thought you should know.” Besides being an immediate boner-kill, it also made me think, “But. But? You are a gay man! How could you not like cum?”

Not to plagiarize a David Hare play, but it happened again, the next five boyfriends I had.

Now, I am not afraid of cum, nor am I a stranger to self-doubt and critical self-analysis, so in each relationship I have had, after each admission of cum-hatred from the other party in question, I actually tasted my own jizz just to make sure it was not “funky spunk”. And it really was not. So what, I wondered, made me love it so much, when all of these men I loved actually hated it so much, beyond obvious disease-transmission or taste reasons?

I discussed this recently with three dear friends, to hopefully gain a different perspective. My heterosexual female friend agreed with me: it is all about the cum worship. But she is like the twin I never had, so of course she would almost fetishize cum as do I. So I instigated an interview with my best gay male friend of many years.

“What is your take on cum?” I asked him. “More specifically, what is your take on gay men who hate it?”

“I find that so… precious,” he drawled via instant message as only he can. I laughed. “You just know they were the kids who had to have the crusts cut off of their PB&Js, you know?”

“Yes,” I said, smiling in revelation. “Completely!”

“And,” he said, “they also always had such snotty, drippy noses. And now they don’t like cum.”

I guffawed.

“There is a connection!” he insisted.

“Oh, I completely agree!” I exclaimed.

“Enjoy the cum,” he said, “and don’t be a precious bitch about it. I’d say the next relationship you approach? That should be a deal-breaker.”

“Yes,” I agreed again.

I approached another, newer friend about the topic soon afterward, whose remarks on it hinted at a deeper meaning of the act of coming and of the substance of cum. His remarks made me think of the ex of whom the brunette gay porn actor reminded me earlier in this piece, who once told me derisively that he loathed those gay men who said things like, “I love you inside of me. I want your cum.” And et cetera. But the thing is? I do love you inside of me. And I do want your cum. Because I want to be that man astride your hips. I want to be communicating to you in words, as well as in actions, that the flesh I feel brutally caressing all of my folds and rhizomes is desired, is required, and is cherished.

I want to be that fag who begs for your cum.

Because it really is not simply me fetishizing it.

It is that getting it, that bathing in it, that worshipping it, helps me see the colors that the acts themselves create in my head, those I see when I gaze at the prism through which I am more clearly able to see whose flesh my muscles are massaging, whose emotions, much like his emissions, I am receiving. Whose words, actions, and flesh make me love him. So it isn’t just about me being a cum slut that makes me love it so much.

It is the visceral force of expelling, and of taking it in, that makes it such a thrill for me. It is the act of receiving something that is so much a part of the other person. It is the deeper connection between two people, a connection that is forged in sweat, and in sighs, in saliva, and in semen.

In cum.

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