Yesterday my boyfriend playfully held my head down and I panicked. Not a rational panic, a real, terrifying, anxiety attack type of panic.
I panicked because the last man I loved forced my head down towards his genitals, swollen with blood and I felt as though I had no choice but to open my mouth and be entered.
Society has made me believe I have little choice. Giving pleasure is part of a woman’s worth and I am worthless without it to the owner of these genitals.
Because he was twice the size of me, his movements were rough and forceful and I was afraid.
I was afraid if I didn’t open my mouth and take him inside me he would do something, either in that moment or later on. I was afraid.
So I did take him inside me, I felt him pushing on the back of my throat and I tried not to choke, my gag reflex kicking in as I tried not to be sick, I struggled to breathe.
He wriggled with pleasure, his eyes closed and his mouth moaned and I wondered if I am supposed to feel pleasure at my power to please. The power is never mine in this relationship.
So when my loving, kind, current boyfriend playfully pushes my head down I tell ‘Don’t do that, it’s a trauma’, and then past his apologies I run to him,
I bury my head in his torso and he holds me as I sob. ‘That won’t ever happen to you again, I promise. I’ll kill them’, he tells me, and I start to feel safe again.
That night I take him inside my mouth because I want to, because he deserves all the pleasure in the world. When I see him smile with pleasure I find myself smiling.
I taste the warm, sticky trail of substance that I somehow extracted from him with my clumsy hands and unsure tongue and I taste him,
a hint of salt, green of the jungle and then suddenly my mouth tingles, my lips tingle. I am safe.