“I’m hard because you’re crying.”
Said with sheepish, downturned eyes. He was expecting me to be horrified. Expecting me to tell him he was filthy and disgusting, and that my misery wasn’t cheap porn scene for him to get a boner over. What he – and if I’m honest, I – wasn’t expecting was for a hot pulse of arousal to flood through my stomach and crotch, soaking my knickers and wishing I could muster more tears.
What he didn’t know at the time was that I found his tears equally hot. He’d once told me a story of something he’d done after we broke up, and it filled my head with a vision of him gripping his dick with fury and rubbing hard at it while he thought of me with someone else, salty tears pouring down his cheeks as he got red and horny and sad and miserable.
He introduced me to the idea of a crywank. And he vocalised something I’d have been too shy to put into words: crying can be a massive turn-on.
It seems weird to associate misery with fucking, but as anyone who’s got a bit weepy at a wedding can attest, tears aren’t always a sign of sadness. Sometimes they’re tears of joy, other times just a cathartic release after a burst of confusing emotion.
Sometimes – as was the case when this guy got hard over them – they genuinely are tears of sadness. I was crying because of things he’d done and said, that at the time gave me those agonising waves of tightness through my chest, and made me wonder if anything would ever feel good again. It did, of course, one of the most surprising things about unbearable heartbreak is just how bearable it often turns out to be. I’ve long since forgotten what happened to make me feel that way, but I’ll never forget the effect my sobbing had on his dick.
Perhaps it’s the look – messy, red-faced, smeared with make-up. Perhaps it’s the flattering fact that someone’s willing to demonstrate that kind of howling sorrow over you. Perhaps it’s just a quirky kink – an image or moment that flicks a switch in your brain, saying “you like this. You really fucking like it.”
Crywanking is hot
I explained the idea of crywanking to a friend of mine recently, and she crinkled her nose and pulled a ‘fuck no’ face.
“I would never ever wank and cry at the same time. EVER.”
“Ah, but how would you feel if someone did it over you?”
She paused, and pondered, an “eww” floating somewhere in her mind, before eventually she softened.
“You know what? Actually that would be quite cool.”
Fuck yeah. It would be and it is. For me it’s linked to cuckolding – the idea of a guy tormenting himself with a lust that he feels bad for having, while picturing me riding the fuck out of a total stranger. The combination of misery, guilt, shame, desire, and diamond-solid erections means that there are complex horny layers of oddness all the way through a crywank. I don’t think I’ve ever had one myself, but I’ve certainly fantasised about guys who do.
The tight grip on his cock. The burning misery. The raging lust. The confusion and frustration and desire and sorrow pulsing through your chest even as the hot waves of orgasm crash up to meet it.
That moment just as you come, when spunk pumps out of the end of your dick and covers your tight-gripped fist, and you curl into a ball and sob a few more bursts of anguish as the thudding lust recedes.
Crying after sex
Lest you think I’m a horrible, evil person, the reason crying is sexy isn’t all miseryporn, in which I get tittilated by someone else’s pain: sometimes tears are hot because they’re the cymbal-clash crescendo after a particularly awesome climax.
Not all sex is a simple, straightforward rubbing of genitals, followed by an orgasmic full-stop. Some sex is a roaring, raging battle, during which you’re fighting yourself as much as fucking someone else.
If a guy’s all over me, with squeezing hands and harsh slaps and perhaps a few hard whacks with a belt, there’s a very real physical conflict between what I really really want and what I know for a fact I don’t: often they’re the same thing.
A sharp smack on the back of my thighs with thick leather: “Ow fuck stop… No don’t stop. One more.”
His lubed-up dick pressing roughly against my ass: “No, I can’t. Oh wait… fuck… Please. I can. I promise I can.”
His hands around my throat, and mine unwisely on his arse, pulling him deeper into me so I can come hard around his cock before I have to tap out.
Pushing harder. Taking things deeper. Demanding harsher beatings and more vicious fucks, and feeling the juddering twitch of my body as I realise I’m close but it’ll only work if I get more. Now. Harder.
Do not fucking stop.
Tears, then, are a good way to calm the maelstrom. A crashing, cathartic end to the dramatic dialogue of a hard fuck. I’ve fought back and forth and taken more than I thought I could, and we’ve fucked together better than we ever have before, and the pain and pleasure have been hurled back and forward like points scored in a boxing match… well, what better way to release all that than to bury my face in the pillow, and sob through the final few savage thrusts?
Tears in this case aren’t a measure of sadness, they’re an expression of gratitude: a trembling, red-faced, messy-as-fuck ‘thank you.’