I love your dick. It’s beautiful even when it’s soft. And I love your arse and your thighs and your big shoulders and your arms and – oh God, everything.

But there’s something better than seeing you naked – seeing you almost naked.

Guys in pants

You’re slightly hotter with your pants on. Not because I don’t want to see your dick, but because I really, really do.

You standing in front of me, walking around the bed, in tight boxers that cup the bulge of your dick, makes me wetter than even the sight of your dick can make me. Because I know that it’s there – I can see the outline, temptingly close. Because I want to watch your boxers stretch as you grow harder. I want to put my mouth on the fabric and suck you in, wetting the cotton with my spit and feeling you grow thicker as you strain to get out. And if I’m lucky, I want to feel you twitch, and taste precum leaking through.

It’s hot because you’re not letting me see your dick.

Guys naked from the waist down

One word: boywanking. At University a boy I was deeply hot for used to sit in front of his laptop in a t-shirt in the morning. Not quite wanking, but not quite not wanking either. He’d shift in his seat, and I’d look at him from my position in the bed across the room. I’d pretend to be asleep as I watched his arse pressed against the back of the chair. I could see the slight curve of his hips, and watch his hands – one gently brushing the trackpad to mouse over a page, open and close browser windows, and the other holding his semi-hard cock as he waited for me to announce I was awake.

If I didn’t get so wet looking at it I could watch it for hours, just thinking about the cold chair against his arse and the weight of his cock in his hand.

Guys in not-quite-clothes

By this I mean primarily pyjamas, dressing gowns, towels. Anything that’s temporary and relaxed.  Clothes you’d wear sitting on the sofa when no one’s around except me. Private clothes, in which I can imagine you alone, casually puling the drawstring on your pyjama bottoms and sliding your hand inside to have a solitary, functional wank in front of the TV. Clothes that – if I’m lucky – still carry the scent of spunk and the filthy, idle promise that you’ll let me bury my face in them.

Not onesies, though. Even I have limits.

Guys draped in bedsheets

This one’s a bit of a cheat really – you’re technically naked in this scenario even if you’re not wholly visible. But crucially lying underneath a bedsheet or duvet is still ever so slightly hotter than lying fully exposed on top of it. Why? Because what I really want is to be unsure whether you have an erection or not. I want the satisfaction of reaching for your dick and either finding it hard or finding it about to grow hard in my hand.

I want to guess. I want you to roll over, sleepily, and let me strain to see whether your dick is pushing out the bedsheet. And then I want to walk over to where you’re lying, just as you wake up, and sit my fully-clothed self on top of you, squirming to feel your cock pushing back up against me. And I want to feel it twitch as I kiss you good morning.

I neither know nor give a shit if it tastes different when you’ve eaten pineapple.

Spunk is good because it’s spunk. It’s raw and hot and yours. It’s something that you squirt from the end of your dick when you’re so fucking satisfied with me, with what I’ve done, with what I look like when you have me bent over and tied to a chair, that you can no longer keep it inside you. Spunk is, more than anything else, the measure of whether I’ve made you happy.

It’s not good because of the taste, it’s good because you cover me with it. It’s good because you pump it deep and hot inside me. It’s good because you make me eat it.

Can you improve the taste of your jizz?

A brief and depressing google around this area tells me that almost anything natural and fruity could change the taste of your spunk (WARNING: research based on Google does not constitute actual science) so if you’re happy to chow down on a pound of melon or a shitload of grapes each day, alongside the almost inevitable diarrhoea you suffer, you’ll probably also be able to provide a liquid that your ladyfriend would be happy to dribble on her ice cream.

But why? What’s the point? I’m a grown-up earning a wage – I can buy sugary syrups and whipped cream and fruity treats to my heart’s delight – the only way I’ll get a taste of your spunk is to suck on your cock nice and hard, in exactly the way that you like it.

Tasting nice is not what your jism is for. Your spunk doesn’t need to taste like strawberries, or pineapple, or sugar, spice and puppy dog tails – your spunk needs to taste like what comes out of the end of your dick when you come.

Spunk makes sex better

Sex is fun whether you come or not – the feeling of you nice and full and tight and hard inside me will give me the shivers and make me wet and give me something to clamp down on – to tense my cunt around and twitch over and feel happy about. But sex in and of itself isn’t half as good as sex that ends with spunk.

Dribbles of it, spurts of it, nice thick white ropes of it covering my tits or filling my cunt or (my personal favourite) spurting hot and hard into the crack of my arse.

Don’t worry about how you taste – everyone tastes different – pineapple or not – all guys tast different. Some are bitter, some are salty, some shoot sourness down to the back of my throat that makes me gag and worry I might puke. You all taste different – it’s part of your charm.

Have a little taste now – go on. If you’ve never tried it before you’re probably quite an incurious person, but indulge me. Have a taste. You might not like it – many people don’t – but at the very least you now know. You see yourself in the mirror every day, you’re your own constant companion – the person who knows you best. You know what you look like, sound like and smell like, so why not also see what you taste like?

Go on, try it. Salty, sweet, bitter, whatever. That’s the taste of you. And that’s what makes it so special.

Whether the rumours are true or not, I don’t want your spunk to taste like pineapple. If I wanted a pineapple I’d eat one, but I don’t, so if your spunk tastes like pineapple I’ll feel disappointed. Cheated. Because I wanted that special flavour of you – of your approval, your happiness, your sexual gratification. I wanted hot, grunting, squirting thrusts of proper, salty spunk. And you’ve given me a fucking sorbet.