Perhaps it’s because I can’t produce it myself, or because I sense a similar fascination in guys – that agony of choice when you decide where to do it, and how, and when.
But let’s talk about the only frustration I have with spunk: that there is never – can never be – enough.
This week’s guest blogger is Katrina England – she writes erotica (which is available on Amazon) and she’s here to talk to you about something I’ve waxed lyrical about before – spunk. Spaff, cum, come, jizz, or whatever you want to call it: if you’re a fan then you’ll love Katrina’s guest blog, in which she explains – in detail – why she has a cum fetish…
One of the lies I tell most frequently is this one: “I’ll have a shower when I get home.” I almost definitely won’t shower after sex. If you’ve just nailed me into a sweaty, jizz-covered mess, the last thing I’ll want to do is rinse it off and go home smelling of shampoo and roses.
Why I won’t shower after sex
Why? Because fucking smells fucking good.
Not just the smell of your cock – the smell of your cock mixed with sweat and come. The smell of your come mixed with the scent of my own cunt. This smell, by the way, is utterly unique to every guy. Transport me back in time to any post-sex, jizz-dripping haze and I’d be able to tell you just from the smell exactly who I’d been shagging.
Smell is deeply evocative. The smell of a searing-hot day can take me back to memories of Florida, even though I haven’t been there since I was fifteen. Certain markets smell like Korea, tangerines smell like Christmas, there’s a particular washing powder that smells like my ex…
And your spunk drying on my sweaty, naked tits smells like decadence, happiness, and utter filth.
You smell fucking good
Apologies to the boys who might be upset to hear about this, but if you leave your clothes at my house I will do bad things with them.
If you leave your boxers I’ll hold them over my mouth, pinch my own nipples, and masturbate to the memories of burying my face in your crotch. If you are one of the rare few who I’ve let sleep in my bed, chances are I’ve slept on your side the next day, with knickers pulled halfway down so I can touch myself while breathing you in.
Is that creepy? Maybe. Probably not quite as creepy as the fact that I still have a t-shirt a boy left at my house many moons ago that no longer smells like his sex-sweat because I’ve sniffed it all out.
Certainly not as creepy as the fact that, while I’m writing this, I’m occasionally taking deep, long breaths of my right hand, because it smells like jizz and lube and one particular boy.
I hate washing that smell off my hands.
It’s probably not totally hygienic, but the idea of showering all that away – the sex sweat and the come and the lingering scent of fucking – seems like a total waste: I’d no more rush into the shower than I’d spit instead of swallow.