I don’t want your hot dick or your dripping, sizzling spunk: I want you to mouth-fuck me with a Cornetto. Take your sweet, tight arse to the shop and come back with a bag of lollies. Give me ice-cold bites of everything.
I’ve heard a lot of people talking about sex menus recently, so I was thrilled when Sheila got in touch with an idea for a guest blog inspired by the idea of creating ‘sex menus’ around your sexual needs and desires. I’ll keep this intro short and sweet and hand over to Sheila U – to tell you what a sex menu is, and how it inspired her latest photography project…
Sometimes, like many humans, I have fantasies that are grotesque and dark and weird. And sometimes I have days where I can think of nothing else to write, so with a sense of weary resignation and vague self-disgust, I tell you one of the odder ones. It’s a not-quite-non-consent story that, I think, is an escalation of the fantasy dinner party. So if you like this kind of thing but the below gives you shudders, you might prefer that story instead.
For the record, it would horrify me if it happened in real life: that’s kind of the point of it. But as a film I play in my mind when I’m masturbating, something about the atmosphere and the attitude makes my cunt twitch.
Do you want to lick melted chocolate off my nipples? How about squirting whipped cream all over your cock and letting me noisily slurp it off? Are you willing to drizzle nacho cheese into the crack of my arse then fuck me to a sticky, cheesy completion?
Then you’re probably my kind of guy.
Food in sex is bloody weird. I think my general hatred of it stems from a rather naïve 16 year-old experience in which my boy bought some sort of ‘penis knickerbockerglory kit’ from Ann Summers, covered his cock in cream and chocolate sauce, and completed the fiasco with (I’m not making this up) brightly-coloured hundreds and thousands. He then insisted that I lick off this sticky, sickly mess until I felt so ill I’d rather have spent the afternoon bent over the toilet bowl than the side of the bed.
If you want a blow job, the best way to get one is to unzip your trousers and tell me to give you a blow job. You don’t need to cover it in fucking chocolate – I’m not a reluctant 12 year old, and your cock is not a brussels sprout that you’re forcing me to eat at Christmas. I like sucking your cock, that’s why I’m here.
And conversely, if you don’t want to lick my cunt, then don’t. If you don’t like the taste of it, I’d strongly advise you not to put your face there at all. Smearing it in toothpaste or custard or raspberry jam is just going to make a mess of the bedsheets, and mean you’re concentrating more on cleaning me up than on tonguing my clit until I squeal like a strangled cat.
I like sex more than sweeties
Some people might love the food thing, and if you do then good on you. Someone’s got to keep Ann Summers afloat, after all.
But flavoured/scented/sweet-smelling stuff leaves me cold. Getting messy is fun – ask any splosh fetishist – but the need to make sex taste and smell like dessert removes one of the things that I love most about fucking. The smell of your cock. The smell of your sweat. The beautiful, musky, angry scent of boys.
It’s not just food – flavoured condoms, scented lube and edible underwear can shit off as well. These things make sex unsexy, and fit better behind the counter at Greggs than in my bedroom.
Chocolate, whipped cream, flavoured lube, strawberries, toffee sauce, ice cream, condoms that taste like bananas – they can all fuck off back to the lollipop-scented candifloss-coated shitfuck sweetshop nightmare that they came from. I want your dick to taste like dick.