The Juliette Society

6

This is what I’ve always wanted to know, pretty much since the first time I ever had sex:

Why do they call it ‘cum’?

What’s wrong with ‘come’? Isn’t that sexy enough?

Cum just sounds silly, cheap and disposable. It sounds like a brand name.

Spam, Tampax, Alpo and Cum.

Or a branded additive in another product.

Porn – now with added Cum.

If you ask me, cum is a perversion of the English language. One I just can’t abide. Call me curmudgeonly if you like, but it just doesn’t sound right.

While we’re on the subject, if you feel the need to splooge, jizz, spunk, nut or cream, do so by all means, but not in my face, or anywhere near, but if you’re going to skeet skeet or shoot your wad then I’m your girl.

And I’d rather have a cock than a prick any day. Wouldn’t you? I’m no size queen but prick just makes me think, ‘pin-prick’ or a ‘just a little prick’ – which really doesn’t turn me on.

Boast all you like about your wang, your schlong, or your dong, just keep it right where it belongs. In your pants. Because it’s not coming anywhere near my pussy. And whenever I hear a guy talk about Dick, Willy, Johnson and Peter, it just makes me think of a bunch of dudes circle-jerking in a men’s bathroom.

I don’t want a cock with a name. I want a man with a cock.

It doesn’t have to be big, but it definitely has to be hard and operated by someone with a license to drive. Because there’s no point in banging hard on the accelerator if you don’t know how to apply the brakes, turn the wheel or shift gears. And that gear stick? If you want to put it in my box, you better know how to use it.

You see, a penis is all well and good, but a cock feels so much dirtier and more poetic. Cock makes me think of a cockerel. And a cock struts and crows. You can cock your head, your arm or your bat. Or you might be the cock of the walk. And that all sounds like sex to me.

Don’t think I’m a prude, because I’m really not. And I don’t mean to be reductive or prescriptive because I guess everyone has their own personal preference if we’re talking sexual vocabulary. So let’s not argue over semantics. I’m just going to state this here for the record. For me, it’s ‘come’ over ‘cum’ all the way.

You’d think an educated young woman might have more profound things to spend her time thinking about than the most satisfying way to articulate ejaculate. I’m not so sure about that.

I mean, you can search all you want for the deeper meaning of existence, you can look for the physical proof of God. You can read as many books as you like on the subject, on any subject – books on religion, on science, on philosophy, on nature – but I guarantee you will never, ever find an answer that satisfies you. That really satisfies you, deep down, giving you a sense of well-being that you finally know your place and purpose in the world.

Why?

Because the answer is already right there, in front of you.

Come.

You don’t believe me?

I’ll prove it to you.

Let’s start with a statement we can all agree on:

Sex is the engine of life.

Because without sex there is no life. And equally, without life there is no sex. They are inextricably linked, like the chicken and the egg. Likewise, sex without come is like a Big Mac without the special sauce. It’s the magical essence from which we all, well, come. Because every single thing that exists in this world needs to reproduce to survive. Even the common cold. Existence itself relies on the reproductive process.

From the birds to the bees, the flowers and the seeds, the same exact process is repeated over and over and over – from micro to macro. I don’t really need to say this. It’s all basic science and biology. But maybe it bears repeating, because I think we forget.

The Big Bang created a universal body made up of solar systems – giant wombs, incubators for the planets, which are cosmic eggs waiting to be fertilized with the seed of life, which is:

Come.

And that, in essence, is my sexual theory of life, the universe and everything. The only string theory I’ll ever need.

And for all you people that are more spiritually inclined, all I can say is, you weren’t paying enough attention in bible class, or reading the good book closely enough, because if there’s something that the Bible is not short of, it’s sex. You can barely turn a page without finding someone wondering when God will come, when Jesus is coming, when salvation cometh.

You say, don’t be silly.

I say, we’re taught to take the Bible literally, I’m doing exactly that.

If the Bible really was intended as a guide for life, why would the people who wrote it want to play semantic tricks with language and hide its meaning?

Isn’t the Bible meant to make people feel good about themselves?

What can make people feel better about themselves than sex?

Let’s take a random passage. Say, Luke 17:20–21. The Pharisees ask Jesus when the Kingdom of God is coming. And what does he tell them? He says, ‘the Kingdom of God is within’.

I’d say that’s pretty self-explanatory. No real mystery there. I’d say he could only be talking about one thing.

Come.

And what is that if not a synonym for God.

Here’s another thing I’m going to state for the record:

I’m a true believer. I worship come.

But I’m a relatively new convert to the cause. I wasn’t always this way. In fact, precisely the opposite.

If I think of the word ‘cum’, and visualize it, it shouldn’t be any great surprise why even the thought of letting a guy ‘cum’ anywhere near me, or on me, used to be one huge turn off. It’s just not sexy at all. It doesn’t speak to me of the transcendent rapture experienced during the human orgasm, whether female or male. It sounds like what’s left over when a man’s done using you. Or the used rubber you drop in the trash afterwards. So, to me, ‘cum’ was always something dirty and obscene. It disgusted me. I didn’t want to see it, I didn’t want to feel it and I definitely didn’t want to taste it.

Right out of high school, I had a boyfriend who was constantly trying to finish on my face. That was his thing and he wanted it be my thing too, so he’d have an excuse to do it whenever he chose to. One second we’d be fucking, the next I knew he’d pull out and would be scrabbling up my body, trying to straddle my face, like a puppy trying to paw at a door and then pouncing into its owner’s arms when it’s been left alone for too long. Except, he was just a pathetic boy who’d watched way too much porn and didn’t have the slightest clue how to please a real live girl. I’d bat him away, like a puppy that won’t stop humping your leg, and the closest he ever got was my belly. But even that didn’t feel right. Not the texture, the temperature. It just didn’t make me feel good inside. Just the idea of it made me feel sick to my stomach.

After him, I dated a college football player. All-star body and a face to match. But when the lights went out, so did our sex life. His personality was as non-existent as his imagination in the sack. I always tried to climax before him, because once he did, it just killed the mood for me. When he reached orgasm he would whine like a little boy on the verge of crying. I always wondered if he was on steroids and never could tell if he had any real desire to fuck me or was just faking it.

Then something changed. You could say I had a revelation, whether through the call of love, or lust, or maybe a combination of both. But I remember it vividly, as if it happened this morning.

It was the eighth time Jack and I had sex. And it felt so special. Jack was really the first guy who even made me feel comfortable being naked around him. I was on top, riding him, we kissed passionately, and just as he was about to come, he looked me right in the eyes and asked… he actually asked me if he could come in my mouth.

I panicked at just the thought of it, but was so overwhelmed with this new love-lust that all I could do, all I wanted to do, was smile and nod my approval and give my permission. He asked. I was in control. He cared to ask, and that alone made me want it.

From that time on, I lost all fear of the sticky substance associated with that dirty word. I was no longer even afraid of what it might taste like. I just wanted it. It turned me on. I loved it. I was fascinated by it. I craved it, just as I craved Jack’s tender arms wrapping themselves around me, his lips giving me soft, sweet kisses. Sex was just one big disappointment before I met Jack. I guess it was all down to finding the right person, the one who would open me up, show me the way and teach me how to find pleasure in sex.

You know that line by William Blake about ‘the world in a grain of sand’? Well, I can see the universe in a grain of Jack’s come. When I think of Jack’s come, I think of how it got there, how great the sex was and how I never wanted it to end. When I think of Jack’s come, he’s always with me and it’s like we’re never apart.

I like to feel his come. I like to feel it shoot into my mouth. I like when he shoots it into my hair and makes it thick and sticky and matted, the way you feel when you walk into a cobweb.

I like to tell him to come on my tits so I can smear it around in messy circles, the way a painter mixes paint on his palette. He is the paint. I am the painter and the canvas too. I like to paint with his come on my body so I can feel it dry, harden and contract, pinching the skin as it does. I like the way it flakes away in scales as I brush it. I like to hold a flake of his dried come on my finger and look at it the way you look at a snowflake, trying to discern the crystalline pattern of nature within.

I like to look down and see come gush from the head of his cock. First spurting in long, gloopy arcs of ever-decreasing reach and volume. Then pouring slowly, inexorably, like foam from a can of beer that was shaken too much just before it was opened.

I like when it pools in my belly, drowning my belly button and spilling across my waist like cream soup spilling from a plate. When it rains down on the small of my back in big, thick drops, like hot rain, like hot milk, like hot lava. When he pulls out and shoots it all over my pussy and into my bush, where it hangs in thin strands like cotton caught on hedgerows.

I like when he shoots inside me and I feel full and satisfied and calm, as if I’ve just eaten a good, hearty meal. And then feel it slide out of my pussy, leaving a thick pearly trail that gathers in the bud of my asshole. Sometimes it will ooze out, hours later, when I’d long forgotten it was even there. When I’m walking around campus or sitting in class, or sitting on the bus, or standing in line at the checkout and, all of a sudden, the crotch of my panties is wet with slime and I remember the moment he thrust inside me, letting out that cute pained little groan a split second before he let out his load. And I relive it, as if he’s fucking me, ejaculating inside me, right then and there, on campus, in class, on the bus, in the supermarket.

I like when he comes on my face and it feels like I’m completely at his mercy, like he’s humiliating me with his come. When I close my eyes and feel it splash onto my face. When he shoots come onto come onto come and it feels heavy and slides down my face. Filling my pores, dripping down my cheek, my forehead, hanging off my chin. And it feels like my face isn’t big enough to take all his come. His endless semen.

I like to wipe it off my lips and cheek and stretch it between my finger and thumb like snot, then slurp it back into my mouth, roll it around and mix it with my saliva, into a cocktail of my fluids and his, and slurp that down like an oyster. Then I open my mouth, wide, and stick out my tongue to show him it’s all gone. That I’ve been a good girl and taken my medicine.

I like to guess what he’s had for breakfast, lunch, dinner and in-between from the way it tastes and the way it smells. Salty, bitter, sweet, sour and smoky. Beer, coffee, asparagus, banana, pineapple, chocolate. From the texture and consistency. Sometimes it’s runny like half-cooked egg whites, sometimes thick and lumpy like semolina, sometimes both of those at the same time. And sometimes it’s smooth like cough syrup, which is how I like it best, because it goes down so easy.

I like to lick his cock after he’s come inside me, when he pulls out and his penis is slick and shiny with his come and mine. I want to savor the flavor of him and me together, our sweat and passion. I want that taste to linger in my mouth until it starts to turn rank on my breath. I love the smell of his come when it starts to ferment on my body.

And then I like to wash his dried come off my body in the shower and feel it reconstitute itself as the water hits it, almost as if it’s come back to life from the dead. I like to watch that water, his come, swirl down the plughole, and think about the journey it’s about to embark on.

The places it has been and the place it will end up. From inside Jack’s body onto mine. From my body all the way to the sea.

Born from nature and returned to nature. The way of all things.

The way it’s meant to be.