You're going to cum on my face. I want you to. I get down on my knees before you, in a position of degradation where I was never meant to be.

I have not healed the wounds of childhood. My young/ancient spirit should have experienced communion with the Higher Power. The sweet surrender to my Father/Mother who art in the heavens, the trees, the ground, the cedar trees outside my house and the sparrows singing on their branches in the morning twilight. Everything in me should have sung the joy of creation.

And it did. But then the cannibal came. The one who murders the souls of children. My spirit was cooked. My spirit was burnt and mutilated. Parts disintegrated, turning before my eyes from vibrant rainbow to blackened charcoal, then white ash, and finally smoke that carried away the parts of me that had ended.

Wounded and charred, I survived. I survived, in part, by learning to process abuse as pleasure. I learned to live by making sure my sexuality was so mangled that no one could ever damage it further

I can't stand the lies men tell themselves about women. That we "want" to be abused. That these are our "natural" desires. Or that to women, the taste of a man's cum is the greatest thing since pineapple sorbet. It's not. Sometimes the cum is salty and doesn't taste of anything else, and that's okay. Sometimes it's gross. Sometimes the texture is acceptable and sometimes it isn't. What bothers me most is a man's need to call a woman a whore, a cunt, a slut. As if she is somehow responsible for his desires.

I wonder how many men, with their upstanding suburban lives and furtive barely-legal porn stashes, or their little "thug" lifestyles that allow them to abuse a string of mutilated survivors, will ever admit to themselves what they are, rather than blaming a woman. It enrages me to know that no matter how many times I try to explain what's really going on, it won't make a big difference. You can still walk down any street and find this male attitude everywhere. The attitude that says, "You're not a person. You're a thing. You want abuse. It's your fault." The attitude that a man somehow expects a woman to have a set of wants and needs that do not serve her at all, but are, mysteriously, perfectly compatible with his desire for comfort, prestige or abuse, without him having to be realistic about his goals or take responsibility for them. We could be talking about cumshots or washing dishes at this point.

It's dangerous. Using this attitude in my sexual fantasies may put me at risk of doing other self-harming behaviors in my day to day life. This fantasy is about murder. And the fantasy of spiritually and sexually killing myself brings pleasure. Let's be clear - we're not talking about suicide. We're talking about killing. Murder. Lynching.

Of course, in my most psychologically violent fantasies, this shadow-projection also excites me the most. What excites me is the knowledge that to him I'm a thing to use. He doesn't even see me as a person. We act out an old dance again and again going back to the first time the cannibal came. It is his prerogative to blame me for his violence.

So here I am, on my knees before you. You jerk your cock, occasionally slapping me in the face with it. I'm looking into your eyes, and you're looking down into mine.

We see eye to eye. You admit what you are. I want that. In fact, I insist on it nowadays.

What are you? A man who likes violence. A man who likes to hurt women. You are a man who might, if you were a wild animal, want to eat the tasty bits in my spinal column.

And you accept responsibility for it. You don't call me dirty, because I'm not dirty. I'm not a bad, dirty person for participating in this act of degradation. I don't "deserve" abuse. You're a sick fuck. You are sexually violent, and you admit it. There are very mean parts to you.

What's more, this is an act of intimacy for you. No lies. No blaming me. Showing me a part of who you really are. There are many parts. Loving, caring, generous, humble, silly, needy... You are showing me the part you don't show at work or the neighborhood barbeque or church. You are showing me the part you aren't supposed to have, or take responsibility for.

In this act of intimacy, in your eyes, I see anger, maliciousness, fear, desire and longing. You want me to accept you. All of you. Cumming on my face, and asking me to allow you to cum on my face, is your way of showing me who you really are. It's your way of saying, "please accept me. Accept the worst parts."

Allowing you to cum on my face is is my way of saying, "Mark me. Make me yours. I want do it this way, because I'm so damaged. Abuse is how I exchange love. Give me love through violence. Hurt me so badly to prove that you love me. If you put this much energy into hurting me, then I will have some of your energy, some claim to you. I'll be yours. I'll accept you. I'll take it. I'm desperate. Just please keep me."

This is a very vulnerable place for me. You don't have to keep me. You could just cum on my face and leave to meet your friends for coffee. After all,this sexual act is rooted in abuse, violence and mutilation. How well can it work, and for how long?

But you don't leave. First, you jack off on my face, slapping my face with your cock while your cum spurts out of it. You move back a couple of steps so your spurts will hit my face with more force. My eyes are closed. You grunt like an animal until you're finished.

You order me to lick your cock clean, and I do. I put one hand up to my face absentmindedly to wipe away your cum. You grab my hand and stop me. You say, "Don't."

Sometimes you do this. You once made me spend a whole day with your cum on my face before you let me wash it off.

You pull me up and kiss me full on the mouth. I love a man who is not squeamish about his own cum. You maneuver me over to the bed, plop me down on it, and absentmindedly pull the covers aside. You lie down and snake your arm around my waist to pull me down with you. You throw the covers over us and spoon me from behind. I go to sleep with your arm around me and your cum on my face. I don't mind. I'm marked. I'm yours. I belong somewhere.