What It Feels Like To Be Eaten Out (Again)


I stumbled across Ryan O’Connell’s article, some time ago, describing in rather artistic and overtly witty detail what it feels like for a man to get his dick sucked. While my figurative penis is usually substantially larger than most male’s actual penis, I don’t have the appropriate body parts to adequately gauge the validity of Ryan’s words.

I can, however, speak to the article’s female counterpart, which described in detail the sensations associated with a man heading south for some oral fixation sensation time. While it seemed to tantalize most readers and lead to a few wonderful moments in the comment section, I found the majority of the piece to be much of a tease. Like a man who lost his way while attempting to traverse your forbidden cave, the article seemed to dance around the taint instead of hitting the clit proper. I was left feeling oddly unsatisfied and horribly disappointed and consistently staring at every faltering syllable, wondering what the fuck was going on down there.

I’m too big a fan of passion to let this one go. So, here it is you muff-diving maniacs. Gentlemen, I’m sorry you miss out on the joys of having a vagina. Ladies, I hope I fit our boxes in the proper picturesque packages.

Being eaten out feels like the top of a swirling slushy machine is being gently applied to the fibers of your very core. You experience tingles and twirls and swirls and lush and lust, all slithering from the top of your clit to the bottom of your spine.

Being eaten out feels like a split personality of sexuality and susceptibility. Every lingering kiss that inches closer to your protruding hips and every feathering finger that slides inside, creating a hurricane of burning pleasure, is a reminder of vulnerable closeness. Of detached togetherness. Of fucking love.

Being eaten out feels like The Weeknd – Wicked Games is being played on the bottom of your rib cage. Every vibration hums and murmurs and purrs and buzzes until the top or your clit quivers in scintillated sound.

Being eaten out feels like Medusa let her hair down between your legs. You’ve always preferred a man to a woman but the snakes weave fingers in and out and in and out, searching looking finding feeding rubbing twirling circling in, around, down and you are left wondering why Perseus would ever cut her head off.

Being eaten out feels like your hair is shivering with ravishment. Strands of culmination crawl to the edges of the bed, lingering at the palms of your clawing hands and aching with felicitous ecstasy and sprawling across passionate sheets just yearning for a taste.

Being eaten out feels like a lump or orgasm is stuck in your throat, slowly sliding down to your chest, then your tits, then your stomach, then your hips, then that birthmark, then your pussy, then your clit lips tongue until he licks it out of you, never lacing your mouth with his. He awakens a slumbering luxury that was previously resting on the top of every sleeping nerve you’ve become so accustomed to hiding under passion-painted skin.

Being eaten out feels like melting. Your skin is steaming chai tea and your legs are boiling noodles and your chest is sinking sand. The core of the earth resides between your legs, boiling and swelling and swirling in a clit that he rubs with the tentacles of his lust for you.

Being eaten out simply feels.

Being eaten out simply makes you feel.

And you’re left wondering if you’ve ever felt anything like this before. Thought Catalog Logo Mark

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