I like them big cocks, I like them small cocks. I like them hard cocks. I like them soft cocks. I like them thick cocks. I like them narrow cocks. I like…
All I really want to say is how much I love cock. That box under my bed is really, more than anything, a testament to my love of cock-shaped things. I’m very unmaterialistic by nature. I have very few desires for *stuff*. Take no particular pleasure in shopping or the general acquiring of things. I prefer the library to the bookshop. I don’t even really care for being bought presents. (I am really not built for this dominant woman thing, am I?) The only things I seem to buy unnecessarily and (at the end of a long month, occasionally regretfully) are sex toys. Specifically vibrators and dildos. I linger in the shops that sell my objects of desire. Ask for the glass swirly ones to be brought out of the locked cabinets. Curl my fingers around the cool nubbly shafts. Close my eyes. Feel it.
I have been known to pause in the kitchen and hold a particularly lovelily shaped courgette for more than a moment and smile – just because it reminds me of my favourite thing.
Because it is that. The phallic objects are my fascination, my comfort and joy, purely because they remind me of the greatest thing of all. I am sitting in the library writing this right now and I find it impossible not to look at every man who passes me, every non-descript, crumpled, nothing-in-particular of a man and think that each of them has a cock, has a wonder of flesh-engineering hidden close at his centre. A delicate shadow of a thing at this moment perhaps, but its soft shape is the perfect chameleon circuit for its hidden hot and its hidden hard.
Cocks are magical. The transform and they are transformative. They are his power and his weakness. A kind of desperate strength. Are you really surprised I like them so much?
I think there is another reason the idea of CBT does very little for me. Okay it can work. It hurts. The sadist inside me uncoils when anything happens that hurts him. And I mean anything. Jack can turn me on just by pretending I am hurting him. If he twists his face just right, gasps, the memories of a thousand other times that expression was caused by not-so-nice stimulus rush up from my heart to my brain and then plunge down, down, down to where it matters most. I’m a sadist – there is no escape. His pain will always do something to me. But CBT, quite often, to a cock obsessive like me, seems to be a little like smashing up my favourite toys… a little like golden goose and all the trimmings.
Cock is my passion. My truest love. My one and only. My desert island wish.
But why are cocks not venerated more by heterosexual women. It seems like I hear more from het women about their love of boobies than their love of cock. In polyamory there is even a word: boobiesexual meaning someone (a woman) who loves boobies. Now (apart from the fact I feel like an emotional retard having just typed boobies that often), let me tell you, I get boobies. I understand. They feel nice. But! So do cocks. And in a direct competition I think cocks win because boobies, nice feeling as they are, don’t do anything. (I mean, for me, during sex, obviously they have a big and important job in the wider scheme of things.) So why is no one a cockosexual?
And, really, how come polyamory – or anywhere – has this boobiesexual concept from women (mainly) who love boobies, and there is no equivalent for men who love cock. Obviously the reason for this is that men who love cock have to be kept separately *over* *here*. But, ‘chaknow, I do wonder why yet again female bisexuality (or some version of it) gets this special treatment in another supposedly progressive sexual sub-culture.
(Once, I said to Jack, I wish you were gay, it would be so hot, and he said, No you don’t, I wouldn’t fuck you. And I said, No, you wouldn’t *want* to fuck me. But that is really another story.)
And talking of gay – how come gay men talk about cock in a way women just don’t? Gay men can wax about cocks (and probably wax cocks) rarely do you hear a woman just go on and on about her deep abiding mouth-watering, cunt-wetting, brain-fogging desire for cock.
Above all I think there is some kind of idea that liking wanting craving and needing cock is somehow a weakness. (In a way that men liking wanting craving and needing cunt just isn’t.)
Maybe it connects to the dark ages. To way back when feminism fell (or was it pushed) for an idea that needing and wanting and desiring men weakened women. That somehow wanting cock, wanting to be done to, craving that thing, that thrust, his strength, left women lost not found. This happens when freedom is fought for. Do we want to join with our oppressors or turn our backs on them? It’s Martin Luther King/Malcolm X dilemma. Or, depending on how you like your cultural references the Professor Xavier/Magneto one.
But that dilemma is extra complex when it comes to men and women because of desire. Women (for the most part) desire men. That means that falling for men, into their beds, into their hearts, onto their cocks, as active desire never weakens women. Because understanding and acting on your desires can never be weak. And saying that it does doesn’t actually have anything to do with real feminism. Or any kind of equality. Having desire and acting on it is strength. Knowing your desires is to know yourself, is strength, fulfilling your desires is to acknowledge your strength.
In fact the idea that loving and craving cock is weakness sounds more like a kind of faux-feminism getting in bed with that old femdom (and other misogynies) staple about getting penetrated being unfun. (Do me up the arse mistress, I *hate* that. So humiliating. Strap on wielding mistresses – do one thing for me – get fucked up the arse (properly and well) before you next use it as a ‘punishment’ ’cause it feels addictively awesome. )
The idea that wanting/loving/being a consumer of cock is weak can only be about the idea that getting fucked is weak, that taking up the female position during sex is inherently the weaker one. That is bollocks and it is hard to see how any concept that endorses that (whether it be strap on sex being the pinnacle of femdom, the idea that dominant women can’t get fucked or any kind of keeping away from what you desire because it is feminine and therefore weak) can be in anyway good. And, yes, if you are a woman who *likes* being submissive, this is precisely a rallying call that doing what you desire is the most empowering and the most *feminist* thing you can do.
And this is why feminists have better sex. And I should know.
And I. Love. Cock.
And yes I know I am permanently enslaved by my desire for something that is not any part of me, something I do not have, something outside of me. But that’s the Wildean pleasure principle for you. The pleasures of my own body? Well, I was slightly drunk on them as soon as I hit puberty.
Now I want something more. And there’s that pleasure in scarcity. (Not that I have it that scarce now Jack and Pan both live with me – but still.) That sweetness that comes from having to work and wait for it – even if just a little.
His hard arms. The biceps. The real love muscle. Quivering with the tension as he holds himself and does what I desire.
All I really want to say is I love cock. Cocks are sex toys. Cocks make my day. Cocks make men into sex objects. Cocks make men into *pleasure* objects. You are the keeper of the key to my kingdom. Your only purpose is to take good care of it until I want it again.
The secrets and lies that cocks do not pleasure women, that getting fucked or sucking cock is not fun, is just a big cloud of fog to cover up the way that purely having a cock objectifies men. Makes them the sex objects. They have the sex object.
It’s time to change that. Time for straight women to claim men’s bodies as our pleasure objects in the way that men have always claimed ours. Make sure it is understood that what comes shooting out of his cock, way before the showstopper that is his whiteout, is my pleasure. I look at this way – on my body I have this thing, my clit, which is there just to give me pleasure, and on his body there is this thing, his cock, which is there just to give me pleasure.
And of course I want my pleasure. What could be weak or needy about that?
I love cock. I would not like to try and live without it. They come with men attached to them, but that’s just fine. I like to think of this less as an inconvenience more as a two for one deal. The thing that gives me pleasure comes bundled with free gift. A thing that can take the rubbish out and put shelves up.
My name is Bitchy Jones and I am a cockoholic.