More Deceived

Summer heat: warm air wafting through opened windows carrying scents of lavender and jasmine; trees gently swaying, their leaves whispering a hushed sigh over the campus; the sky never quite dark, even as early as June, a rich violet at its westernmost modulating to a dusky rose. The rising sap of the solstice affected me deeply, too, a tsunami of feeling rising from my pit of my being through my groin to my mind, leaving me dizzy with desire. Images and visions shimmered before me, siren songs of lust and carnal physicality always denied in real life. Throughout the university, wherever I went on campus, my ravenous eye gazed and gawped at the rich profusion of alluring women who contemptuously ignored my own grotesque physical vessel, capturing their images for my own private album. Big-boned, amply-framed, acne-pitted, balding and yet flame-haired, my own attempts to engage my female acquaintances and classmates into something more than idle chitchat and shoptalk ended in rebuff after painful rebuff, snub after soul-crushing snub.

It was maddening to be in the midst of such abundance and yet, like Tantalus, always be denied my desires. The mid-summer heat exacerbated this beyond rational measure, as ceaseless longing curdled into something more insistent. Ensconced in my room in the halls, with my laptop greedily slurping up bandwidth from the university network, I sought relief in the traditional manner. Feeling horribly constrained, rejected and scorned by women, my pornographic consumption devolved into something more aggressive and antagonistic. Deep within the dungeons of my imagination I delved, seeking ever more, and ever more vivid, instances of female subjection and the triumph of the male will. Moving swiftly on from the grim paraphernalia of BDSM, its cheerless whips, chains, masks and ropes, and the grotesque pottytraining horrors of watersports and scat, I discovered my own satisfaction with bukkake. What always pleased me most was the apparent visible joy of the female participants, their insistence and delight on being ejaculated upon, their charming submission as they gazed up to the camera, eyelashes glittering with semen, cheeks and foreheads and noses and chins thick with multiple splattered layers of cum. There were several types of bukkake films: traditional bukkake where the woman lay silently submitting to dozens of sweaty masturbating men ejaculating upon her face (I didn’t like those so much); blowbangs, where one woman fellated several men and then begged them to blow their loads upon her face (those were my favourites); and orgies, where several men and several women sucked and fucked their acrobatic way to the point where the grunting men blurted their essence upon one lucky female (I always felt these took too long to get to the point). And there were always the traditional one-on-ones, from dozens of websites and hundreds of performers. Thousands of videos – MPG, MP4, WMA, AVI, MKV, DIVX – were crammed into my hard drive. I masturbated (so it seemed) ceaselessly, my university-supply bin filled with clammy yellowing tissues, my small boxy room smelling rankly of my own discarded semen. Which seemed in the circumstances mildly appropriate.

Finding new content, new videos, was a nightly task I approached with rigorous discipline. I organised folders for each of the major websites: Come On Her Face, Cover My Face, Big League Facials, Jizz On My Glasses, Exploited Teens, Exploited Black Teens, Exploited College Girls, Southern Bukkake, Mega Facials, Bust A Nut On A Slut. I joined websites for enthusiasts of this particular sexual niche, where (for a not-inconsiderable fee) I could trade film clips, pictures and some kind of camaraderie with fellow devotees. This last was unexpected yet almost tangible, as far as such things could be perceived across the internet, as we exchanged anecdotes and tips, complaints and bragging. We felt, for once, right at home in our cosy little niche with no need to explain our particular kink, no wish to justify or alienate or condemn. Having (of course!) never even distantly approached the remotest likelihood of experiencing the actions I obsessively scrutinized, such acceptance greatly diminished both my guilt and feeling of being an outcast. It was normal, acceptable.

I had been absurdly surprised to find there were numerous women who were members of the site, often in conjunction with their partners. They would post videos or pictures of themselves in the act and enjoy the accolades and glory of the many compliments from the forum. Some spoke about their desire to arrange bukkake sessions – though they were always in ludicrously distant locations, in Tennessee, Dortmund, or deepest Alberta. Some, indeed, appeared to be porn “stars” (that fatuous Warholian epithet), trying to round up participants in the next shoot: it appeared that getting fifty or seventy or eighty men to take part was not easy; many chickened out at the last moment. But a thread then started from a British woman who wanted men to take part in a film, to be shot in London. You would not be paid, but you would get to take part in a film, fulfil a fantasy, live the dream, and all those other soft-soap manipulative clichés. Nonetheless, I wanted to do it: years of pent-up frustration could be expelled, and it would be a dream, for the woman was indeed good-looking, with painted pouty lips, glossy eyes and bulbous bra-restrained breasts. To do that… to be able to do that… to have her ask for it, enjoy it… just thinking about it set my heart racing, my tongue thick in my mouth, blood roaring through my arteries.

I had to do it.

I emailed the contact address and next day received a reply, stating time and location (6pm in two week’s time in an unfamiliar location in Forest Gate, East London), and setting some guidelines: don’t touch her, don’t speak to her, don’t get in the way of the cameraman, go one after another, don’t linger there too long, don’t masturbate or have sex the day before, wear a mask if you don’t want to be identified, don’t cum anywhere except her face, and more like this. The martial precision of these requirements were repellent, like the rules in a cheap British B&B. There was certainly nothing erotic about it, and it was no surprise that the email came not from the woman herself but was a standard form from the company producing the film.

Yet it was an invite, all the same, and I resolved to go. At the least I would get to cum on her face, which I couldn’t see happening with anyone else as far as I was concerned. Love, that distant dream, had never seemed so far away, yet beneath it all, at the heart of all the porn and all the wanking, it was all I wanted. Absurdly, I felt some kind of connection with my favourite videos, and my favourite performers; perhaps seeing them in such a primal state gave a sense of their truest, deepest being. (Maybe they were just good actors.) But when I reached yet another self-induced orgasm, always a flood of yearning rose up within me, yearning for love and acceptance and affection. It was always their smiling, indeed joyful acceptance of male desire that endlessly stimulated me: they loved it. That was the whole point. They loved it, and I ached to give it to them.

London was a mere train-ride away, and one I was glad enough to make. I checked into a modest hotel near Victoria (so modest, indeed, that there was an oven in my room) then made my uncertain way to Forest Gate via Tube and then overland rail. The address was only for a number on a street; it turned out to be a large warehouse in a shabby light industry area of small factories and bland offices. I felt the vestiges of paranoia tickling my feverish mind, sure that the people milling around knew what I was up to. That forklift driver, that delivery man, that woman in the burger van! But no one paid any attention to me. I found the doorway and depressed the buzzer, to be greeted by the rasping tones of a rough Essex working class man who asked if I was ‘ere for the shoot. I affirmed this was so, and was duly buzzed inside. Inside a stark, bleakly utilitarian workshop with strip-lighting held about forty men standing awkwardly in nervous clusters. Rasp-voiced man approached me, a fifty year old in bad gold jewellery and stubble, enquiring my name, which he ticked off on a clip board. We were waiting for others, he said, then we’d get started. He chuckled a little and walked off. I looked around at the men, who conspicuously avoided my eye; they looked all ages and classes, from oversexed mechanics to greasy unemployed to tubby middle-managers. I was the youngest. No one looked willing to strike up a conversation, there was nobody talking at all, though tension and apprehension filled the air like static. I took out my mobile phone and pretended to find something fascinating in it, when I was just looking at Google Maps. Maybe I was trying to find a way out.

Time passed. How long – twenty minutes, half an hour? Another man arrived, then another shortly after that. Then no-one at all for another half an hour, at which point Rasp Man returned. He stood in the centre of the workshop and reiterated the rules which had been emailed to all of us, then said that “Paula” would be down shortly. An ironic cheer went up, an easing of the enveloping tension. Rasp Man did not take kindly to this and warned us all, like schoolchildren, not to fuck about. He said she would lie down on the bench and finger herself, while we should stand around her in a circle and toss ourselves off, then come on her face.

He then pulled a bench into the middle of the workshop and set up some studio lights at each corner. The bright glare threw us all into cruel overexposure, at which some pulled on baseball caps, sunglasses and even Halloween masks. I hadn’t thought to bring any such thing with me, rationalising that the camera would be exclusively trained on her. Eventually, Paula came from some inner room, with dyed-blonde hair and a thick coating of make-up, wearing a tightly-tied dressing gown and heels: I could almost hear forty men swallow thickly with anticipation. She looked older than the picture. Rasp Man reappeared with a digital video camera and peered through it towards Paula who sat meekly on her hands on the bench, muttering to himself then adjusting the lights, making them even brighter.

He nodded to Paula, who took off her dressing gown, to wolf whistles and cheers, revealing the traditional bra, knickers and suspenders set. We all started moving around the bench, encircling her; I got a spot to her side. She started slowly peeling off her clothes in the classic teasing style, then ran her hands over her naked body. One or two guys started feeling themselves through their trousers, which focused my attention on her. She lay back on the bench, gently rubbing between her legs. Some guys took out their penises and started masturbating, others following suit. She frigged herself hard, bucking as though in orgasm, moaning and groaning. By now even I was feeling aroused, despite all the men around me whapping away. I started wanking, feeling shy of doing so and yet not wanting to stand out.

Quickly, one man moved up to Paula’s face and shot his load on it. She said nothing, keeping one hand between her legs. The warehouse was silent except for the sound of forty men wanking. Another guy went up, then another, then another, then another, then another. Some grunted, some groaned, some were silent. I could see her face becoming blurry and coagulated with cum. In the bright glare it looked horrible. Another man, then another, then another, then another, then another, then another, then another. Then another, then another. Because Paula was lying down on the bench, the semen on her face was pooling on her eyes and seeping past her eyelids, and no doubt stinging badly. Another man, then another, then another, then another, then another, then another. She whimpered in discomfort but kept plugging away. The cum on her face started to liquefy, going clear and colourless. I focused on the job, trying to summon an orgasm. I had never felt less aroused in my life. Another man, then another, then another, then another. There were only a few stragglers left by now, and I was feeling red-raw. Another man, then another. I closed my eyes and thought of my favourite videos. I waddled over to Paula, who half looked like she was drowning, struggling to breathe in air through her nose. I saw the birth marks on her belly. She had cum in her hair, in her ears, pooling in her neck.

I apologetically blurted a weak load onto her cheek and then scuttled away. One or two guys were still there, wanking furiously, failing to orgasm. Rasp Man asked if they were going to finish. They grunted, troll-like. Rasp Man switched off the camera and said it was over, turning off the lights.