July 13, 2010

A Guest Post by KEN

Hello. My name’s Ken.

For those of you who weren’t around when I last introduced myself, in my ode to Not-So-Skinny-Women during Man Month, I’m white, goofy, red-headed, gainfully-employed, six-foot-two, and I’ve never had a cavity.

I was an altar boy, an honors student, a Cub Scout, an award-winning high-school artist and a professional puppeteer (honest). I even spent two years in India reading to the homeless and aged.

Oh, and I’m obsessed with having women sit on my face.

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We all have our fetishes. Our strange predilections. Those things we absolutely, positively need to indulge in on a regular basis, lest we get a bit silly and start pounding our heads against the wall.

For me, that thing, that fetish — as anyone with even a passing familiarity with my blog, Lustmongers, already knows — is having my face wedged between female buttocks.

I think it began in my high school days. I was probably about 15, messing around with my friend Lisa when she knocked me over during a playful wrestling session, straddled my chest while facing my feet, and planted her jeans-clad booty on my face. Trapped under the weight of her round and, as I recall, pretty fucking remarkable glutes, I felt a wave of desire wash over me. Something I’d previously only felt for stacks of coveted Wade Boggs rookie cards and souped-up dirt bikes. I remember struggling under her, desperately wanting to breathe but praying that she’d keep me tucked under there forever. At one point, she raised her ass off my face, laughing as she asked if I’d had enough. I just stared forward, my eyes transfixed by the curves of her ass all up in my face, the seams of her faded Guess jeans so close I could stretch out my tongue and trace them, the feel of her thighs on either side of my head almost transcendental.

She sat back down on my face and I was hooked. Done. Fini. I was an ass man. A “please, sit on my face” man.

As I worked my way through college, my fetish took hold. When I met women in bars or classrooms or casinos, I took only passing interest in their faces or hairstyles or majors. I waited until that moment they turned around, in order to soak in the full majesty of their derrieres. And from that moment, I began plotting and scheming how I’d get that ass on my face by night’s end.

It’s not easy work, this fetish. Not surprisingly, there are some women who don’t jump at the chance to have some dude’s nose up crammed up their assholes. Some say they’ll try it for a bit if it makes me happy, others dismiss it outright. I try to make it worth their while. My hands gently massage their thighs. My tongue traces gently toward their holiest of holies. I appreciate their business and I’m looking to build a base of repeat customers, so damn right I work the magic. If they aren’t reduced to a quivering pile of orgasm-saturated nerve endings by the time they crawl off my face, then I haven’t done my job. And as a face-sitting enthusiast, that shit don’t fly with me.

One former paramour summed it up best when she told me, “I don’t really dig sticking my ass in a guy’s face. But seeing the way you react and how your body responds to me sitting on your face. It’s a pretty big turn-on.” And I think that’s the bottom line, so to speak. You may not dig it, ladies, but when you see what doing it to me inspires me to do to you… you’ll become a convert.

I used to spend hours wondering what this fetish said about me. Does it reveal an inherently subordinate nature? Am I something less than a man because I dig kissing female arse? Can it all somehow be connected to my great Aunt Nettie, who touched me indecently?

Then I realized that time I spent pondering this question was time I wasn’t dedicating to finding women who’d sit on my face. So I dropped that shit real fast and got back on the case.

So I’m here for you, ladies. You and your asses.

Love,

Ken

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