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Okay, yeah, I freely admit that it was porn that started the whole thing off … the ‘whole thing’ being my love for ejaculating on a woman’s face. That’s right, my name is Jack Carrer … and I am a facial lover.

Like a lot of guys my age—that’s the early 40s in case you were wondering—I came to porn late. I grew up in a pre-Internet society, which meant if you wanted access to porn you physically had to go into a shop and buy it … printed on paper, which, if you were serious about it, probably meant a journey to some distant part of the city where none of the local news agents knew you or your parents. Otherwise, you simply hoped to get lucky and find one in the bushes somewhere.

Maybe it wasn’t such a thing back then, but the odd porn magazine we were occasionally able to get our hands on every now and then, never really had much in the way of pictures of women with thick globs of semen splashed across their cheeks. There was a lot of horribly lit penetration, that was for sure (don’t forget, this was also before the digital revolution and Photoshop changed visual reality forever), and as far as ‘niche’ tastes went, the choice seemed to range from the usual stuff to big tits (there was, I recall, a magazine called Jiggly Juggly Jugs), large women and peculiarly scary bondage. Probably only porn sophisticates would have even known that facials were actually a thing.

Moving from the UK to Barcelona in my early 20s, I found things were very different. Porn magazines were sold openly in street kiosks, along with video and DVDs, and sex shops there were aplenty. It was looking down at this array of magazines on the famous Ramblas that I began to get an inkling that when it came to porn and sex, people were into a lot of different things. It was also when I began to realize that I, specifically, was drawn to the facial.

Having plucked up the courage to buy a DVD—I mean, they were just THERE, for Christ’s sake, IN PLAIN SIGHT, for everyone to purchase!—I took it back to my flat and popped it into my player. It was all pretty arousing stuff, of course, to a young man discovering some fresh illicit material, naked women, bums and breasts bouncing about, blowjobs (photographic stills were one thing, but, boy, do moving pictures bring out the most in a recorded blowie!) and then … it happened! A woman got down on her knees after a powerful bout of shagging, looked up at her male counterpart and said the words that would forever burn themselves onto the lust centers of my brain, “Come on my face!” And damn, if the guy didn’t do exactly that, and then some. He actually seemed to explode all over the woman’s seemingly joyful face. I mean it went everywhere! Thick white yoghurt-y streaks traced diagonal lines across the entirety of her face, dripping slowly between her lips and into her mouth, welling under her nose and the corner of one of her eyes … It was, without doubt, the hottest thing I had ever seen and from that moment, I was hooked. It became the thing I looked for in porn.

I began to search out the ‘facial’ and found, much to my happiness, that there was a pretty big subculture for it. And, to my surprise, I quickly found that even within the niche itself, there were things I liked and things I didn’t, that I had developed predilections for certain facials and distaste for others. For example, I enjoy the skin/semen contrast, meaning I like the jizz to be full-bodied, white and sticky, so it clings to the cheeks and actually looks like it’s there; this meant, for example, that for me a lot of the Euro-porn that was coming out of places like France and Italy at the time were out, because for some reason or other—possibly the food— the men seemed only able to ejaculate a thin, watery fluid that slid straight off and made the woman look like a messy drinker and nothing else.

I also found that bukkake was not my thing either. This you might think would be unusual. If you like to see a man come on a woman’s face, surely you’d like to see lots of men do so. I thought the same. Turned out I was wrong. It was just too much, and in the end, the woman looks like a drenched mess. At most, two guys is fine, but I prefer one on one. My wife says this is because I’m a romantic. I have a feeling she’s being ironic.

But talking of my wife leads me to the next part of the facial journey and the one I get the biggest joy from. Eventually, as happens, what once existed only in the realm of the pornographic entered reality; the time came to ask an actual lover if coming on a face was something that could happen for real. It’s a hell of a thing to ask, the first time, because, there’s something so deliciously dirty about coming on someone’s face, something so illicit, it’s hard to know what the reaction will be. A slap on your own face, perhaps, followed by the slamming of a door? A look of utter revulsion or downright suspicion maybe?

Well, I guess I got lucky. The first girl I ever asked, hardly daring to hope, while fully expecting a black eye, was a bemused smile that quickly became a lascivious grin. The look became even more bemused when I asked if she would actually say the words—the words are really important to me— “Come on my face.” She shook her head, as if amused by the precociousness of a naughty child, and then took me by the hand to the bedroom, where she proceeded to take me in her mouth. The anticipation of what I knew was about to happen was almost so much I came right there and then, but I managed to hold back and enjoy the blowjob. Eventually, my partner felt my growing excitement, the tension in my body, and began saying the words, “Come on my face… please… please come on my face.” To be honest, the “please”—which I wasn’t expecting—almost killed me, but not quite, and it was with utter, joyful abandon that I emptied by balls over that grinning face … and in doing so putting my feet on a path I would never want to leave.

Knowing that it can actually happen doesn’t make it any less difficult to broach the subject with new partners, but for the most part I have been fortunate and have found myself in happy, open-minded relationships where I am able to ask for these things. I am especially fortunate that my wife loves to oblige me in what she considers to be my only sexual oddity (she shares my love for role play and dressing up, so that doesn’t count), and the sly pleasure she gets from how, even now, I can still feel quite shy about wanting to do it. For my own part I prefer to save the facial for certain moments. Coming on my partner’s face all the time would take the pleasure out of it, would make it mundane—and I want to always feel the thrill when, in the heat of the moment, I can whisper in my wife’s ear, “Say the words,” and she will squeeze me tight and whisper into mine, “Please…” and the world around me begins to glow. It is, in essence, a moment of connection for us, a moment of trust, where my, let’s say, weirder proclivities are embraced and accepted, and that is something deeply special.

There are those who think it’s nasty. Coming on your partner’s face is demeaning to her and to women in general, they think. But, here’s the thing; even though I will admit that, yes, there is a certain amount of ‘dominance play’ in coming on your partner’s face—after all, they have to kneel down for it, which in no uncertain terms adds a further frisson of illicit pleasure—the fact of the matter is, that whenever a man goes down on a woman, if your face doesn’t come up from between her legs absolutely soaking in her juices, then you’re doing it wrong. Cunnilingus, if you know what you’re about, basically means having a woman come all over your face. So, to some extent, we could call fair’s fair. But who wants to make it about that? Coming on my partner’s face is my own personal playful perversion—I don’t care how many other people in the world are into it—it is part of who I am, and she accepts it, as I accept the things that she likes that make her who she is.

And now I really need to go and hear those words …

Jack Carrer for BaDoink.com

Image courtesy of Shutterstock
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Everyone’s got a thing. It could be something as mild as a particular brand of fragrance or as hardcore weird as wanting your partner to be entirely wrapped in cold, wet spaghetti while they pleasure you (I have no evidence that anyone does the spaghetti thing so photos would be welcome). The point is, whatever it may be, all of us have something that really gets us going.

In my case, it’s lingerie, specifically stockings and suspenders. Just writing the words has caused an involuntary ripple of desire in my bloodstream. In the grand old scheme of turn-ons, a pair of sheer stockings and a suspender belt is probably something of a classic. I’m okay with that; I’m a classic kind of guy. As an extra frisson, I’ll sometimes ask my partner to select a hand—one containing a black chess piece, the other containing a white—and depending on the color chosen, she will either play it innocently (white) or vampishly (black). I like both.

My partner tells me that I’m the first man who’s ever specifically asked her to wear such items, but also that she is very happy that I did, if only for the look on my face when she wears them for me.

So what is it exactly about stockings and suspenders that float my longboat? Is it perhaps because I’m British? There’s definitely an argument for that; they have been an icon of naughtiness in the UK (or UK-lite as the case may be after the vote on Scottish independence) for as long as I can remember, from the cheeky school uniform of the bad girls of the classic St. Trinians films to the wild fantasies of what lies below the uniforms of policewomen and nurses (perhaps in no small part thanks to the likes of Benny Hill and the old Carry On films). Maybe it’s the combination of stockings and suspenders with any kind of uniform, indicating that strange sexual pull towards authoritarianism that many Brits appear to share. Perhaps that explains Margaret Thatcher.

So, yes, I’d say that this may have a little to do with why I love S&S (their place in British popular culture, I mean; not on the Iron Lady’s gnarly proletariat-stompers); at least in terms of how they buried themselves into my consciousness during my formative years. That said, however they may have gotten into my head, it’s certainly not love of country that comes to mind when my partner strips down to reveal them (it’s not Queen Lizzy II for whom I’m upstanding). That’d just be plain weird, although, like we said at the beginning, everybody’s got a thing.

In the end, it comes down to aesthetics. The lines. Yeah, I’m going there … the artistic route! That and the probably-quite-key fact that above all else I am what is commonly known as … an ass man. And, boy, there is nothing that frames a beautiful bum (and my partner has a bea-u-ti-ful bum) like a pair of stockings and suspenders, the heady color contrast between material and flesh tones. They accentuate those two magical ovoid globes; they draw the eye to the greatest of peaches like a naked flame draws a moth. The strap of each suspender, connecting belt to stocking and clinging tightly to the curve of the backside, gracefully draws the gentle rounded arc of each wonderful cheek; the naturally designed triangle of the belt above the strap and the pulled triangle of a taut stocking top below serves even further to mark that sweet roundedness. Circles within circles … is there anything more universal? More hypnotic?

Not for me, clearly. Then again, if you’re into spaghetti…

Jack Carrer for BaDoink.com

Image courtesy of Shutterstock
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