Consuming Bodily Fluids
We all know what it feels like to want to be so close to someone that merely pressing yourself up against their body is not enough, and the only way to achieve the desired level of closeness would be to literally cut them open and crawl inside their ribcage, submerge yourself in all the weird…
My boyfriend suffers from chronic nosebleeds, which is cool for me because I happen to find nosebleeds incredibly hot, and whenever he gets one all I can think about is licking his lips or eating his bloody tissues or drinking the stuff straight from his nostrils. At first he wouldn’t indulge me—I think it was a mix of the obvious health risks and him being skeptical of how much it actually turned me on—but now, after months of begging, he’s taken to letting me clean his face with my tongue whenever the opportunity presents itself.
The desire to consume his bodily fluids seems totally obvious to me, as it’s just another way of getting at what’s “inside him,” or whatever cheesy way you want to put it. We all know what it feels like to want to be so close to someone that merely pressing yourself up against their body is not enough, and the only way to achieve the desired level of closeness would be to literally cut them open and crawl inside their ribcage, submerge yourself in all the weird junk that lives beneath their skin. Or, alternatively, to drink their blood/piss/sweat/spit/whatever. This is a natural human desire that emerges somewhere within that foggy space between obsession and love. It is not weird.
The dominatrix who I sometimes assist, Mistress Dee, recently invited me to join her in a “piss blast”—a service she regularly performs for a client who’s “into piss, blood, and any other liquidy stuff you can make come out of you.” I agreed, and her text response read as follows: Come in secretary outfit with your makeup and hair looking nice, and be VERY hydrated. I drink a gallon of water before meeting him. He is bringing a tarp for the floor.
I show up at the dungeon in midtown at 4pm. Dee is late. The receptionist leads me to a room with red walls and a throne and a giant black wooden X on the wall with metal chains hanging from its edges. I sit on a large leather cage and change into a pencil skirt, white blouse and secretary-ish glasses that I bought from a sidewalk bargain bin on the way here.
“Sorry I’m late, nothing is going right for me today,” says Dee as she barges through the door. She slams her large handbag onto the cage next to me and begins rummaging through it. “Oh great,” she moans, “now my tooth brush just rubbed against my butt plug.” #EverydayProblems.
The client shows up and Dee tells him to get naked. This is how most sessions begin. He’s in his late 40s with a big gut and dyed brown hair with graying roots. He strips down, reaches into his gym bag and pulls out a large black tarp that he spreads out into the floor. Next comes a plastic funnel with a 2ft hose taped to its small end. “I made this special for the occasion,” he says with a stupid smile. “So I don’t waste a drop.” I wince.
The client lies down on the tarp face up and Dee begins by straddling his head and peeing into his open mouth. Dee looks like a doll, like she’s from another time: chestnut ringlets, skin paler than pale, body like a Gibson Girl. Mid-pee Dee catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror, stops to squeeze her ass and says, “Damn, I’m hot, aren’t I?” The client and I both smile and nod. It’s genuine.
I close my eyes and try as hard as I can to erase my mind of thought as I piss onto the client’s head, stomach, dick, wherever. I stop and start again, to make the fun last longer. Dee and I take turns peeing into the funnel as he guzzles from the far end of the hose. There is so much pee. Both of us have clearly been holding it for hours and the sheer amount of the stuff shocks us all. He’s flapping around on the floor like a fish out of water, vacuuming up any excess urine off the tarp with his mouth.
“Mmm… I like it when they mix together,” he smiles, licking his lips. They compliment each other so nicely, like a pee cocktail.” He pauses to belch loudly, commenting that all the urine is making him bloated. I gag, feeling like I might actually puke. The pee itself isn’t the problem—I pee on people all the time—but for whatever reason I can’t help but find this whole scene completely vile. His actions are robotic. I feel like I should be able to relate to him, to empathize with his need to drink from someone else’s insides, but somehow this feels so different.
Because as much as I want to slurp my bf’s nosebleeds and make milkshakes out of his cum, it’s only him that I feel this way about. I don’t have a fetish for consuming bodily fluids, I have a fetish for him. And as I look down into the client’s piss burnt eyes, his head and chest hair matted with urine, I think, I am not like you. 
