A Personal History of Feeding

The first time is on a date. We are being drunk and stupid. We buy cake, which I take a chunk of between my fingers and push towards her mouth; I expect her to turn her head, laugh, shove my hand away. She doesn’t.

She parts her lips and her lithe tongue wraps around the tips of my fingers. Takes the piece of cake from me into the warm soft interior of her mouth. Eye contact all the while. I feel a sharp sensation behind my rib cage, as though someone has pulled, hard, on a lever I never knew was there.

*

The second time is with the same lover. We have spent all day in bed together. It’s a Sunday. From her window you can see all the way to the City of London – rendered now as a collection of patchwork lights. It is late and I am lazy. I stretch, scratch, pull on my shoes. Downstairs, on the street, most shops are shut. Down the road a takeaway is still doing business. The glow from the fluorescent lights spills out over the pavement like milk.

She’s awake when I return to the flat. I have a carrier bag, and in the carrier bag is a tub of ice cream, already bristling with condensation in the slow heat of the evening. I peel away the bag. Fetch a spoon. She sits up in bed, but I have her lie down again.

At first, before it has melted, we have to use the spoon. I dig out white slivers of ice cream and feed them to her. She licks the back of the spoon, leaves it slick with her spit. It is sweet. Vanilla. It softens quickly until I can press the spoon into it and have it ooze and bubble from beneath. Not long after that, it can be poured. I do pour it. Into her mouth. She swallows and grunts. It froths and spills over, a white trail of it leaking down her cheek.

*

Years later. Another lover. She hates tomatoes. The rank, fruity taste of them. They make me gag, she says. But what if you had to eat them? I say. We negotiate for a while, and then I go to the supermarket on the corner. Opt for vine tomatoes, five to a pack. You really can taste the difference.

Back at the flat I chop them, patiently, into thin, uniform wedges. I can almost taste the sugar in them. The greenhouse smell fills my head. She watches, somewhat nervously, as I fill a small bowl with slices of tomato.

She struggles a little at first. I end up standing behind her, pressing her head back against my shoulder with one hand while, with the other, I fetch wet handfuls of tomato from the bowl and smear them into her mouth. Juice and pips drip down her chin, and she shudders as though she’s about to be sick. She isn’t sick. I hold her in place and tell her, once she’s finished chewing, to swallow every mouthful. We finish the entire bowl.

*

Another lover. Later still. She holds my dick in her hand, close to her chest, in line with her sternum. My balls rest against her stomach. She jerks me, and I hunch over her and she pushes her tongue into my mouth as she kisses me. I can feel her arching up from the bed underneath my weight. She is lithe, smooth, androgynous. Eyes so bright they seem alien.

It doesn’t take long for her to make me come. And when I do she pulls back to watch me. Squeezes my dick in her hand in time with the pulses of warm come that paint themselves across her belly and breasts. She groans with satisfaction. Shows her teeth.

After I’m done she is covered. Thick liquid clinging to her skin. She opens her mouth, slightly. Parts her lips and smiles. I pick up some of myself on the tips of my fingers and bring it to her mouth, where she licks hungrily. Sucks the tips of my fingers. Replaces my come with her saliva, and then pulls back to wait to be fed some more.