/The Gift of Euphoria
The Pleasure Lies in the Giving
Article by Chelsea G. Summers
There is that moment. The body relaxes into a limp capitulation even as it suspends taut with anticipation. The eyes may close or they may widen in surprise, though the pupils go invariably round as pushpins. The mouth makes a little “o,” the circular call of cherubim, of succubae, of banshees. The skin flushes sanguine and spotty. The breath moves yogic. Time hangs apparitional and euphoria surrounds like a sweet pink cloud, a pristine cell of bubble wrap, a serendipitous shivery sliver.
It’s not your euphoria. Not exactly. It not yours because yours is not the limp-taut rag of erotic compliance, yours are not the eyes fluttering delicate as moths, yours is not the lower-case vowel pout, your skin is unchanged, your breath is unremarkable. Yet with your hands, your mouth, your turgid parts, your fecund imagination, your wily ministrations, you have created this moment for another. You have given free wild reins to your perversity and you have made marvels.
On the turf of your bed, you stride as a colossus.
You have made this moment, shaped and created it, attenuated it, molded it like clay with your mastery. This body on the bed, this transported person, this human: you have made him your bitch.
You recall the first time you discovered the power, the wonder, the glory of euphoric gifting. You were sixteen; he was too. It happened on a summer night, as these things often do, in a tent pitched on his family’s lawn. The raised ranch stood with silent eyes like a chock-a-block sentry. Outside the tent, the symphony of crickets and a bug zapper, its tszzzt a punctuation mark in the sibilant night; inside the flush and the hush and the methodical slurping of your mouth on his cock.
Even in the orange-coated dark you could see his disbelief. It was his first blow job; yours was the mouth that ripped his fellatio hymen; and it was better than he’d ever allowed himself to imagine. Even in that funky tenty murk, you knew that this was an exceptional moment in this young man’s life, that you were giving him a gift greater than the depth of your throat, the volume of your porn-starry spit, or the breadth of your magnanimity (the act would not, of course, be reciprocated). You were showing this body how it is bigger than itself, and as it exploded its hot, white, young come in your throat, you too felt something for the first time.
Power. It doesn’t suck, even if—or especially when—you do.
Garden-variety euphoria can come from any old erotic act. Any old orgasm carries with it a shredded scrap of euphoria, like the handkerchief in an old man’s suit. But only the unexpected erotic act bears the license for full-on transporting elation. Real 100% genuine accept-no-substitutes euphoria requires that experiencing something radical. It shakes the foundation. It creates question. It changes. It has made men cry.
You know because you were there.
There, this time, was this motel room striding the Colonial line between hospital-corner respectable and phantom come-stained seedy. This man was fully grown. An adult, he swaggered with goat-gathering braggadocio. He had sampled freely of the erotic banquet, had fucked girls aplenty, had entertained threesomes and moresomes, had tied women up and down, had peed in their mouths, had laughed as the door shut behind him. This man treated fucking with off-handed disregard, a sign that it was a lot more important to him than he wanted to admit.
It’s not your euphoria. Not exactly. It not yours because yours is not the limp-taut rag of erotic compliance, yours are not the eyes fluttering delicate as moths, yours is not the lower-case vowel pout, your skin is unchanged, your breath is unremarkable. Yet with your hands, your mouth, your turgid parts, your fecund imagination, your wily ministrations, you have created this moment for another. You have given free wild reins to your perversity and you have made marvels.
On the turf of your bed, you stride as a colossus.
You have made this moment, shaped and created it, attenuated it, molded it like clay with your mastery. This body on the bed, this transported person, this human: you have made him your bitch.
You recall the first time you discovered the power, the wonder, the glory of euphoric gifting. You were sixteen; he was too. It happened on a summer night, as these things often do, in a tent pitched on his family’s lawn. The raised ranch stood with silent eyes like a chock-a-block sentry. Outside the tent, the symphony of crickets and a bug zapper, its tszzzt a punctuation mark in the sibilant night; inside the flush and the hush and the methodical slurping of your mouth on his cock.
Even in the orange-coated dark you could see his disbelief. It was his first blow job; yours was the mouth that ripped his fellatio hymen; and it was better than he’d ever allowed himself to imagine. Even in that funky tenty murk, you knew that this was an exceptional moment in this young man’s life, that you were giving him a gift greater than the depth of your throat, the volume of your porn-starry spit, or the breadth of your magnanimity (the act would not, of course, be reciprocated). You were showing this body how it is bigger than itself, and as it exploded its hot, white, young come in your throat, you too felt something for the first time.
Power. It doesn’t suck, even if—or especially when—you do.
Garden-variety euphoria can come from any old erotic act. Any old orgasm carries with it a shredded scrap of euphoria, like the handkerchief in an old man’s suit. But only the unexpected erotic act bears the license for full-on transporting elation. Real 100% genuine accept-no-substitutes euphoria requires that experiencing something radical. It shakes the foundation. It creates question. It changes. It has made men cry.
You know because you were there.
There, this time, was this motel room striding the Colonial line between hospital-corner respectable and phantom come-stained seedy. This man was fully grown. An adult, he swaggered with goat-gathering braggadocio. He had sampled freely of the erotic banquet, had fucked girls aplenty, had entertained threesomes and moresomes, had tied women up and down, had peed in their mouths, had laughed as the door shut behind him. This man treated fucking with off-handed disregard, a sign that it was a lot more important to him than he wanted to admit.
It was Sunday, it was summer. A cerulean sky and a wealth of saturated cibachromatic green waited beyond that motel door. This man walked out of the blinding white bathroom, warm and damp as a steamed Chinese bun. You laid him face down on the red and blue ‘70s bedspread. You prised apart the twin globes of this hard-ass’s hard ass. You licked, you kissed, you sucked his freshly washed dusky asshole, and you felt his hard body become incandescent. You spread your spit like doughnut glaze over his ass, his asshole, his taint, and then, because you do it well, you sucked his cock. You made this jaded bastard your euphoric bitch, and when he rose all rosy and glowing, he acknowledged it.
“I feel like a chick,” he said. Yeah, you do, you said.
In your dark days, you can count these euphoric moments like rosary beads. The time you remained fully clothed as you carefully disrobed another laying waste to his jacket, his tie, his shirt, his shoes, his socks, his pants, his t-shirt and finally his man panties, until he lied on your bed like a creamy white éclair and then you ate him up, fucked and ate him until he swum in his own happy sauce. You recall the time you slowly fingerbanged this woman until the juice of her sloppy cunt ran dripping to your elbow, her pussy ululating like an anemone, her voice singing beatific songs. You summon the time you spread your ass and slowly, incrementally, lowered yourself onto a man’s cock with sadistic precision. You recollect the moment you and your lover spread yourselves across the sky and your celestial fucking made new worlds and fresh galaxies.
You remember the most recent euphoric gifting. A man on a bed, his face in the pillow, his hips canted up, his pelvis a bridge, his cock pointed down like a pillar, the air still with fierce expectation. You knelt behind him, placed a palm on his sacroiliac. You murmured something—anything—some platitude, and then you carefully shoved a hunk of metal into this man’s ass. You remember seeing this man’s body relax with a shudder as this not-quite-acknowledged fantasy suddenly appeared fully dressed like Athena from the brow of Zeus. You remember his ecstatic stillness, a quiet that belied the wild and the dancing and the insuperable pleasure and his unmistakable euphoria.
You liked it, this gifting, each and every time. You look to it in your solitude, and you look for it in your future. You know it’s more than erotic karma, it’s bigger than perverse power, it’s larger than your ego. You give this delirious gift, and you yourself are transported. You make this man, or that one, or maybe that woman come into something new, and you suffer a sudden apotheosis. You are a god.
“I feel like a chick,” he said. Yeah, you do, you said.
In your dark days, you can count these euphoric moments like rosary beads. The time you remained fully clothed as you carefully disrobed another laying waste to his jacket, his tie, his shirt, his shoes, his socks, his pants, his t-shirt and finally his man panties, until he lied on your bed like a creamy white éclair and then you ate him up, fucked and ate him until he swum in his own happy sauce. You recall the time you slowly fingerbanged this woman until the juice of her sloppy cunt ran dripping to your elbow, her pussy ululating like an anemone, her voice singing beatific songs. You summon the time you spread your ass and slowly, incrementally, lowered yourself onto a man’s cock with sadistic precision. You recollect the moment you and your lover spread yourselves across the sky and your celestial fucking made new worlds and fresh galaxies.
You remember the most recent euphoric gifting. A man on a bed, his face in the pillow, his hips canted up, his pelvis a bridge, his cock pointed down like a pillar, the air still with fierce expectation. You knelt behind him, placed a palm on his sacroiliac. You murmured something—anything—some platitude, and then you carefully shoved a hunk of metal into this man’s ass. You remember seeing this man’s body relax with a shudder as this not-quite-acknowledged fantasy suddenly appeared fully dressed like Athena from the brow of Zeus. You remember his ecstatic stillness, a quiet that belied the wild and the dancing and the insuperable pleasure and his unmistakable euphoria.
You liked it, this gifting, each and every time. You look to it in your solitude, and you look for it in your future. You know it’s more than erotic karma, it’s bigger than perverse power, it’s larger than your ego. You give this delirious gift, and you yourself are transported. You make this man, or that one, or maybe that woman come into something new, and you suffer a sudden apotheosis. You are a god.
- 11/01/2009
