Crying before, during, or immediately after sex is rarely an indicator of a good time (except in a few special cases, most of which involve cameras and props).

A few weeks ago my boyfriend and I were enjoying a typical lazy Sunday afternoon whilst morbidly hungover from a night of drinking with the pretentious French couple that lives upstairs. It was a perfect sunny Sunday. The blinds were drawn closed, preventing even the most well-intentioned ray of natural light from permeating our cave walls and disrupting back-to-back episodes of Breaking Bad with the harsh glare of real world responsibility. Everything was going fine. That is, until I gave my boyfriend a blow job and began irrationally weeping after he ejaculated on me (my face, to be specific).

Let me begin by articulating my fondness for hangover sex. (Ed Note: Ooooh me too!) As far as hangover activities go, it is second only to stuffing one’s face with blizzard of calorie intensive cuisine. There’s just a certain something special about a stupendous hangover that fills my weak, corpse-like body with an insatiable lust for carbs, jalapeño cheese, and cunnilingus. Indulging in any of the above, whilst recovering from a boozy blow to the head, is pure, unadulterated bliss. Maybe it’s the light-headed physical state onset by extreme dehydration that makes everything feel sort of out-of-body, or maybe you’ve picked up the bottle again because hair of the dog is the only scientifically proven (Ed Note: We use the word “science” loosely around here) cure for a hangover. In any case, hangover sex is awesome. It’s wild, carefree, and kinky. Quite similar in nature to full-fledged, wasted sex, without the prohibitive complications caused by drunken clumsiness, awkward wrong hole mishaps, uncomfortable dryness, limpness, or dizziness (except for that dazed, loopy feeling which I love).


But, as the saying goes, it’s all fun and games until somebody gets a fresh cum shot to the face in broad daylight. Normally, I’d be completely unfazed by this. I’ve never been one to shy away from a raunchy facial. But, thanks to certain extenuating circumstances (like extreme hormonal imbalance brought on by PMS and alcohol-induced blood thinness), this emotionally-unstable Sunday was different. When my boyfriend made his usual request for finishing placement, I was happy to oblige him. But when, upon his completion, he glanced down at my face to see his fine handiwork on display, he was not pleased at all–he was disgusted! How could this be, I thought? What went wrong? Wasn’t this sexy?

Still on my knees, full of shame, and dowsed in his semen, I felt like a scorned sexual servant, a desperate and vulnerable slut-for-hire kneeling at his feet. I’m not inflating the truth even a little bit when I tell you that he literally looked directly at me, scrunched up his face, flared his nostrils, cocked his head back, and shook his head in denial of my innocent insinuation that I’d like a kiss as thanks for all my hard, selfless work. You probably think I’m exaggerating or being dramatic. Or you’re probably thinking “What cruel man would shun a woman who was just trying to live up to the fantasy?” My initial thoughts exactly. In that moment I regressed into a small, insecure teenager. One that does inappropriate things for validation of the opposite sex.

This comes up when you Google “money shot”. PS don’t Google “money shot”

To mask my rapidly lubricating eyes, I ran to the bathroom and slammed the door behind me and literally began to sob into my hands. He usually has no objection to the post-fellatio kiss, but then again I usually swallowed. Upon gazing up at my reflection, I instantly understood his hesitation—his stuff was literally decorating the entire lower third of my face.

Of course, he was completely unaware of his own actions or what he had done to spark my meltdown. He came after me and knocked on the door. I turned the sink on and screamed “GO AWAY!” (And hoped that he’d continue to try and console me). “Baby,” he cooed. “What’s wrong?” “You made me feel gross and stupid,” I told him, in my most mature big girl voice. He was surprised. Totally clueless. It was as if some misogynist spirit had inhabited his body and taken control and left him with no memory of being a callous jerk.

After I fixed my eyeliner and calmed down, I explained in detail how his disapproving reaction had made me feel. I explained that being punished for the very act of trying to please him felt unfair, hypocritical, and sexist. That part of why I enjoy being objectified, degraded, or hyper-sexualized by my loving partner is because it’s a safe, non-judgmental, and non-threatening sexual space where we can both experiment and role play freely without being constrained by the expectations of gender. He understood. He said he hadn’t meant to make me feel offended or foolish. He felt terrible. He told me that when he looked at my face covered in cum he felt guilty. He said he was embarrassed by how unappealing his own sploodge looked accessorizing the lovely mug of the woman he loved. That seeing me there, covered in that, made him feel bad—like he was violating me somehow. I had to reiterate that I enjoyed it. This, again, made me feel a little like a messed up teenager.

It’s funny, really. The whole reason women like facials is because there is a certain power in knowing you’re fulfilling your man’s porno-esque fantasy. Similarly, the whole reason men like giving facials is because it allows them the opportunity to feel like the rock-cocked star of a seedy film. I think he wasn’t used to seeing me like that anymore, now that we’re domesticated adults with plans for home-ownership and marriage, as opposed to the unemployed, hard-partying whirlwinds we were when we began dating a few years ago.

I don’t want to be typecast as either a “ho” or a “housewife.” I don’t want to become a bedroom bore. I think part of why I cried (aside from the part where I am crazy) is because it’s a struggle to keep the sexual edge alive as the responsibilities of a grown-up future pour in with increasing frequency. For me, being freaky in the daytime was a victory, a symbol of keeping the youthful chemistry alive. Even though he wasn’t rejecting me, just my semen-covered lips, for a moment I was that pathetic girlfriend trying too hard to please her man, an effort which resulted in me looking (and feeling) ridiculous rather than sexy.
And that’s the story about the time I cried after getting cummed on. THE END.

Jane Helpern

About Jane Helpern

Writer & Over-sharer. @janeohelp