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I don’t want to live in a world where a man won’t cum on my face. I know that sounds a bit absurd, but really this is an issue I’ve been faced with (no pun intended) time and time again. Perhaps it’s because I’m a bit of a pervert, or perhaps because I’ve been dating particularly unadventurous men, but I’ve suddenly found myself alone in my desire for freaky sex. These last few boyfriends won’t spank my ass (at least they won’t do it hard enough), tie me up, choke me or call me their dirty little whore. And they certainly won’t blow their load on my face. And this makes me sad.

Have I been so twisted by my last 10 years in the porn industry that I find myself scaring the kind of men I like to date? I’ve always sought guys outside of the adult industry, simply to get away from the incestuous nature of dating people in my line of work. (The problem with dating people in porn is that they’ve already dated everyone else in porn, so you all end up as one big semen-swapping family. No thanks.) The problem seems to be that I want a normal guy who hasn’t contracted every STD in the book, but in bed I want the kind of sex that I film for my website. But it doesn’t seem to be working that way for me.

On the other side of the coin, I have been in a relationship where the sex was perhaps a little too exciting, a little too freaky. I dated a Dom briefly and found myself in an S&M relationship that lasted about three months. Though it was some of the best sex I’d ever had, it became a bit too much. He pushed me to my limits and tried to get me to go even further, into territory I was uncomfortable with. Every sex act involved bondage, whipping, or at least some kind of rough play. We couldn’t even have lazy Sunday morning sex without him slapping my face a few times. I found that I longed for some simple, vanilla sex at times. I also thought about our future and what would happen if we were to get married and have children. Would he continue tying me up to his play horse and flogging me when I was in my 40s with two young children sleeping downstairs? It was a future I couldn’t imagine.

But I also can’t imagine a future without some of that deviant sex I covet. If you really want to break the cum-in-the-face thing down to semantics, consider this: My face is where I wear all my expressions, where I convey my emotions, and if we’re dating, my love for you. Your cum is a cocktail of your sperm, that biological soup that carries your genetic makeup. It’s really the essence of you: your DNA and your ability to create life. To release your seed onto my face is really an act of love: your life-giving fluid all over my smiling visage. If that’s not romantic, I don’t know what is.

Sounds good, right? I certainly convinced myself of the valor of my blow-your-load-in-my-face pursuit, and I carried on through the precarious dating world, hopeful in finding my knight in shining armor brandishing his semen-spurting sword. And on a lovely sunny afternoon, I found him.

In passing, I mentioned to him this very article I was working on and its subject matter. He must’ve been listening, because the very first night we had sex he came on my face. As I lay there in bliss, waiting for him to return from the bathroom with a warm washcloth, I realized that my eye was starting to sting. Though I’d closed my eyes at the moment of ecstasy, that tricky liquid seeped through my lashes, past my contacts, and into my eye. I spent the rest of the evening with a throbbing right eye and a mental note to reevaluate my romantic notions about the whole idea. After all, it’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye.

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