I was waiting in the room wearing pajamas for the guy I was meeting for the first time.
Those two or three photos in the chatroom made it hard to judge someone’s real appearance. I wasn’t wearing my glasses either, so as long as the outline looked about right, I let him in.
Cigarette After Sex was playing at the time. Since we were supposed to just cuddle and chat, the vibe should have been right. But when it comes to cuddling and sleeping, no one else knows—I’ve never succeeded. It always ends up turning into a salty, wet feast.
“I’m editing the photos I took today.” Before he even stepped inside, I hurried back to the bed, clutching my laptop and pretending to be calm.
“Really? Can I see?” He took off his coat and slowly slid onto the bed, lying comfortably on his side next to me.
When I tried to pretend I was showing him the photos to hide my shyness, he lightly touched my thigh with his index finger. “Yeah, this is roughly what I shot this afternoon.” I paused and swallowed. His teasing didn’t stop; he moved even closer.
I glanced at him, tossed the laptop aside, took off my glasses, and kissed him. This guy wasn’t particularly handsome, nor did he work out—where did this sexual tension come from?
He held my hand and guided it to that hot, swollen heat between his legs. “It’s so big,” I said. I ignored the two layers of fabric and reached in from the waist, wanting to feel that heat and the restless swelling with my palm.
“Wait… wait a second…” He couldn’t wait to strip off the fabric that seemed to be holding back the swelling. Then my dessert for the night stood straight up, swaying.
I gave it a light lick with my tongue, then took it into my mouth, like a greedy child finally getting the ice cream they’d been waiting for—licking, sliding, sucking, swirling.
While licking, I looked up at him with my eyes, saying, “Look how delicious.” He trembled and let out a low moan, as if half his soul was about to leave his body with that sound.
When I felt the dessert in my hand getting harder and his breathing quickening, I sped up my hand. Just like when you light the fire on an Absinthe drink and that moment becomes the climax of the whole cocktail, his fire was about to be ignited—I knew it.
I reached out, letting the white liquid flow from my mouth onto my hand, then licked my lips in satisfaction. In that instant, I saw his soul leave his body along with his moan.
All night I kept eating my ice cream dessert, again and again. Vanilla, cherry, chocolate—each flavor had its own way of being eaten.
Vanilla: at the right moment, turn your mouth to the side.
Press your lower lip against the slope and let it melt slightly at the corner of your mouth. If it starts to drip, that’s the amount that needs quick action—sliding down from the edge of the cone. I lower my head and catch it with the tip of my tongue right in the middle.
Vanilla’s climax builds slowly. That sweetness stacks up spoonful by spoonful, spreading slowly in the mouth—so slow you think it’s gone, but the flavor lingers at the back of the throat like a casual kiss, so light you’re not sure if it even happened.
Chocolate isn’t for taking it slow. The peak at the top slowly tips to one side, carrying a sense of danger.
I couldn’t help it—I took it straight from the top. The thick, heavy sweetness spreads across my tongue with a suffocating fullness. I let it rest in my mouth for a moment—can’t let it stay too long, or it melts into liquid and slides down the throat. That was too fast; I wasn’t ready yet. Halfway through, I needed to breathe.
Cherry is the hardest to handle. Seeing him lying on his side under the covers, I slipped in.
Starting from the bottom, I pressed my tongue against the edge of the cone and spiraled upward clockwise. This is the only way to deal with something flowing too fast—you can’t face it head-on. You have to circle around, use a spiral path to intercept every downward rush. Circling with your tongue takes practice; not everyone gets it right at first. Wrong angle and you miss some, not enough pressure and you just skim past while it keeps dripping and you keep struggling.
After about three spirals, I cleared all the drips around the waist, then pushed upward.
When I finished, my lips felt slightly swollen. I licked them with my tongue to check—yes, that faint, blurred-edge sensation. I felt good, and so did he.
That’s how Y and I spent the night—like we did nothing, yet like we did everything, as if a thousand and one nights had been condensed into one evening.
Right after writing these words, I sent him a message: “I miss your ice cream.”
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