The Fetish Dictionary takes one sexual “philia” and explores it through a short fictional scenario. This week’s word is…
“…a form of paraphilia in which one is aroused by tears or sobbing” (Source)
“Why did your last relationship fail?”
The night always starts innocently enough. I invite them for pizza and Netflix. I provide the red blend wine. I provide too much of the red blend wine. Then, I put on a movie that is bound to start the tears. Perhaps the classic Old Yeller? Or maybe something more contemporary, like the critically acclaimed film Milk?
The key to making a man cry is to first show emotion yourself. I hold their hands tightly during the film, squishing them. I usually release the first teardrop, although it’s as fake as my gold-plated cubic zirconia tennis bracelet. My living room is dark and accommodating; most of my dates don’t realize I can see them cry. I offer them a comfortable corner of the throw blanket and an extra pillow for their back.
Once the movie is finished, I don’t turn on the lights. I just ask them things.
“Have you ever lost anyone close to you?”
“Were you ever alone on Christmas?”
Tonight I have caught a treasure, a big-eyed baby who wears stripes and corduroy. He sips his wine and eats pizza in tiny mouthfuls. His name is Franklin. We met at a friend’s house show, and I knew I had my next target when I overheard him talking about his mother.
The credits roll for Up! and I offer him a refill of wine. His cheeks are rosy, his eyes glassy with emotion. He looks at the floor, the TV stand, then the ceiling fan. I can tell that he’s trying not to cry about the old man and the charming boy scout, to say nothing of the dead wife.
“It makes me miss my grandpa,” I start. “I wish I spent more time with him.”
“My grandma was so amazing, she would make a stack pancakes roof-high. I was there when she died…god, I feel so stupid. I’m sorry, please ignore me.”
That charming baby starts to cry, one tear, then another. The tears fall from the corner of his eyes in hot rolls, tumbling down his cheeks. I can feel my pussy soaking along with his agony; I don’t know why this happens to me, but it does. I scoot next to him on the couch and wrap my left arm over his shoulders; Franklin unleashes. His manliness evaporates like the old tears on my couch.
He blubbers on about his grandma and the unfairness of death. I cover my lower half with the throw blanket and reach under my skirt. No panties, of course. Forever anticipating the thrill of a crying man on these well-planned date nights. My fingers find my cunt in the darkness and I start my work.
I lock eyes on his falling drops, his quivering lower lip. My fingers run in circles around my clit, pressing on the swollen bud until I feel electricity between my legs. He doesn’t even notice the slight movement underneath the blanket. He is lost in the grief of dead grandmothers and grandfathers who had hobbies and loved each other.
“Oh, oh, I’m so sorry.” My words of consolation hide my vocalization of pleasure. Franklin nestles into me, and I feel his warm tears fall onto my neck. The sensation gives me goosebumps.
Crying men, helpless men. I stick two fingers deep in my pussy and move in time with each of his heaves. I can feel my pussy swell at the view, swallowing up my fingers and pushing me to an orgasm.
“Oh, oh,” he cries.
“Oh, oh,” I whisper.
A drop from his cheek falls onto my chest and rolls down into my shirt. I can feel it tickling my breast, like a tongue moving lightly from top to bottom. At this, I cum onto my fingers. Franklin doesn’t notice my hips bucking up or my eyes rolling back. He is too ashamed of his own cracked masculinity to notice.
“Franklin,” I whisper in a long sigh. “You can always cry around me. Don’t hold back.”