In contrast to some of my longer and ramblier blog posts, this one’s short and sweet. Not quite a love letter, but a kiss blown from across the room. A casual ‘fuck yeah’ when someone suggests something horny or the brief, swift kick you get in the pit of your stomach when something you weren’t expecting turns you on. Today I want to write about the junk tuck.
When I was at Eroticon this year, I had a lot of fun chatting to Little Switch Bitch – whose blog, by the way, you should click on and bookmark because she’s brilliant. One of the things we did, as we sex bloggers tend to do, is discuss the things we find hot about our partners that we haven’t yet had time to properly write down.
Like the underrated sexiness of his legs: the curve of his ankle in skinny jeans, or the way his calf leads so perfectly – in such a smooth, lickable line – down into the trainers on his feet. Or the dimples at the bottom of his back, and how the best thing in the world to frame them is a towel: underlining the dimples and draped neatly over the curve of his buttocks. In a way that gives you just enough of a hint of the fold in the crack of his bum.
But more than all these, better than these: the junk tuck.
What is the junk tuck and why’s it so fucking sexy?
You can experience the junk tuck when you’re lying in bed after fucking, and he’s getting dressed in the corner of the room. As you watch him from the corner of your eye, taking in every detail of his body. This reverse striptease gives your perving urgency – quick, quick! Appreciate the semi-tumescent heft of his post-fuck cock before he slides his boxers up above the curve of his thighs! Quick, don’t miss this! The breadth and strength of his shoulders before he pulls on a fresh t-shirt.
And get ready for it, hold on, wait, prepare to savour it: the moment he tucks his junk into his jeans.
That movement. So simple. So hot. So breathtakingly casual. He steps into his jeans and pulls them on, pulls them up, until the waistband is where the waistband should be and all that’s left to do is fasten the fly. That’s the moment when you hold your breath and focus. The moment we’ve all been waiting for: the junk tuck.
Ideally, I hope he isn’t watching me as I lust at him. Instead, ideally, he’ll be glancing casually into the mirror or over at the dressing table, planning what he needs to slip into his pockets once he’s dressed. Maybe he’ll be humming to himself or doing mental maths to work out how late he is for work. Either way, I don’t want him to watch me as he does it, because I want to watch him do it, and I’d like to feel safe enough to perv on him without shame.
To open my eyes wide and drink in the sight of the junk tuck.
When his jeans are pulled up, and all that’s left to do is the fly, and his mind is elsewhere because this breathtakingly hot thing means nothing to him, he does it: the junk tuck.
So casually, and simply, and quickly, he takes both sides of his unzipped fly in his hands and tucks his junk inside.
Like it’s nothing.
This final part of getting dressed means so much. Implies so much. It’s the sheer weight of the fact that his cock, which I worship, is something he’s so used to that he can just casually tuck it inside his jeans without even looking. That he has done this movement so many times it’s imprinted into his muscle memory. This junk tuck movement shows me how comfortable he is within his own skin, how proud he is of his cock, and how this part of him is too big, too prominent, too obvious, too valuable to simply slide the jeans up and over. It requires a special movement.
His soft, just-showered skin is now clad in fresh cotton, and his dick and balls are cupped tightly in a pair of soft boxers, and his big hands – so used to touching and fondling and gripping and dressing his cock – just pop everything down inside his jeans.
And when he zips them up, I die.