The Flowers and the Filth: This Is Romance to Me

There’s a huge part of me that is a true romantic at heart. I wear my heart on my sleeve.

I love flowers. I love being told, “I’ve been thinking about you.” I love breakfast in bed, massages, making love for hours, long baths, being pampered, love notes and handwritten letters. I love outdoor adventures, the singing, sunset walks, spontaneous road trips, farmers markets, stargazing, jewelry, slow dancing, chivalry, and acts of service. I love when someone fixes things for me, takes care of me, dresses me up, and pays attention to the little things.

I love all the beautiful, traditional expressions of romance.

But some of my favorite kinds of romance look very different.

Romance is brushing my teeth and having him ask me to spit the toothpaste into his mouth so he can swallow what I just brushed from my teeth. It’s him scooping up my morning-breath spit and swallowing it. It’s drinking my pee, peeing on each other, and finding intimacy in things most people would consider disgusting.

Romance is the primal look in his eyes when he makes out with me after I drink gulps of his blood for the first time. It’s letting me store poop in his refrigerator after he films me pooping because I’m going to sell it. It’s me vomiting up our sushi dinner and the blood I’d just drunk from his bloody cock after putting needles through it and being face-fucked or having him smear my own vomit across my face after face fucking me.

And somehow, romance is also the conversation afterward while I’m naked, filthy, covered in my own mess…when we’re talking deeply about life, our dreams, our future, and whatever is alive between us.

There is something incredibly intimate about being witnessed in a state where there is absolutely nothing polished or performative left.

Romance is him jerking off to porn and cumming in my mouth before bed because I like to have my “medicine,” and then pulling me into his arms to cuddle.

It’s letting me carve my name into his cock. Letting me staple and put needles through his shaft. Letting me kick and punch his balls. It’s him burying his fingers between my ass cheeks while we watch a movie and then smelling them afterward simply because he loves the scent of my dirty asshole.

It’s him daydreaming about eating my shit while he showers in the morning. Sending me videos of himself doing CBT and licking and sucking his blood to tease me or him making his own cock bleed for me. Doing blood rituals and having his other partner make him bleed so he can send me a bloody valentines letter. Listening to our own kinky porn of me torturing him while we hike up a mountain. Choosing to wear a cock cage 24/7 because there is something about that surrender and devotion that belongs to us.

Romance has even looked like him accidentally cutting off the tip of his finger while making me dinner and searching for it in the chopped up broccoli cause he knows I want to eat it. Then letting me suck his very bloody finger. AND then makes out with me while I keep his cut off fingertip in the back of my throat until I swallow it. It’s also having boundaries of not wanting to feel his own cut off fingertip in his mouth while making out with me before I swallow it. Or him accidentally cutting off his fingertip while slicing apples to bake me a pie and gifting it to me so I could chew on it for comfort after my foot surgery.

It’s him cutting pieces of skin from his cock and balls and feeding them to me as an act of devotion. It’s me cutting off his skin tag, eating it in front of him, and then feeding him a piece of himself the next morning. It’s him telling me he almost felt like he cheated on me when he had a skin tag removed from his butt cheek knowing that I had wanted to cut it off and eat it so bad and that he wished he had waited and let me cut it off and eat it instead. Then makes it up to me by letting me cut off another skin tag.

It’s him slurping juicy boogers directly from my nose after me crying. Drinking blood from my pussy during my moon cycle. Being there with me while I was in pain during an at-home abortion and slurping the blood that was coming out of me. Digging through the toilet to collect my shit, eating it, and worshipping my feet with my shit still in his mouth and us being in tears cause I felt his love through our eye gazing. Or him slurping up his own ass juices from my rug cause he made a mess.

Drinking and eating already chewed up food, my piss and shit from a doggy bowl.

It’s fucking for the first time while his cage is still on, or with a mouth full of my shit. It’s him handing me his sweaty shirt sealed in a bag so I can smell him when I miss him. It’s burying my face in his armpits after he’s spent three weeks training in the field with the Army without showering.

Being my Daddy.

Buying and winning me stuffies at the arcade, buying me binkies and diapers, being my chauffeur, and building me the most awesome little’s room.

It’s letting me gargle his cum. Gifting me his blood or jewelry made from his blood. Making cock-and-ball art out of our food at every fine-dining restaurant we visit. Taking our sex doll to dinner with us at a restaurant and then bringing her home for a threesome.

It’s letting me chew on his fingers and cock. Or letting me hold or suck on his cock like a binky. Trusting me to do torturous things to his cock and balls. Fucking me with his bloody cock and sharing blood rituals together. Collecting the spit that pours from my mouth while he face-fucks me into a mug and then drinking it.

Or him licking the toilet rim if he leaves the seat up and there are pee stains.

Him being my furniture, my personal toilet and cooking and cleaning naked or in sexy panties Or him being my “hot wife” and pet to show off.

It’s him gifting me himself so that I can do as I please with his body.

For letting me play until it looks like a crime scene in our bedroom.

It’s letting me slurp up his tears.

It’s cumming in my tea.

Gifting me a Dexter slides kit so I can collect blood samples from my “victims”.

Being my sissy or cuck and letting me fuck his holes!

Making me all the fun kinky toys, furniture and or gifting me with them so that I can use it on him and others.

For being my devoted slave who brings me so much richness.

For slow dancing with me with needles in his dick and for letting me suture his lips shut…For letting me stick my arm and whole foot in his ass.

It’s letting me pick my boogers and stick them to the hairs on his arm. Or resting his big ass balls on my eyes and face for my soothing comfort at the hot springs.

And yes, apparently, romance can even be letting me poke at his dingleberry. Now I’d beat him for it if I ever saw such a thing. Lol!!

I know this isn’t everyone’s definition of romance.

It isn’t supposed to be.

For me, romance isn’t defined by whether something is beautiful, socially acceptable, sanitary looking, traditional, or easy for other people to understand. Sometimes romance is soft and pretty. Sometimes it’s grotesque and primal. Sometimes it’s flowers and jewelry, and sometimes it’s blood, spit, piss, shit, tears, sweat, pain, laughter, surrender, and the strange little rituals that could only make sense to the two people inside of them.

The common thread is intimacy.

It’s the feeling of being trusted enough to witness someone completely. To know their tenderness and their depravity. To be allowed into the places they don’t show the rest of the world. To create a private language of love, devotion, play, care, and ritual together.

I want the flowers and the filth.

The love letters and the blood rituals.

The farmers markets and the cock cages.

The sunset walks and the things we probably shouldn’t talk about over dinner.

I want to be able to move between tenderness and depravity without either one canceling out the other.

And underneath all of it—whether we are doing something sweet, disgusting, romantic, kinky, ridiculous, or completely fucking feral—I want the thing that matters most:

I want him to do all the little things that make his arms feel like home.