I used to take communion seriously.
I would hold the little plastic cup with both hands like it was sacred. I would stare at the tiny piece of bread and try to feel something—repentance, reverence, gratitude. I would whisper the words in my head:
“This is my body, broken for you… This is my blood, poured out for you.”
And for a while, I believed it mattered.
But over time, something shifted. I stopped feeling anything when I drank the juice and ate the bread. It started to feel empty. Performative. Like I was going through motions that no longer reached me.
Then one night, after I let a man finish in my mouth, something clicked.
As I swallowed, I realized I finally understood what communion was supposed to feel like.
This was my new communion.
And I was partaking in it unworthily—exactly the way I was always warned not to.
1. Real Communion Should Involve a Body and Blood
The original communion was never meant to be symbolic in the way churches made it. It was meant to be visceral. Physical. A reminder that something was broken and poured out.
When I’m on my knees, and a man finishes down my throat, I don’t have to imagine it. I can taste it. I can feel it. Warm, thick, and unmistakably real. It coats my tongue. It slides down my throat. It stays inside me.
The little cup of grape juice never did that.
His cum does.
2. I Used to Partake “Worthily.” Now I Partake Honestly.
Churches love to warn people about “partaking unworthily.” They say you should examine yourself. You should repent first. You should only come to the table if your heart is right.
I tried that for years.
I would repent of my lust before taking communion. I would promise God I was going to do better. I would feel guilty, take the bread and juice, and then go right back to fantasizing about being used like a whore before the service even ended.
Eventually I stopped pretending.
Now when I swallow cum, I do it with full knowledge of what I am. I don’t repent beforehand. I don’t promise to change. I just open my mouth and receive it—fully aware that I’m doing something I was never supposed to enjoy this much.
That, to me, is the most honest kind of participation.
3. It Actually Makes Me Feel Something
The old communion never moved me. Not really.
But when a man grabs the back of my head and holds me down while he finishes… when I feel that first hot pulse hit the back of my throat… when I have to decide whether to spit or swallow while he’s still throbbing in my mouth…
I feel something.
I feel claimed. I feel used. I feel like something has been given to me and taken into my body. It’s intimate in a way that standing in a line and drinking from a plastic cup never was.
For the first time, the act of receiving feels sacred to me—even if it’s the exact opposite of what the church intended.
4. I No Longer Pretend It’s About Remembrance
Traditional communion is supposed to be about remembering Jesus’ sacrifice.
My version is much simpler.
When I have cum in my mouth, I’m not remembering anyone’s sacrifice. I’m not thinking about theology. I’m not reflecting on sin or grace.
I’m just focused on what’s happening in that moment—the taste, the texture, the warmth, the slight humiliation of it, and the quiet satisfaction of swallowing something I was never supposed to crave.
It’s not remembrance.
It’s participation.
5. I’ve Stopped Feeling Guilty About Partaking “Unworthily”
The Bible says that whoever eats and drinks in an unworthy manner eats and drinks judgment on themselves.
I used to be terrified of that verse.
Now I’ve made peace with it.
If taking communion while secretly fantasizing about being used like a slut brings judgment, then I’ve already accepted it. Because the alternative—continuing to pretend that the bread and juice still meant something to me—felt like a much bigger lie.
At least now, when I partake, I’m being honest about what I actually want.
Final Truth:
I still go to church sometimes.
I still see people lining up for the little cups and pieces of bread. I watch them close their eyes and try to feel something holy.
And I think to myself:
They’re still trying to find in that juice what I’ve already found somewhere else.
I don’t judge them for it.
But I also don’t pretend anymore that their version of communion has anything to offer me.
Because I’ve already found something that fills me. Something that coats my throat. Something that makes me feel claimed in a way the bread and wine never could.
So while they’re remembering His body and blood…
I’m on my knees somewhere, partaking unworthily.
And I have no intention of stopping.