This entry is about sex. It is graphic. It is not for children. And if you are easily offended, for serious, you may just want to keep moving.
I did not give my first blowjob, willing, until I was twenty-one. Astonishing, I know, since I’d long since (willingly) given up my virginity, had sex in several random and, often, unorthodox locations, and had spent the first part of my college experience driving up and down the road in the middle of the night in the dead of winter to satisfy my newfound itch with an equally enthusiastic Professor. But, to his displeasure (though, later, I found out that he’d gotten over it fairly easily because I let him “fuck me any way he liked, as roughly as he liked” – what can I say I like rough sex), and despite the fact that he’d camped out between my legs for hours on end most evenings, I could not bring myself to go down there.
You couldn’t blame me, really. It had been only four years since I’d been forced to give the only one I’d ever given. At gunpoint. The flashbacks were really bad back then. I’d often wake up screaming, sweating, and unable to go back to sleep for hours until I stopped shaking. More frequently, I simply wouldn’t walk around alone after dark, and when I didn’t have a choice, I exercised the “Constant Vigilance” mantra from Harry Potter. It was no way to live, I’ll admit that, but PTSD is a bitch to get over. Some people never do. And it’s especially hard to get over when you can’t seek help because the idiot that caused it in the first place made it worse by threatening your life if you ever told anyone. So I suffered in relative silence. And my boyfriends, sort of, with me… well… they still got laid, but there were no blowjobs. I learned early on that I was going to have to get over one or the other and intercourse was easier because that part of that lovely afternoon I didn’t remember so well. I managed to learn to enjoy intercourse after a while, thanks to the Professor, really, and that was a huge hurdle. It didn’t make all the nightmares go away, but it did make dating easier. Marginally.
Fast forward a few years… I met my now ex husband (so-called “Mr. Ex” – thanks, Dad, for the nickname) right after my first year of college. We moved in together shortly thereafter – accidentally. It just sort of happened. And of course we had sex. Or we tried to. His ED was an issue. Sex with him consisted of maybe two or three minutes of actual intercourse, followed by forty-five minutes of a start/stop hand job that got him, finally, sustainably erect enough to fuck for three or four more minutes (thank god I’d learned the value of the quick orgasm by then), followed again by another forty-five minute hand job that finally finished with him jerking himself off because he couldn’t get off any other way.
I hadn’t, really, by this time been in many relationships. I’m nineteen or twenty years old at this time, I had several long distance relationships under my belt, and a lot of sex with a Professor that I didn’t really see that regularly who was, admittedly, very adept at fucking my brains out but when it came to the relationship there wasn’t time for much. Anyway, point being, I didn’t know it could be any different from what it was… and so, while I was kind of pissed that I wasn’t having the all-night fuck sessions I’d had previously with the Professor, I figured that this was probably more normal, so I settled into it. With the vibrator he’d gotten me for our first anniversary since I apparently wanted to get laid too often. He’d ask, time and time again, for head. I’d wake up, screaming, just from considering it. He made me feel guilty. I didn’t know what the fuck else to do.
Then, finally, one drunken night, I did it. On my own. Without prompting. He didn’t get off. I didn’t care. That hadn’t been the point – my hands had gotten tired. And although it was really hit or miss for a while, whether I’d wake up screaming from the act of it after I’d done it, I kept doing it. I was tired of the hold those nightmares, and those assholes from 1997, had on me. I was going to kick them out of my head the way that I’d done with the intercourse years earlier.
So, I did. I finally got to the point that I felt… well… not safe, per se – I never felt safe with him, he yelled at me too much. But it got to be routine. And by routine I mean that it got added into the regular, drawn out, pathetic attempts at sex that rarely, if ever, ended with any extended amount of time having intercourse, with very little time for foreplay directed toward me, and the hand jobs being replaced by blow jobs that, increasingly, got longer and longer. I’m a trooper. I can go for two solid hours. I needed chapstick when I was done. And he still never got off. But, you know. Because he could never blame himself, the fact that he never got off was my fault.
Thing is, I was young enough and inexperienced enough to believe him. I mean if I couldn’t get him off in two hours, I had to be really bad at this, right?
Then there was divorce. And simultaneously, there was Buttface. During the two and a half years that he strung me along, I never gave him head either. But by this time it wasn’t because of nightmares. Nope… I didn’t give him head because, simply put, there was going to be no reciprocation. He told me his tongue was too short. And even after I suggested several ways we could manipulate the position so that it would not matter, he wouldn’t do it. The mantra changed. If I could not get what I wanted, he would not get what he wanted either. So I didn’t blow him. Not once. We fucked. I’d get off a time or two if I was lucky (and I started to wonder if I was ever, ever going to find a guy who could actually get me off). Then he started stringing me along, I finally backed off when he left me for a seventeen year old (he was 30 at this point, by the way).
I moved to Florida. He decided, after a year or so, that he wanted to fuck around again. I was still pissed at what he had done. And I know the logic behind this doesn’t make any sense, but I decided that I was going to go up there, I was going to give him the ride of his life, blowjob included (if I could even remember how to do it), and then I was going to leave him the way he’d left me. Well. I did. And to my surprise, when I did actually give him a blowjob… it did not take two hours. It took… well… minutes, actually. Like seven. Maybe. We were in the shower. It couldn’t have taken longer than that because his hot water didn’t last real long. Huh, I thought. Must be a fluke. It wasn’t. I did it again, and again, and again. No nightmares, no two-hour long sessions. No desperate need for chapstick afterward. In, out, and done. Funny… I liked the taste, too. After we’d gotten that out of our system, I moved on.
Then there was Gatsby. The intercourse was good… I had orgasms. Yay!! And he had no qualms about going down there, though he wasn’t very adept at it because his experience had come from reading articles online about what “worked” and not listening to what I told him I liked. Also he was afraid of the squirting, and having to hold that in when he’d finally get me there took the edge off. But ergonomically, negotiating the blowjob was difficult with him. Not because I didn’t want to. I was happy to. By this time I’d learned to enjoy it. But because he had a bend. A SERIOUS bend. And it bent in an upward direction. Think the curvature of the protractor, or a half circle, which didn’t give much when it was fully erect. It was great for the sex. Hit the G-Spot perfectly. But it didn’t work out very well from the gag reflex standpoint if you’re coming at it from the front of him. It worked if I was in the 69 position, but I have never been much for the 69 position because I find it to be distracting. It’s all about angles, anyway, and it doesn’t do much for me. Anyway. We negotiated that. I learned that when I had mastered the angle, most times by standing on my head slightly while in front of him, or with him half-reclining on his bed so I could use the edge for balance, I could make it take as long (or as not long) as I wanted. And you have to understand. I like control. I like taking it. I like having the prerogative to surrender it when I choose to (I do not like it to be taken from me). It was a power trip. Though I still had that stupid little voice of my ex in my head, saying I was bad at this, I kept working at it, negotiating it, and my enthusiasm for learning (learning?) and determination to kick that son of a bitch out of my head was enough to drive me to continue. So I continued. Still, it was Gatsby. It had been this easy for Buttface, it was this easy for Gatsby, but what if they were just… I don’t know… different… what if he was right?
Then I started sleeping with someone else. And I realized that perhaps I was not as awful at this as I’d been told I was. I mean, at first, it took five minutes. Standard. Buttface was at around that time. Gatsby took around that time frame if I didn’t take my time about it. I decided to push further. Five minutes became two minutes. And the last time, the very last time, I had him done, start to finish, in thirty seconds. No joke. He was surprised. I had a smug smile on my face after I swallowed (and I always, always swallow).
Anyway it’s been a long road. It’s been almost sixteen years since that awful day in 1997, and I’ve spent that time getting over it. No professional therapy. No drugs. Nothing except a fuck ton of willpower and a lot of persistence once I decided I wasn’t going to let them have that kind of control over me anymore. It was a happy ending that far outmeasured any happy endings I was giving anyone else.
Well… it was about getting over all of that bullshit AND the realization that if women would just be a little more enthusiastic about it (because apparently a lot of women don’t like giving head and aren’t very good at it) and learn to enjoy it, we, in all likelihood, could easily rule the world.
And at the end of the day, it’s all about world domination, you know.