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Bonus:
NINE THOUGHTS
THAT SUCK

1 Teens today favor blow jobs over just about anything else. I wish I were a teen today.

2 How did Monica Lewinsky get Bill Clinton’s semen on her dress? Did it leak from her mouth after he came, or did she remove herself from his spewing member prior to blastoff, and get the stain from an errant spurt?

3 It’s been more than 20 years since I received my first blow job. I was seven; he was nine.

4 Most straight guys have given a blow job or two, right? Right?

5 Blow jobs with ice cubes are kind of gay.

6 Back in the old neighborhood, there was this guy named Phil (we called him Filthy) who, legend has it, was getting a blow job in his car, interrupted his date mid-suck, and finished himself off with his hand. At the time, that was the wrongest thing I’d ever heard, but now I’ve done far worse, I imagine.

7 Okay, about the kiss afterward. You gotta take it like a man.

8 After a while, many relationships reach a point at which blow jobs rarely occur—except as a brief precursor to straight, look-deep-into-my-eyes intercourse. This is a grave mistake.

9 Sometimes eating a girl is more fun than getting a blow job. Sometimes seeing a rock show is more fun than getting a blow job. Sometimes talking to old friends is more fun than getting a blow job. But blow jobs are still considerably more fun than these things: war, sharp sticks in the eyes, hangovers, surgery, and poetry readings.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

BLOW JOB VIGNETTES
brief thoughts on the oral tradition
by sara stewart

"Her mouth was clamped around him and stretching awkwardly… it was hard to believe she was here with him again, naked. What happened to that last ironclad resolve, supported by the other ironclad resolves before it, not to see him again, or more importantly, at least never to touch him?… Sure, this man had driven her crazy. He was a minefield. Hidden dangers lay in him everywhere. But right now, above the pulled-back bedspread, she’d pushed past the worry of those smaller considerations. If she was adrift, then adrift was the thing she would embrace…what was that Oscar Wilde quote?—how the advantage of the emotions is that they lead us astray."

Susan Minot, Rapture

The problem here is this is but one passage in Ms. Minot’s 116-page narrative, which takes place in the span of a single blow job. What hummer merits 116 pages? Who thinks that much with a head crammed in someone’s crotch? The act lends itself to a shorter format. Vignettes, perhaps. Anecdotes. Ergo, I submit the following:

June 16, 1991

It was really difficult to maneuver in the back of the tiny, trashy Mazda. He knew perfectly well she had a boyfriend, and didn’t seem to care. And now, finally, it had come to this. On graduation night, after many beers and thin excuses of going outside to retrieve a forgotten six-pack, winding up half-undressed with her head in his lap. Did he know it was her first time? Was she doing it right? And was it really worth it to be doing something like this to a boy who ended every sentence with "man?" In any case, he seemed to be enjoying it. He looked very relaxed. Very relaxed indeed. Upon closer inspection, he was asleep.

April 22, 1992

The boy’s Christian fundamentalist roommate was, hopefully, still fast asleep on the top bunk and not wishing hellfire and brimstone on the two of them. Really, they weren’t making that much noise. The boy was very quiet, after all, perhaps even a little too quiet, to the point where she would often wonder if there was actually anyone on the other end of the phone line when he would call her dorm room, and become annoyed at parties when he would only mouth a greeting when she introduced him to her friends. Most likely, she would break up with him soon. But his silence came in handy at times like this. She gave him a grand, attentive finish. Not a sound.

June 13, 1997

She had been anticipating this moment too long. For years, he had slunk around looking mysterious, evading her suggestive glances, and showing up everywhere with voluptuous, dark-haired girls who invariably looked pissed off. And now, he was here practically begging her for it. How nicely things come around, if you are patient. She slid her head down until her face was in his lap. Unzipped him. Wait… oh. Well, they did say size didn't matter, didn't they?

November 1, 1998

She had gaped when he had taken off his underwear, and he had mustered some pretty fake embarrassment about it. It was probably just as well this was the only time she’d do this to him. It involved a lot more strain on the throat muscles than normal-sized boys. Besides, people said he was kind of a bastard, and she imagined they were right. The elaborate dinner he had cooked had, okay, probably been a ruse. What man ever seared tuna for a girl unless he wanted to get her in bed? Still, he was quite possibly the largest specimen she’d ever come across. She concentrated on not gagging, wishing she’d brought her Polaroid.

December 31, 1999

The door of the bathroom was shut and he leaned up against it. Every so often, someone would come by and knock; then, you could hear a voice explaining they were in there, and laughter all around, and the person would go away. From upstairs you could hear the sounds of the countdown to New Year’s. She thought back to the first time he had kissed her, years and years ago. Was she better at it now? Would he notice the new tricks she'd picked up along the way? Was her date wondering where she’d disappeared to? His hand gripped her shoulder harder. Above them, the muffled cheers of the crowd rang in the new year.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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