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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.
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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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