My mother, in her arched southern drawl, a healthy cup of bourbon flowing through her pipes, likes to declare that I have an oral fixation. She may well have a point considering only a few years spanned my rejection of the thumb in favor of cigarettes.
The men in my life would all vehemently disagree with her assessment, since I’ve never shown any inclination to be a world-class cocksucker. Don’t get me wrong, I can play the organ with skill, but I harbor a serious lack of burning desire to service a mouth full of manliness with any frequency.
I’ve heard tell of women riding sharp on the harp, salivating at the mere thought, getting all hot and bothered in their nether regions by the expectation of wrapping their lips around some fine stiffness.
I’ve yet to meet one.
Most women consider oral a convenient tool and not an especially fun one to use. Watching paint dry is equally titillating to most female minds. Cock sucking is just not all that exciting, despite what your local, tanned porn star is telling you on the internet. Consider the source. Most women don’t turn their snatch into naked, prepubescent playgrounds or offer up their ass as the main point of entry on the first date either.
I do have one old friend who would rather get down on her knees than spread her legs for the man she married twenty years ago. Says it’s less trouble and mess. Quicker, she says with Cheshire smile. He’s not happy, wants more intimacy. Wishes she’d get on her back and moan like the old days. Scratch his back, grab his ass. Buck a little bit and grind when she lets loose. She’d rather not bother anymore, prefers to clean him up in a few, short minutes. He’s cheat proof, she claims, because I give head. I think she might be a tad misguided in her assumptions but her gag stories are mildly amusing.
Another swears it’s the only way she’ll see any wood, one more claims she must or he’ll be a royal bastard, the last kiss and tell gal says she does it to speed things up, a good nights sleep is her goal post. Women like to talk about their sex lives on my back porch, I hear all sorts of naughty bits on warm summer nights. It’s nice to know I’m not viewed as a predatory cheat.
I’ve worked the trade end of the business and plunged headlong into the personal spill of loving relationships. In my experience, most men don’t confuse the appetizer with the main entrée, the few who do ought to be horse whipped. Sucking dick does not constitute mutual sexual congress, it’s a giving act of pleasure with no hope of self-satisfaction anywhere in sight for the willing soft tongue. A shame people can’t put the act in proper context.
I don’t believe I’ll ever fully live up to my mother’s broad claim.
I resemble that title.
I’m usually more interested in my wife’s than my own satisfaction.
The link doesn’t take me anywhere, Smitty.
I always figured you were.
One of my high school pals—Glen “Boner” Bonhoffer—went to a drive-in movie with a gal who played the sax. She erroneously applied her sax skills to Glen’s instrument. When she hit high C, his bladder exploded.
Suddenly.
He was never the same.
You’d often hear him muttering, “What teh hell? Just WHAT teh hell?”
She was so traumatized that she switched to the xylophone.
Lots of guys ended up bruised all over. Apparently she’d really get into it, and beat the crap out of ‘em with those sticks.
I have met one. More than a few, in fact. And since I wasn’t the receiver, nor a future potential mate, they didn’t have any reason to lie to me; they’d been very honest about other aspects of bed life.
I grew up during a time when, in my part of the world, it was easier to get laid than to get a blow job. Much easier, in fact. The world has changed.
Hah. Post on oral sex goes up, and there’s three comments in ten minutes. It’s terrible how you force us to live down to our baser instincts.
Lance, that made me laugh out loud.
Gordon, women lie about that shit all the time. They may not want to bed you, but they most certainly want you to consider bedding them.
We’re all sex fiends, Gordon. ;-)
Sax fiend in “Boner’s” case.
If I didn’t have any baser instincts, Gordon, I wouldn’t have any instincts at all.
“But what about survival, Lance?”
“Does it involve sex?”
“Well, it could.”
“There ya go!”
“How about altruism?”
“That’s me to a t. I freely donate sex, expecting nothing in return. However, only one to a customer.”
So I guess I’m normal. Whew. I always figured, from the sour look on Hillary Clinton’s face that being a fellatrix for the State Department, cocksuckers all, that she didn’t really like servicing the Pakistanis all that much. Her husband, on the other hand, seems not to mind at all suckling Saudi scrotes, so long as the flooz is flowing.
He’s cheat proof, she claims, because I give head.
Someday she’ll find out she’s got another think coming.
And then there’s that old cartoon of man and woman walking down the aisle with thought balloons above each one’s head…
Him: Ah! Blow jobs EVERY night!
Her: Ah! I’ve given my LAST blow job!
TSMP relayed a comment on the subject matter she heard from a friend, to wit: “I don’t do that anymore. Haven’t for ten years.” TSMP said “There’s a divorce that’s gonna happen.”
Me? Appetizer usually, main course rarely.
All B.J.’s are not equal, do it with gusto or forget about it.
Linda Lovelace had a birth defect..her clitty was located in her esophagus, we all should be so lucky.
I enjoy dining at the Y, and feel that any job worth doing,
is worth doing well. A little creativity, goes a long way. ;)~
For some reason I keep seeing, somewhere in the back of my mind, poor Chloe Sevigny playing Vincent Gallo’s flute in The Brown Bunny, and the look on her face says exactly one thing to me: “Do I have to?”
This is probably not why Roger Ebert said that watching a video of his colonoscopy was more entertaining than watching this film. But I suppose it could have been.