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K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
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WARNING!
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What's Oral Sex For, Anyhow?
By Anonymous (t0949@hotmail.com)
***
This is one more in a series of journalistic memoirs
written by some of this past year's graduate students
in journalism at a major university. We had been
assigned to write a memoir on important "firsts" in our
individual lives, and some of us opined that our first
sex was the most important "first". (MF, 1st)
***
When it transpired that most first-times are boring (or
worse) some of us chose to write on our first "oral
sex" instead. I was a mature student, already employed
as a journalist with a weekly paper and needed the
specialist degree to apply for a better job. One might
say, then, that my story is ancient history. Much of
it, as you will see, is also vicarious.
As a female kid I had a fixation on penises. Only I
never saw any, except when I would go to museums or
look at art books. And I never saw any live ones: my
father was rather prudish; indeed after I started to
develop he would send me off to put on more clothing if
he saw, or imagined he saw, any excitable or exciting
part of my body.
In part my fixation must have been due to Sophie, a
friend of mine from the age of 8 or 9, and a girl with
whom I had continuing contacts until I was about 30.
Sophie and I played with dolls, yes, but we imagined
that Ken had a penis and Barbie a vagina; indeed we
painted them on and caused them to have sex. Both
Sophie and I reached puberty early.
By 12 I was fully developed, physically at least. But
by the same age Sophie was not only developed
physically but she had also acquired the coquetry and
initiative of the sexpot, and was willing to follow
through. However, Sophie was already stunning at that
age, while I was awkward and, as I thought, ugly until
age 17 or 18. By 13, five years before me on that
score, she was no longer a virgin.
Indeed, by 30 she'd been through hundreds of men and at
least three husbands. (I lost contact with her after
she married husband #4 and moved to Australia.) As I
recall, she has two kids (well, grownup offspring) from
two different fathers. She'd have had three, but the
third putative father, upon hearing the news, got
frightened by the idea of being a dad and had a
vasectomy without telling her. (No logic there, but
that's the kind of man she chose.) And then Sophie had
a miscarriage.
Sophie learned early on -- and taught me -- how breasts
attract and how they can be used as a weapon. But she
went much further than I was willing to go: Sophie's
policy was that if a man or a boy touched her breast,
she was entitled. Without further ado, to touch -- more
than touch, to do what ever she wanted with -- his
penis. And, like some magician who can, in an instant,
divest you of your shirt while your jacket is still on,
she could disrobe a man, or at least get at his penis,
in seconds without his knowing how the state of affairs
had come about.
Sophie felt that if a man did not have a hard-on just
on account of her proximity to his penis, even her
presence in the room, then she had failed as a woman.
Or else he was gay.
But Sophie's choice in men, at least until the last one
who, I heard, was an Australian rancher, was abysmal.
Of the two I knew details of, one was a gravedigger,
the other a plumber. Noble occupations perhaps, but
neither likely to be in a position to support me in the
style I had chosen for myself. For I had looked through
Sophie's library and read some important works: "The
Sensuous Woman" by "J"; "Sex and the Office" by Helen
Gurley Brown; and a few sex manuals. I knew that the
way to a man's heart may be through his stomach, but
the way to the altar was through his penis being in
your mouth.
I had better expectations. Indeed, I had great
expectations: I wanted a doctor, a lawyer, a trust-fund
brat... or somebody famous. I wanted a nice house, and
kids I could be proud of. I wasn't going to waste my
efforts on some arrogant Bronzed Adonis here today,
gone tomorrow. Or risk bad genes and feeble-minded
offspring.
The result was that except for the trade secrets Sophie
revealed to me, I didn't really know much about sex.
And the dating game in those days was pretty crude.
Perhaps not so crude as today, but crude. A couple of
boys would walk into a dating bar and right away point
to one girl after another: "that girl gives good head
first date", "that one's a waste of a drink", "that
one's an airhead", "that ones a cheap lay, no need even
to buy a drink"... And that was in the Big City.
Imagine what Small Town USA must be like, must have
been like.
Sophie had a new story every week, if not every night.
The year we lived together in the Big City, she not
only flaunted her men, she had no shame. She'd bring a
guy up to our fourth floor walk-up apartment, put on a
record, bring out some drinks, and, ignoring me sitting
nearby, chat him up while they undressed each other.
Here was where I got to see -- for the first time --
penises in their full variety and sizes. Hey, never
mind the stories you read online or the porno sites.
Those studs only got the job because they're freaks.
(My husband tells me he once saw a Black guy at the
urinal in Grand Central Station with a true 12-inch
hard-on. But he was obviously a gay prostitute.
In real life those guys don't exist, and you don't want
them if they do: they hurt. And they're arrogant to
boot.) Sophie's guys were the statistical average. I
understand 85% of men are within a half-inch or so of
the mean, and the freaks on either side only matter if
they have the money to make up the difference. But
then, as D sir e said of Hugh Grant, "I've see bigger
and I've seen smaller. His was cute." If you believe
the Internet, all the world is bigger than average, and
those who aren't should be buying snake oil.
Never mind size; lets get to substance. It turns out as
well that swallowing is not the big deal the porno
movies make it out to be. After they've come in your
mouth the guy doesn't much care what you do with it.
And a girl like Sophie can make the stuff disappear
anyway.
Like the "virgin" prostitutes in the old West who had
secret compartments of stage blood hidden in their
beds, Sophie could leave the guy believing as truth
whatever was his desire or his fetish. But she had some
standard tricks too, some things beyond my appreciation
or willingness. She could fondle a guy's prostate and
she could bring him to psychedelic delight without any
drugs. I didn't have the patience to learn or the sang-
froid to watch.
The late Linda Lovelace's film had come out about that
time, and to this day -- especially among the gay
community:
http://www.thebody.com/schoofs/fellatio.html
but while you're at it, you might also have a look at:
http://www.villagevoice.com/issues/0106/sextoc.php
One-upmanship seems to call for a deep-throat
technique. Fellatio isn't, or shouldn't be, a
competitive sport. I don't even remember whether that
was Sophie's style because I was pretending not to
look. But she did want them to ejaculate in her mouth,
although she would tease them along the way. The more
teasing she did, Sophie explained, the more semen they
would ejaculate. And the better their first orgasm, the
more stamina they would have when it came to be her
turn to be entertained.
Because Sophie was, herself, very demanding. She wanted
to be brought to the brink of orgasm orally and then
brought over the cliff vaginally. Nothing wrong with
that, as I was to learn: nice work if you can get it.
One thing that surprised me when I did some research
for this story was that cunnilingus is more common than
fellatio. The explanation is that men, who anyway are
expected to take the initiative, are willing to eat out
a woman's or a girl's pussy in the fond expectation
that she might suck them off afterwards. But it doesn't
always work out that way.
Since any man (well, almost any man) can come to orgasm
either way, orally or vaginally (or that other way, but
although Sophie wanted to talk about that, I didn't
ever want to listen), but many women need oral or
digital stimulation to reach orgasm, I suppose it makes
statistical, if not intuitive, sense.
Sophie's specialty was the efficient stimulation of a
man's glans penis. If he had trouble getting an
erection, she knew the nerve endings underneath, just
beneath the glans, that usually would work (you could
see that in operation by the heroine in Debbie Does
Dallas).
She had read enough about gay sex -- or maybe talked to
enough gay men in the scene -- so that she knew that
there was no advantage to spending any more time than
she cared to in the exercise. Get a man to come in your
mouth and you own him, at least for the night. Assuming
that you picked the right sort of man in the first
place.
Which was Sophie's problem.
I, on the other hand, was a virgin until age 18. And
aside from some abortive attempts by some stupid, drunk
no-hopers to get me to suck their dicks, my first oral
sex came about, well, on vacation, at age 20. Lots of
things come about on vacation.
Sophie had fixed me up with a blind date. This was
after she'd left my apartment, leaving me the full
month's rent to pay (fortunately it was a rent-
controlled apartment, but I was momentarily
unemployed). It was supposed to be a party at a
student's apartment in the Big City, across town from
where I lived.
I was, it seems, the only one to show up, and I showed
up late. Be that as it may, things worked out
reasonably well; like me, the guy had traveled the
world, studied foreign languages. And, he was a lawyer.
Sophie had run into him at the university, where he was
doing some research and she way handing out advertising
flyers. As he told me later, Sophie was too sexually
challenging, threatening for him. And if she was so
smart (which she was), why was she wasting her
intellect handing out flyers and collecting
unemployment.
Anyway, my date and I wound up at my place, where he
spent the night. And I spent the next two nights at his
place. The following day we drove to Montreal. Where we
stayed at Ruby Foo's Hotel. The place is still there:
you can do a search for it on Google. And it's still as
outrageous as it was then.
After dinner (there's no bad food in Montreal, not
anymore -- at least if you skip the fast food joints)
we went back to the room. Here it was the usual (well,
usual for most of us girls, if not for Sophie) of
letting the guy take the initiative and hoping that
he'll do something that makes you feel good, and that
doesn't hurt.
The usual undressing and fondling need no discussion
here. My new boyfriend exhausted the possibilities up
top, and started work on my vaginal area. After ten or
fifteen minutes of that, fingers were replaced with
tongue, and he was no longer aside the bed but
alongside me on the bed, his stiff penis near my mouth.
All the lectures and stories imparted to me by Sophie
passed through my mind. But I had only seconds to
decide: was it penis in mouth or not. And was it a
lawyer for a husband or maybe a gravedigger.
Penis in mouth it was. But what to do with it? In
mutual oral sex, especially first-time mutual oral sex,
that's not so obvious as it would seem. Or maybe today
streetwise kids know more than my sheltered generation
did, even with Sophie's wise advice.
While my date went to work on my vagina, sucked on my
labia, flicked his tongue over my clitoris, I needed to
keep my wits together and massage the end of his penis
with lips and tongue. Not much technology perhaps, but
the race to orgasm can be distracting. And if you don't
know what to expect when that orgasm happens -- well,
you know he's going to ejaculate, but how much, where
and when? And what after that? Sophie hadn't much to
say: to her, long-time practitioner, the answers seemed
obvious. What was obvious to her was scarcely so to me.
Eventually my man did have his orgasm, and I dealt with
the results somehow (sorry, I can't remember exactly).
The event must have been successful, because in due
course we married and had a string of kids. We've
repeated the exercise, with variations, hundreds
(thousands?) of times.
I do swallow semen from time to time, but not
intentionally. The trick is, of course, as Sophie said,
for the girl to get to orgasm first, and then bring her
guy to move around and finish up inside your vagina.
Maybe that's not adhering to gender equality, but it's
a fact of life and sex: one's preferences and
willingness (not a word, but you get my gist) differ
before and after orgasm. And, hey, to be clinical about
it, we never would have had all those kids if he'd only
ejaculated in my mouth.
My story is likely more boring than the rest: but then
most of the stories published on this site are made up.
This one isn't, and the truth can be dull, if
instructive. I've had what I wanted out of life, more
or less (one always wants more, doesn't one?) Anyway,
this was intended to be a pedagogical exercise and not
a source of titillation, wasn't it. It is, in fact,
more a follow-up to Carol or Mandy's notable article in
Salon.com, "Drop-em Babe."
http://www.salon.com/mwt/feature/1999/11/16/oral_sex/
index.html
But see also the follow-up letters at:
http://www.salon.com/letters/1999/11/23/oral_sex
We journalists have to stick together.
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This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author
does not condone the described behavior in real life.
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Kristen's collection - Directory 29