How Giving Shitty Blowjobs Helped Me Learn to Love Myself

genebel
genebel

Probably the most intimate moment you’ll have in your 20s will manifest in a blowjob. It’s you and a penis and—well, that’s about it. You can hire a roundtable of topnotch love gurus who’ll think up strategies that’ll lengthen the brainwaves of the boy grinding on you to want something beyond your ass and pouty lips, and *hopefully* together you’ll create a La Roux-verified, bulletproof let’s-fall-in-love game plan. You’ll contemplate the results, and think, “This will make him want me for more than just tonight. He can love me and I can love him equally without hesitation.”

The night usually escalates fast. You find out your rising moon signs are compatible and you both studied Anthropology for a semester. He thinks Suri Cruise will forever be the ultimate Hollywood baby (even though NO ONE has seen her in years and she’s probably a teen now?). He compliments your tattoos and even asks if you’d like a drag of his cigarette. After somewhat successfully snorting a line off his arm in a sketch, Mr. Rogers-looking bathroom, you slam him against the wall and grab his cock. You’re too excited. There’s a chance you might poop your pants. This is it. Deep breaths, Ken.

He finishes, tucks his barely flaccid instrument away, puts his number in your phone, and you part ways. You articulate your post-coital feels in a pressing, follow-up midday text: “Hey—had A LOT of fun last night! :) Come over and marathon Gossip Girl season two with me tonight maybe?” You get anxious after the first 10 minutes of silence and decide to send him a Direct Instagram photo of you (partially clothed) with a Miranda Sings grin and your ass in the air, sticky with a bunch of puppy emojis.

You get adjusted to the unresponsiveness; although you still can’t help but try and coil in the potential attention. Boys never text back what you want them to anyways.

Sure, blindsided blowjobs don’t tie down any man to another, even if you unwaveringly keep eye contact the whole way through; oral sex more-or-less just make you feel a little bit less lonely in that 5-minute span of time. And that’s all you’re promised. Don’t hate the playa, hate the patriarchy, brah.

One of the first times I gave head was behind a Dunkin Donuts. I met the guy on Grindr and he promised to buy me a donut and a small iced drink of my choice if I’d follow through with the meetup. It was pretty much a no brainer; cummies and yummies DUH. The self-described “Hung Maybe” bondage-inclined classified cub was 15 years my senior and—yeah, he wanted me to call him daddy.

“Suck my dick,” he demanded, forcibly nudging my shoulders down as we exited America’s fav donut destination. “Suck my big dick!”

Giddy over the fact that I was finally approaching the space of another anatomical, phallic beauty, I obliged. Despite his rather not-so-large disposition, I continued to spew Lana Del Rey, I-need-you-daddy lyrics to keep him amped until he came in my mouth. It was fast, and I could still taste the remnants of the Boston Cream donut on my walk home.

Before I could even log back onto the always vom-inducing app to say “Great time, nice load!” I was notified that he had blocked me.

See, boys (and reality) kind of suck. I witnessed dreamy, life-after-blowjob love tales in Saved by the Bell and Boy Meets Girl amid my tender, overly sculpted youth and their numb-minded oral sessions almost always resulted in forget-me-not, lovers forever storylines.

“I just want you to let me L-O-V-E you and for you to be my A.C. Slater for a little while!” I’ve whimpered out, dopey-eyed and on the lookout for another, more sympathetic man. “Please please PLEASE let me hold your hand as we walk through CVS for Astroglide!?? You won’t regret this!”

Whatever. We’re all freaked out by honesty and I guess half the fun of a blowjob is the anticipation leading up to it. He can come in your eye and not even offer you a tissue to clean it up and that’d be considered A-Okay, Princess Diana etiquette. He’s gotten what he wants, and now you’re kind of just sitting in his apartment, unaware of the location of your undies and whether or not you’re still welcome to watch the remainder of this episode of BoJack Horseman.

At a certain point, can’t we just stop and realize we both have feelings and urges that need to be met? If I want to blow you, and you’d be into some mediocre head, you should let me blow you. Life is too short to block yourself off from having new experiences for superficial reasons. Similarly, if I think we’d look cute with a few anxious pugs and a two-seater bicycle with our initials etched into its seats, get to the core of the problem. Marry me already. Otherwise, it’ll be all, “Why you lying? Why you always Lying? Ummm OMG! Stop Fu*cking Lying” and nobody wants that. TC mark

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