the new trick

Last night, splayed on Donny’s bed, thighs spread as clock hands  at 9:13, tiny crimping cramps shooting through my hips at the impossible angle, my pussy feeling as big, open and juicy as a Guatemalan papaya, I realized my boyfriend had finally learned how to give head.

It has been quite the journey to be the object on the end of Donny’s oral learning curve. I am the chagrined owner of a particularly finicky pussy. I am not the girl who comes over all ecstatic orgasmic at any old caress. A team of finely trained orgasmaticians armed with erotiscillators and buckets of Spanish fly wouldn’t be able to get me to come in a public place, for example.

You’ll never read this blog and find tales of me squirting into barstools or come-clenching my pussy in orgasm around a man’s finger in a bathroom. I’ll most likely never regale you with tales of fat industrial packs of orgasms, not in bed and not out. As much as I wish I were that kind of girl, I am not.

I have a recalcitrant, stubborn and high-strung libido, as easy-going as I am in most other ways. If my libido were played by an actress, it would be someone like Viviane Leigh, Marlene Dietrich or Elizabeth Taylor. A beautiful, unstable and snappish woman. My orgasms have to coaxed and fed like a feral cat.

It’s not something I’m particularly proud of, it is something I wish I could change, and it is something over which I really have no control. Add to all that my shield of misanthropy and my churlish puppy attention span and you see that I’m just not an easy woman to please.

When I was younger, like in my twenties and early thirties, I really loved getting head. I would lie back in billowy pillows of heavenly bliss and just let the experience take me places magic-carpet-like. I visited the interiors of rooms I’d never seen. I felt as much as saw giant flowers bud, blossom and bloom. I became one with baroque tapestries; the lapping, lapping pleasure wove me into their nubbly romantic scenes.

For no reason I can articulate, that kind of erotic teleportation ended about a decade ago. Instead, sex became much more  of the quotidian real—not so much an astral projection as an intensifying of the here-and-now. Ambient scenery was replaced with erotic narrative; swirling adjectives were replaced with sanguine verbs; imagistic poetry was replaced with sweaty, earthy prose; and I felt fine with it.

Except that along with all that erotic metonymy, I lost the loving feeling for head. I liked it, it was fine, I could come from it, but it wasn’t like I ever felt like, oh god, oh god, lick my pussy now, lick it now, you sexy beast. Which is something I did feel about fucking, cocksucking and anal. Not to put too fine a point on it.

And to be honest, Donny’s haplessness in the oral department didn’t really help the situation. He floundered. He flailed. He lacked confidence. And I always felt as if my dearth of enthusiasm at the reception of his tongue only increased said floundering, flailing and lacking. It was all less good. (Though to be stark naked honest, it wasn’t just Donny who made me run all lukewarm at oral attention. Pretty much everybody did.)

Donny, though, got a wild hair down his throat to become the Head Master. He kept trying and trying, and eventually he succeeded in making me come and the villagers rejoiced. Or at least Donny did. But then as he couldn’t replicate his success with any kind of consistency, he was frustrated. He didn’t want to be adequate; he wanted to be excellent. He blamed my clit ring. He tossed and turned. He flagged and he railed.

And then he bought a book. (The Lowdown on Going Down: How to Give Her Mindblowing Oral Sex, by Marcie Michaels and Marie Desalle)

He happened to pick it up the same day we bought the decidedly unmagic Hitachi Magic Wand. “What do you think of this?” Donny said to me, waving the shiny book in front of my face.

What is it? Ten bucks? I asked. Get it if you want it, I said, feeling unimpressed by the cover and the title and the book’s general slick ambiance, and yet wanting to encourage Donny’s erotic education. So buy it he did.

Apparently, he’s read it. I first noticed a seismic shift in Donny’s Headsmanship the night I returned from Fire Island. Donny, an engineer, had always tended to just head immediately for my clit, apparently assuming the shortest trip between him and my orgasm was a straight line to my most sensitive bits. This time, however, he nibbled, he nuzzled, he licked and he toyed with my labia. He worked slowly and teasingly toward my tiny Greta Garbo reclusive clit and when he finally, finally got there I was goddamn ready and willing to open up and go all Ah! all over.

That wasn’t the only change, however. Donny had discovered rhythm. He did clever little change-ups, but he stayed with a beat long enough that I could enjoy it. He didn’t fumble all frustrated and fruit-fly attention-like with my clit. He had assurance. He held a stroke long enough for me to ride it and then, amazingly, he switched to something even better. He played me like he liked it and like he felt confident.

The Berlin walls tumbling down did not indicate a greater change than this sudden ability of Donny’s to lick my pussy. Ok, perhaps they did, but in my world, this moment was epic. Under the open, knowing, sucking and tongue-twiddling mouth of my lover, I came with the intensity of a joyful natural disaster.

At first I chalked up the crashing success of the experience to our having been away from each other for a week. But he has done it, and done it again, and done it once more, each time with new techniques and an ever-ascending crescendoing level of skill.

Last night, splayed on Donny’s bed, my orgasm did not hover as it usually does like a flotilla of rose-petal weather balloons. It did not, creeping in on cat’s paws, cover me in a rosy pleasure fog.  It did not crash like a tsunami or rise up like a fjord or shoot like a nova.

It rose with the intense beat beat beat of hundreds of birds, an immense fluttering flock of wings taking off together, their crazy primal synchronicity pounding the air to rise fluttery upward, up, up, up in the beat beat beat of their wings upward, out and beyond.

Last night, under Donny’s now knowing mouth, I realized that I am a very lucky and beloved girl indeed. Even my inner Vivian Leigh sighed and relaxed, open, happy and sated.

Comments

[O]

Hooray!

"orgasmiticans"....I love that.

love,
O

[S.P.]

The virtues of adult cunt-inuing education are so often underappreciated... Bravos to Donny for enjoying the search and discovery of new knowledge, and pursuing the practical implemetation of same!

Ain't it fun?

[Bad Kitty]

Hell, yeah. Yay for Donny! And for you, of course.

[Alice]

Bravo!! (For both your writing and Donny's mouth)

I think your libido and mine might be sisters, or something of that ilk to share so many character traits. (I was born on Vivien Leigh's birthday.)

[Traboyk]

jesus christ!!! this is so not helping my lack of oral pleasuring. damn my luck in being a giver.

[Viviane]

How about "She Comes First?"

A lovingly written post about a very intimate act.

Now, sweetie, get back to work.

xoxoxox

[likechicklicks]

I remember the first time I fucked this guy after rounds of highly satisfying phone sex. His tongue was so ADD, I never came. He had the nerve to ask what was the matter with me.

[Andy Eppink]

Boy (girl??), what writing. What do you do for a living?

Andy Eppink

PS I know how engr's are. I'm one myself.