pretty dumb things

with a cock in your mouth, you speak in labials

There’s really no other way to put it: I really missed sucking cock.

blow jobs are (nearly) front-page news

Here you go, a screenshot of my most recent Penthouse output. It's the article that I mused/fretted about here, as I was writing it during a sex drought. I really, really like the graphics for this piece--the other accompanying illustration is a close-up of a face of classic blow-up doll, mouth agape in wonder and readiness, and you have to respect the classics.

Although I like looking at the pictures, I almost never read my own edited writing because it makes me want to jab those little plastic knives they stick cocktail onions on in airport bars into my solar plexus. This is no exception, and while I only read the first couple of lines, I want to put on record that the joke with which I opened the piece is not my favorite joke. My favorite joke goes like this: So a Buddhist goes to a hot-dog vendor and says, "Make me one with everything."

My second favorite joke goes like this: What do you call a dyslexic insomniac agnostic? Someone who stays up all night wondering if there really is a dog.

Click--not lick--to embiggen the image. And if you buy the article, out on newsstands right now in the March issue of Penthouse, send me an email to tell me how you like it.

random and sketchy cocksucking thoughts

I’ve recently been immersed in thoughts of cock sucking. Which is not all that unusual for me—not to put too fine a point on it, I am a big fan of fellatio. Giving it, that is, not receiving, for as I am now, have always been, and will continue into perpetuity being, a chick, any fellatio I receive is purely imaginative. I do admit sometimes when masturbating or when being given head myself, I have envisioned myself both tumescent of cock and being ministrated to by some person of varying genders but always eager of mouth and plenteous of spit.

In my mind I have had my fictive cock sucked, and my mind is a place to which my own cocksucking has lately been relegated. Sadly, now that my boyfriend and I are on the outs—but discreetly and patiently discussing the ins—there has been no fellatio by me, none but the fantasy fellatio I’ve drummed up from memory for the purposes of writing an article.

This article, the third I’m penning for Penthouse—the first one published in September was a guide for roughing it up in the bedroom, and the second published just last week gave tips on how to be a moral manwhore—is a personal essay on fellatio. The bildungsroman of a cocksucker, I called when I pitched it to my editor. The narrative of my development into the oral artist that I am today, I said. I’d noticed that a great wide swath of this blog’s popularity is owing to my various cocksucking posts (two how-to guides, one on what it feels like, one on sucking in general and one on spit in specific, and lots of oral-based erotica), and I thought that I could parlay that armchair sociologist’s observation into an article for a larger and considerably more skewed male reading public. So I pitched it, and the magazine bought it.

Now immersed in the writing of the article, I find myself at a loss for not having actually sucked a cock for almost two months. I realize that it’s not really that long a period of time, and I know that presented with a cock before me that I wanted to fellate I could rely on muscle memory to drive me like a trained pony through my paces. It’s not like, for example, if someone wanted me to make a white sauce without a cookbook. Sure, I could do it, maybe with some scorched flour and burned milk in the process, and certainly not without some small measure of anxiety fluffing up the process into a fevered lather.

Sucking a cock would not be like that, no, not at all. It’s an act so deeply burned into my entorhinal cortex that I’d have no problem recollecting it at will. Not like rigging a sailboat, not like knitting a bobble, not like cooking a soufflé, not like stringing a bow, not like tacking a horse, not like any of these activities I have once known dead-on how to do and may or may not remember how to do perfectly is fellatio. No, fellatio for me would be like riding a bike. Once learned, never forgotten.

And yet I find myself struggling to remember in perfect detail, or detail exquisite enough to make it worthy of describing in words, what it is I like about the whole fellatory act. I know that I love the feel of erect cock, its singular tactile experience. An erect cock feels like a hybrid of steel and velvet. Nothing else in this world feels like an erect human penis, not even dildos, which are meant to feel like erect human penises and usually feel almost exactly not like one.

There is that, that silk-slithery skin drum taut over live blood and tissue rendered metal hard. There is that. There is too not merely the heavy weight of a hard prick in my hand, but the way that my body responds to it, with this inexorable need to put it in my mouth. I respond to a hard cock, or at least to a hard cock attached to a man I like, or better yet, love, like toddler with a piece of sea glass or a warm pebble. I want nothing more than to put it in my mouth, and consume it, whole.

Oh, pleasurable act of altruistic cannibalism that is fellatio, I miss you. I miss the smell of washed and worn penis and balls. I miss the slip-sliding resiliency of cock. I miss minding my teeth. I miss the hush and crush of breath playing sycophant symphony to the wet choreography of my mouth and tongue. I miss the slurpy sloshy sounds and I miss the slightly repellent smell of my own breath mixed with pre-cum. I miss the power and the glory of poising myself with an open maw over and above the straining, leaping penis. I miss the wrinkly pleasure of balls too, popping them into my mouth like plums and rolling them around like consonants. I miss the whole oral three-piece set.

I’ve found myself over and over again poised at my computer, random bits and pieces of fellatio flashing like bulbs in my brain pan, unable to put the popshots into any coherent narrative, unable to hold on to any string of them long enough to make sense. It’s taking a toll on my writing too. This article languishes in half-conception like a half-baked cookie. It’s not bad, but it’s not good either. Mostly, it’s not finished.

I can’t help but think that a righteous session of fellatio would put this article to bed. I can’t help but think that indulging in the act would reinvigorate my writing about it.

And yet it’s something I can’t do, not now, not yet. Those who can’t do, I suppose, write. And write some more. And hope that it will all turn out ok. Or at least, with some judicious editing, good enough to publish.

my boyfriend's absolute devotions

My boyfriend has fallen in love with my pussy. By stating this, my boyfriend’s in-loveness, I don’t mean to suggest that there was a time when he didn’t like my pussy, if not love it. I mean rather to suggest that what he feels now seems to have turned a more scarlet shade of passion, a richer hue of devotion, a more singular tone of monomania. My boyfriend is seriously in love with my pussy.

He kneels, he kowtows, he pays deep, wet, and oral obeisance to my cunt. He seems unable to help himself; he loses control; he stampedes toward my pussy. There is only the sweetest, too brief interlude at my mouth, the quicksilver flash of his tongue rolling in my mouth like a piece of sashimi, the gum-rubber slickness of his lips. There is a cursory stay at my neck; he pulls my head back and he pauses like Rousseau’s lion at my gypsy throat. He bites, but all too fleetingly. He takes a detour—the swiftest pit-stop—at my breasts. He sucks one nipple, he bites it as if he were nipping a berry from a bush. He suckles, summarily. He then descends, rapidly, single-mindedly, thrillingly, to my hoary depths so that he may worship at the altar of my cunt.

His knees amid the dustbunnies, he kneels at my bed’s side. Eagerly, he prises apart my legs, and tenderly he rests my left foot on his thigh. I can nearly feel him vibrate in anticipation. I can absolutely hear him inhale. He draws me into him like a diver breaking the surface. He can wait no more. He sinks his mouth on me as if he hasn’t fed for weeks; his tongue is pointed and sharp as a shard of glass. I have to stop him often. Make your tongue soft, I tell him. It’s too hard. His tongue gets tumescent in his deep-dark obligations to my pussy.

My boyfriend licks and sucks. He’s found what works and he works it. He nibbles and he flicks, he toys and he titillates. He sucks a finger, flips his palm up toward the sky, supplicant-like, and he inserts first one finger and then a second. He curves his fingers beseechingly inside me. He makes come-hither signs, rasping his tips against the cat-tongue roughness of my g-spot. Silent but for the wet-slick slurp, he urges me closer with fingers and with his mouth.

“Come,” he says without saying. “Come,” he says to my pussy, this wet-open persimmon-slick, lemon-sweet part of me.

As he does, I am distant. In my head, I’m miles above and beyond him. In my head I’m otherwhere—a tawdry vision shimmers and gasps in the dusky depths of my fecund imagination. It’s too dirty to describe, this chiaroscuro of my mind; it conflicts with the shiny bright worship of my boyfriend’s tender absolutions at my beloved cunt (though I know not for what sins he needs absolving). I am miles away from him. I reach down, miles below my waist; I find his face and I trace the curve of his nose to anchor me, to pull me back to him, to us, to this pleasure he gives me because he loves it.

I have grown jealous of my pussy. It seems to be something that I am not. My body languishes in abject dismay and petulant envy. To my pussy alone my boyfriend serves his devotions in an ancient tongue. He worships and my goddess-pussy answers. I become its handmaiden, a conduit for its rapture. He beckons, beseeches, plies and offers. My pussy responds and I speak out in shuddering tongues, and I resent it. After the seismic shakes subside, he fucks my pussy. He drives his cock into it again and again, the gates have opened, he is welcome, his offering has been accepted, his will is done. And I resent it.

I feel lost in my boyfriend’s devout relationship with my pagan cunt. I am beside the point. I am there, a vessel, a mute being who holds the godhead, a signifier without a signified, a placeholder. I am nothing, until my boyfriend comes and returns to me, and sees me whole and complete, a woman reborn in his eyes, and not a mere trail of pleasure parts, some more purely transcendent than others.

feeling sucky

I currently have a monster of a cold. We're talking Phlegm City, pop: me. Scratchy throat. Weepy eyes. Snuffly nose. Sneezing. I feel like three and half of the seven dwarfs.

Therefore, as much as I wish it were otherwise, there is no sucking for me. Not of anything but cough drops. And yet, while the flesh is weak, the spirit is willing. I would love, love desperately, love with a white-hot extra-flamey passion, to suck my boyfriend's cock, and yet, I find I cannot.

And so I compile this, a list of some of my favorite writing on sucking:

• Deep-throating: what it feels like; how to do it
• Clit sucking: with success and without; mine and those belonging to others
• Toe sucking: a formative moment
• Cock-sucking, a tribute in three parts: one, two, three
• Ass-sucking: just because
• Figurative sucking: I just really never liked this post
• Suckworthy: two I wish I could suck

I hope you enjoy this compendium of all things sucky. Wish me a speedy recovery.

on sucking and suckers

The act of sucking hardly gets fair linguistic treatment. When something is really awful, we say it “sucks,” however puerile it may be of us to do so; if it’s really bad, we might add a “dude,” as in the commiserative “Wow, that sucks, dude.” (Although, oddly, when something, really, really sucks, when it sucks beyond all comparable suckitude, we often says it “blows,” unless we just add an intensifying adverb and say that the thing in question “fucking sucks,” a phrase that does have a lovely assonant belly to it.)

When someone is currying favor, that person is “sucking up.” But when a person is gobbling food hurriedly and unmindfully, he or she is “sucking it down.” When person is inept, or when an event fails to live up to our expectation, we might say the person or the event in question “sucks ass.” P.T. Barnum famously said that a sucker is born every minute, less referring to babies, who do in fact literally suck, than those of us who are figurative gullible prats, ready and willing to fall victim to machinations of the wily and the brash, if also the somewhat amoral.

We might, after we’ve fallen prey to a scam, turn around and call the perpetrator of said scam a “cocksucker,” a term usually reserved for men, despite the fact that far more women suck cocks, just speaking on pure empirics. “Cocksucker” interests me not merely because of its often inaccurate hurling—I’m way more of a cocksucker than most of the men I’ve called a “cocksucker”—but also because the word embodies a grudging admiration, even if it also sometimes gestures to homophobia. Most cocksuckers don’t, for example, either suck up or suck ass. Most cocksuckers have a luster about them. I think I’d almost rather be a cocksucker than a bitch, and I actually like being a bitch.

Lots has been said—and said well—about the paradoxical nature of our using “fuck” as an epithet. George Carlin’s bit on the word is probably the best known, but any one of us has most likely found ourselves standing about in public somewhere, maybe heard the word thrown in anger flutter past us like a pigeon and idly wondered how something that we spend so much time thinking about, pursuing and enjoying became the worst of all swear words. “Fuck you, you fucking fuck,” spat Frank Booth in David Lynch’s Blue Velvet, inspiring a generation of t-shirts disallowed by high schools across America. Take the phrase more literally, though, outside the borders of vulgar language, and it seems almost a fleshy benediction.

Sucking, though, has escaped this kind of linguistic scrutiny. Sucking we just seem to accept as bad, and we seem to do so without any questioning. Which is kind of weird. I personally find sucking really quite pleasurable, both in terms of my being the suckee and of my being the sucker. I love having my tongue, nipples, neck, fingers, inner elbow, belly, thighs, ass, clit and toes sucked. I also love sucking all of the above, plus cocks, milkshakes, spaghetti, lollipops, ice cream cones and warm pebbles. There’s not a lot more pleasurable than the feeling of a human mouth making a hermetic seal over a part of my body and gently drawing in. And, undoubtedly tied to evolution, there’s also an intense and ineffable satisfaction in making that hermetic seal with my mouth and doing the same to body, beverage or whatever. From either the perspective of the person doing the sucking or the one being sucked, I find it difficult to argue with the act. It gets two wet thumbs up, way up.

I can see both why “sucking up” and “suck it down” mean what they do. For one thing, anytime I’ve been in the position to suck up to someone literally, I do feel somewhat subservient. When, for example, my boyfriend straddles my head with his knobby knees and takes his ambitious cock in his hand and feeds  it into my open baby-bird mouth, I feel pleasurably deferential. When I’ve had women close their warm thighs around my ears, I’ve felt similarly, and any time I’ve been the woman on top, I do feel an unmistakable sense of superiority. Likewise, when my boyfriend is lying below me like a lovely éclair, and I’m gobbling his cock in long slurpy strides, I can see why we use “sucking it down” as we do. There’s nothing polite and everything gloriously gluttonous about the act. It just seems to me that the negative connotation of the phrases is misplaced. Sucking, I believe, is fun.

But perhaps the worst offender in the “suck” pantheon is the phrase “suck ass,” a phrase I often employ as “suck crack,” although I also occasionally modify that to “suck burro crack” or “unwashed burro crack” or some other unhygienic mulish permutation. Sucking ass is a deeply pleasurable activity, I can say from the position of the suckee more often than the sucker. I will sometimes suck ass, but the moon has to be in the right house and a shower has to have just ended moments earlier.

The fact that “suck ass” carries such negative weight speaks to our prurient shame over the act, as no doubt the negativity of “suck” in all its various forms does. We don’t want to own those activities that we cherish in the dark, especially the ones that are so deeply routed in our infancy, those little sucking rosebud mouths, that immediate response to oral stimuli, that necessary evolutionary response. We don’t want to embrace them in the light, and so “suck,” and “fuck” and everything else gets perverted, and not in the good way.

It’s nothing new, I’m not saying anything radical here. I’m just pointing out a linguistic foible, a psychic schism, a little lapse in our great big grey noggins. I’m just observing it, and saying that it, you know, sucks. Big time.

Thank you, Art of The Secret Brain for your comment to my previous post that gave me the inspiration to write this piece. You were a muse.

spit shine: lucibrations on lubrication

Spit is vastly underappreciated. We take it for granted. We don’t notice it unless it’s embarrassing us. When it, for instance, takes a flying lemming leap from between our lips when we pop our “p”s. When it, for example, dark-shadow stains our pillows or our shoulders as we sleep, or  when it spot shines on our cheeks or chins. When it, essentially, betrays our bodies for being what they are: deeply flawed and incessantly active biological organisms. We like to pretend our bodies aren’t really real, that they aren’t anything buy pretty props for our great noggins; spit—along with farts and snots and other unwanted effusions—exposes us for being the big bags of meat we are.

We show our distaste for others with spit, which is kind of ironic given that we also show our desire by salivating; look at any sophomoric cartoon of a man horndogging after a toothsome chick and dollars to doughnuts it shows perfect teardrops of spit emanating from the guy’s lopping pant-panting tongue. We spit in the faces of others when we want to anger them and when we are powerless to do much else. When we’re young, we shoot spitballs, those little saliva-saturated wadded up balls of wide-lined paper, at those we revile. If we’re really styling, we shoot them blow-dart style through straws. Spit is a handy somatic personification of contempt.

Spit, saliva, drool—none of the terms conjure a positive image. When I want to talk about something being really, truly, unfathomably dumb, I say it’s drooling. When I imagine a person whose stupidity is so excessive as to defy compassion and inspire irritation, I see a slack-jawed yokel, flecks of spittle dotting his or her collar and bodice. There’s no way around it: at first glance no one wants to see spit, show it, or suffer it.

Yet spit is a beautiful thing. Saliva is nature’s lubricant, for one thing, and not merely for eating, though that is a necessary, if uninteresting, function of spit. I know that when I first started masturbating all those decades ago, well before I knew what K-Y was or why I might want to buy some, I would spit on my middle finger before it delved below the equator of my panties to divide the peachy cleft of my barely pubescent pussy. I can’t imagine I was alone in using this most handy lubricant in the long darkling night of my adolescence.

And still today, when I’m fucking my boyfriend, when I’m atop him, astride the flat plain that is his belly, when I’m unthinkingly, rhythmically and willfully impaling myself on his archetypal cock, when I’m finding my own—what do we call it? Pussy juice? Too Julia Child roasty. Vaginal lubrication? Too medical. I admit a loss for words—when I’m finding my own wetness inadequate to the task at hand, I spit on my finger and use my saliva to smooth the friction. Spit is a beautiful thing in the right context.

Which is not to suggest it’s not disconcerting on occasion. Face down and naked ass up, my spread genitals as genial and welcoming as an open bar to the soon-consuming face of my boyfriend, he spits on my ass before licking it. Unseeing, I hear him. A rasping hawk, a pursed-lipped “pttt.” And then the hot-cold splat of his saliva on my split-open plum-dark center. It’s a peculiar fucking sensation, but it passes quickly, quick as the wet-hot heat of my boyfriend’s open pervert’s mouth and  the quick-flicking of his pointy tongue squelch-pressing to my ass. Off-putting, his hawking spit, and a bit humiliating, but undeniably pleasurable.

I have drunk gallons of lover’s spit, to employ the term of alt-rock band Broken Social Scene. Some I can even summon the taste of at will, like an aging gourmand recollecting the ghosts of repasts gone by. Not-Danny Barber’s saliva tasted like a Marlboro tea. The spit of this vegan guy I fucked this one night tasted like green hay. The spit of others tasted like coffee grounds, like cinnamon and mint, like curry. Sometimes when I’ve been kissing someone, a prodigious mouthful of saliva has flooded my mouth, like a spit tsunami. I have swallowed, equally titillated and appalled.

Sex has the improbable effect of making my own spit foreign to me too. Deep-throating has this effect. I find the prodigious and viscous saliva created by swallowing a cock shocking and awe-inspiring. I am like a toddler: I am amazed that my very own body could make something like that. Dense ropy shiny strands of saliva connect my mouth to my lover’s cock when I lift my head; they embarrass me and they swell me with pride. They are my passion for cock-sucking made visible, tangible, and olfactory, for in these strands, I can smell my breath on my lover’s cock. It makes me self-conscious, as much as it makes me proud.

Kissing and sucking my lover’s body, my lips drop invisible physical graffiti on his flesh, as he does on mine. We dot one another with our spit, our DNA, our breath. “I Was Here,” it says. “You Were Loved,” it says. “You Were Eaten,” it says. I  treat my lover’s body like meat with my drooling, and he likes it. In this context, spit is good. It’s better than good; it’s divine.

Spit, spunk, and—what are we calling it? Wetness? Juice? Whatever—those now-you-see-it-now-you-don’t signs of our telltale heats. We may like to pretend their unimportance simply because they are so secret, so necessary, so visceral, and like those fleeting primal moments when we are caught critter-like and lightning-struck in the strobe-light tableau of unresisting passion, so embarrassing. They show us for the animals we are: defenseless, hungry, and driven by forces we don’t understand and can’t exactly recall when, after it’s over, we return to our propriety and ourselves.

bobbing for semen

The paper frills on the ends of the lamb chops aren’t necessary, but they’re nice. The umbrella in your adult beverage doesn’t make it taste any better, but it’s festive. The balconette push-up bra doesn’t really give you perkier breasts, but it’s alluring. None of these things—not the paper frills, the wee umbrella, the naughty lingerie—actually makes the decorated item any better, but they seem as if they do. The lamb chop seems more succulent; the frozen piña colada appears more decadent; the breasts look as if they’re ripe for the plucking.

In the spirit of sexy similitude, let me present you with a few things you can do that will put the icing on the cake, the gild on the lily, the pastie on the nipple, if you will, of your blow job.

A blow job in and of itself is, from what I hear, a very good thing. Not having a cock myself—except for a very large, perpetually tumescent, and ponderous metaphorical cock—I wouldn’t know first hand. But from all accounts, the blow job seems to really rather pleasant. Certainly, the sheer number of people who find my pretty dumb things by searching phrases like “deepthroat,” “cock-sucking” and “deepthroat cumslut gag cocksuck” suggests the popularity of the search terms, if not the act itself.

I have in previous posts detailed how to deepthroat, described my experience of being a deepthroating chick, and sung paeans to the joys of giving my boyfriend head (to several readers’ apparent boredom). In this one, I’m going to risk my readers becoming oscitant and share with you a few trivial things I’ve discovered in my almost three decades of sucking dick.

Eyes on the Prize: One thing a dude likes is if you look as if you’re enjoying sucking his dick. One way you can perform your enjoyment is to make eye contact. Especially at the beginning of the blow job, before you’re getting all hot and heavy and the guy’s eyes are lolling back in his head in full-on pleasure mode, get yourself in a position to look at him over the head of his cock as it rubs against your lips, as your tongue twirls around its head, as it slowly enters your mouth. It’s not something you can—or want—to spend your entire blow job doing, but it’s a great beginning, or a fine punctuation in the middle, especially if you want to slow things down while simultaneously heating things up.

Say It With Me, “Prune”: When Marilyn Monroe wanted to make the perfect kissy mouth for photos, she said, “prune,” as legend as it. Your turn to be a siren. Say “prune” and see what your lips do. Now put a nice tumescent cock in front of your mouth and say it over and over, each time more lasciviously. Let your tongue escape like a naughty little wet monkey and flick at the rim of your man’s cock head. Imagine you’re French, and say it again.

You can also wrap the head of the cock in your lips and make tiny, fluttering sucking motions with your mouth as you slowly pop the cock out of your mouth to say “Prune” again. “Dried Plum” just doesn’t have the same erotic resonance.

Ring Around the Rosy: Take one or two fingers and wrap them around the cock shaft near the very base of the cock. Apply what in your feminine mind you probably think is too much pressure. Note how as you grasp tighter the head of the cock grows bulbous and shiny. This embiggening happens because your fingers are acting not unlike a cock ring and are pinching off the blood flow to and from the penis. (I like to keep one little finger curved out like I’m drinking tea, but that’s because I’m “pretentious” and “ironic,” even in bed.)

In doing this little Vulcan grip, you are increasing the sensitivity of your man’s cock. It’s fun to do in conjunction with the “Prune” and or the eye contact. It’s also pleasant to grip and release as you tease the head of the dick in front of you with your mouth. Finally, this move, like the eye contact, is kind of the coffee achiever of blowjobs—it also picks things up while it calms things down.

Try variations of the grip when your man is nearing orgasm, or try moving your fingers up to just under the head of his cock when you’re just beginning to blow him. This move, though simple, is incredibly effective because it helps nature along. Moreover, men like it because it makes their cock look really engorged and bestial. It’s a great move if you like to talk dirty in bed because it gives you something to talk about.

Remember, different men like differing amounts of pressure, so it’s perfectly acceptable etiquette to ask should you be unable to read his somatic reaction.

Bobbing for Semen: I don’t know why it took me so long to realize this, but at some point in my twenties, I discovered it was entirely appropriate to use both my hand and my mouth together whilst sucking my man’s cock. Because I can deepthroat, and because I’ve always been able to deepthroat, it never occurred to me that using my hand wasn’t cheating. When I finally let the thought dawn in my sometimes dim conscience, I realized that it wasn’t cheating; it was just a good time.

Placing the cock as far back in your throat as it can just uncomfortably go will help you gag, and gagging will produce that lovely, highly viscous porn-starry spit that makes an incredible lube. I like to make that spit and then utilize it for the oral-topped hand job. And once I’ve made the spit, I find that it’s very easy to move my hand from my delicate hold around the base of my man’s cock to stroking up and down his shaft in time with my head.

Sometimes I use my mouth and hand in concert, smooshing my hand down my man’s cock with my mouth chasing after. Other times, I’ll use a very open grip with a quick, light stroke just in the center of his cock while I tongue and suck the head of his cock. Still other times, I’ll meet my hand and mouth in the center of his cock and pull out with my hand toward the base and toward the tip with my mouth. Sometimes too, I’ll use one hand to grip the base of his cock, sometimes wrapping a finger down and under his balls, while I use the other hand on the center of his shaft and busy my mouth on the tip. It’s all good, coordinated, opposable-thumbed fun.

Nibble Nibble (and a Little Dribble): Your teeth are your friends. While you do want to shield your man’s cock from your teeth when you’re bobbing for semen, you can use your teeth to tease him, especially when he’s very hard. I like to take the whole head of the cock in my mouth and gently scrape my lower teeth against his glans just under the rim of the head of his cock, if I’m facing toward his head, or scrape my upper teeth, if I’m facing his toes. You can also perch your teeth and your lips on the tip of his cock and slowly open, engulfing his cock in your mouth so that he feels the fulsome cushion of your lips, followed by the gentle hard tease of your teeth, and finishing with the wet lusciousness of your tongue.

Some men really like a lot of teeth—they enjoy the rasping feeling. Others just get freaked out by the reminder that there are teeth  there, possibly poised to do them damage. Most, though, will enjoy the concert of textures that your lips, your tongue and your teeth provide. Play around gently and see what happens.

T-Bagging, It’s Not Just for Brits: Don’t be afraid of the wrinklies. The wrinklies like the oral loving too. As much I can’t imagine what it feels like to get a blow job, I truly cannot fathom what it feels like to have one’s testes sucked, but I hear it’s really rather lovely. You can suck one ball at a time, or you can suck both together, and if you’ve got a long tongue, you can then stick it out and lick around what is commonly known as the “taint,” and is officially known as the “perineum.” I know I like mine licked, so I assume my man does too, though I am myself hampered by a rather short tongue. Sadly.

It can be quite novel to start the blowjob from the testes and work up; especially if you’ve been with your lover a while, this change is a simple way to shake things up a tiny bit. You can also, once you’re made the porn-starry spit and started your hand going, drop your head between your man’s parted thighs and take his testes in your mouth, running your tongue around interestingly and sucking gently, while you let your hand do what it does.

Lick It Where the Sun Don’t Shine: I admit being of the easily squicked type who requires my recipient shower before I’ll apply my tongue to his or her ass. However, that said, get your man into the shower, have him wash well, or merely capture him all Irish Spring-fresh, force him face down and ass up on your surface of choice. Often, the ass is a lovely place to begin a blow job. You can start by gently biting the cheeks of the ass (which is oddly surprisingly pleasurable for me in its own right. I like to bite) and running your teeth over the spit-wet skin. Then slowly center in on the asshole. I know I don’t like mine being pounced on, at least not very often, because it makes me giggle and the mood is lost, unless that’s the mood we want.

Therefore, because the ass is so sensitive, I find it works best to move in slowly, to run my tongue around and across gently, or to work slowly up the perineum to the asshole, so that no one is startled with an asscheek in her eye. Namely so I’m not. Another way to move into it gently is to talk your man through it. Announce to him what you’re going to do in a steady voice—it’s hott in a disembodied way, like having sex with Hal, the computer in 2001. Or you can wet your finger, place it directly on his asshole and hold it there, removing it after a few seconds to lick. Once there, you can spit in your palm, wrap your hand under him, and stroke his cock while you’re nuzzling his ass. You can also begin with the ass lick, and flip around to take his cock in your mouth, which in addition to stimulating him in all kinds of lovely ways also switches in one move your being dominant and in control to your being in position for him to fuck your face.

You know, if you’re into that sort of thing. I am.

In this short format, I can’t possibly give an all-embracing list of directions for an act as delicate and raw as ass eating—or anilingus, if you like the proper nouns—so consider this note a gentle nudge to put your face where it might not have ever gone before.

This short how-to is by no means a comprehensive bag of blowjob tricks, but I hope you can find a treat or two for your favorite flesh lolly. I regret that in writing today, I haven’t really kept in the whole letter of this Halloween day. If it makes you feel better, you can imagine me wearing a pirate wench outfit while I’m writing this.

Which is, of course, what I usually write in. When I’m not wearing my naughty nurse latex dress, my French maid black dress and white apron, my handy-girl toolbelt and short-shorts, or my  Chewbacca suit, minus the gloves.

You know, because I like to use my hands.

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.

voraginous

Donny lies on my bed naked, delicious and cream-filled as an éclair. His pale long body, dalmation-spotted with birthmarks, has been stripped of clothes by me. The clothes sit in a rumpling heap, man-panties and shorts all hurdy-gurdy, t-shirt inside out, entirely unlike the neat and undoubtedly folded pile Donny himself would leave them in.

But he isn’t in charge at this 4:06 p.m. Saturday moment, and I am.

Naked on my bed, Donny struggles to push my head up, he battles his desire and my bodyweight to free his cock from my mouth, to remove my hand from the base of his shaft, to tug my summer dress off my body. We meet in mid-struggle, he curved around himself like a comma, I on my knees, and kiss.

No, I tell him, just enjoy. You can fuck me later, I say, and push him, now compliant, back to supineness and take the head of his cock in my mouth.

From between his thighs, on each upswing of my head, as I inhale, I look up the narrow expanse of my boyfriend’s body. His arms are twin upside-down “vee”s, his head resting between. His mouth is slack and open; he looks utterly abandoned to the pleasure I am giving him.

His cock deep in my throat, I swallow around the tip, and with one forefinger, I nudge the shaft just a bit further, guiding his cock just a tiny bit more into my voraginous maw. Donny moans, and he puts a hand on my head. It’s uncomfortable and irritating, but I let his palm rest there, on top of my head, patting me as if I’m a good doggy. As if he is pleased with my doggy pleasure at a particularly juicy bone.

From between his thighs, looking up at him on each upswing, I remember other cocks I’ve sucked, one in particular, one belonging to a man who’d never been deepthroated, one belonging to man whose last name was Applesomething. Applebottom. Applesmith. Applecock. A man who professed his love for head with lots of eye contact and lots of spit.

I don’t tell Donny this Applestory, though I know that were I to stop and interrupt my head-giving to do so, it would increase his desire, as much as it might diminish the sweet simplicity of this experience. I keep it to myself, as I change the rhythm, now slurping the head of his cock with a noisy abandon, while fluttering one hand on the length of his shaft.

I have made his whole cock slipperyslick with my pornstarry spit, and I take advantage of it. From slurping and fluttering, I change again, for I have sensed that my boyfriend’s cockish turgidity has now spread to his body, signifying a hotsweet intensifying leap in his pleasure. His body under me grown taut and quivering is telegraphing his needsome desire through its shuddering wires.

Now my hand and my mouth work in concert, dancing together, a well-practiced pas-de-deux; my hand and my mouth slide together from stem to tip, my throat opening to swallow at the depths, my tongue poised to twirl, like a minute and pinkslippery ballerina, at the tip.

Up and down and up and down, my hand and moth work together, my body heaving on the bed; the bed’s old and worn springs plaintive creaking is the weight of my hunger made audible. Creak-creak-creak is punctuated with Donny’s moaning and my oft-stifled breaths and indecent slurping.

There are no table manners in bed.

Donny tells me he’s going to come, a message made pleonastic by his quivering, taut white-wiry body. He tells me again, he’s going to come, and I bow down to receive his message, my lips brushing the manscaped mat at the base of his cock, and swallow.

And find that fed this amuse bouche, my hunger whets.

cock worship is for pussies

This is what you do.

You have your female lover—your girlfriend, your wife, your friend, it matters not—lie on the bed, her legs bent, her thighs spread; like the twin columns of trees that line the road leading up to a French estate, her parted legs welcome you.

You take your time; you gaze at the vista; you appreciate the topiary; you stop and smell the metaphoric flowers. Perhaps you trail a finger or two up and down her vertical slit. Perhaps you part her labia, idly, like a dawdler eavesdropping at a tea party.

You tell her in no uncertain terms that you have something planned. That you will let her know each individual step. That you will be trusted as you will be obeyed. You may, if you like, praise her. You may, if you like, plant a small kiss on her inner thigh. If you are feeling magnanimous, if you are feeling beneficent.

You hand her a toy, if you like, a vibrator, or you tell her to use her fingers. It is your choice. You know your woman well enough to know what is best. (You do not, however, use your own mouth. The time will come for that, but the time is not yet now.)

You let your lover ply her fingers in her own intricate dance over her clit. You tell her to. Or you let her rub small circles on her clit with the vibrator; you tell her to do this too. As she is stroking herself you tell her that you’re going to insert a finger, that you’re going to give her very specific instructions, and that you expect her to follow them.

You let her know that there will be consequences if she does not. You tell her that if she does not follow your instructions, if she does not try to follow the letter of your law, you will stop. You will get up and you will leave her. You will, perhaps, go and watch a game somewhere, you will visit a friend, you will have a drink, you will shop. You will leave her naughty sweaty wet, though it will be hard, hard indeed, but you will leave her nonetheless.

You let her tease herself. You tell her that she may not come until you give her permission to. You ask if she understands and she says she does (you see her face beginning to flush pink, and you like it).

You tell her you’re going to insert a finger into her pussy and that you want her to continue stroking herself. You lick your middle finger and you slowly insert it, rotating your hand so that your palm is up, curving your finger slightly so that your fingertip finds her kitten-tongue rough g-spot. You stroke it gently,

You make eye contact. You keep it.

You tell her to concentrate on squeezing her muscles as tightly as she can around your finger. You tell her to squeeze and then you tell her to release. You pause, she rubs, you breathe, she pants, slightly.

You tell her to do it again, harder. She does. You tell her to hold her muscles tight around your finger, as tight as they can be, tight, tighter, to squeeze your finger as if it’s a balloon she wants to pop with her cunt muscles.

You tell her not to laugh. You tell her to keep squeezing. You remind her to keep rubbing.

You either praise her for her hard work or you chide her for her lazy slatternly slut ways. You will know which tack to take; she is, after all, your lover.

You then tell her you’re going to insert another finger. You take your finger out, you put it in her mouth to lick it, and you place a second finger in her mouth, so she can coat it with saliva too. You lock eyes again—you know the power of eye contact—and you insert the two fingers, once more tilting your palm upwards, once more searching the kitten-tongue, once more delighting in her gasp, and in her grasp.

You tell her you’re going to tell her to squeeze and release her pussy and that she’s going to follow your directions, holding her cunt tight around your two fingers until you give her leave to let it go. You do this. You do it over and over. You remind her that she may neither come nor may she stop stroking her clit. You watch her face and listen to her breaths. You know that when women do this, when they rhythmically tense and relax their cunts, they bring themselves closer to orgasm (you may even know one or two who have come this way alone).

When she gets close to coming, you pause. You tell her to pause. You tell her, now you are going to push. Push out against my finger. And you yourself may not feel much, you may feel only a slight push, but you know too that pushing delays orgasm, that pushing hard both delays orgasm and it makes it indescribably sweeter, slower, more powerful and more complete.

So you tell her to push. You warn her that if you feel her pull in, which is her natural reaction, you will stop. You will pull her finger away from her pussy, you will remove your hands, you will leave. You ask her if that’s what she wants.

No, she will moan.

You ask her if she understands. She will say she does. She will say anything.

You tell her to begin touching herself again, you will encourage her, to fight her temptation to clutch in at those hard fingers insistently probing her cunt. You will tell her to fight them, to oust them like foreign soldiers at her family’s farmhouse, to push them away, to reject, to press with all her will and all her pussy these fingers away from her.

(You will hope she will follow your dictates. You will not want to leave.)

You will feel her losing. You will see her orgasm tremble in her legs, flutter in her belly. And when you are ready, you will tell her that she will bear down on your fingers with everything she can and when she does she may come, and she will.

She will come tumbling like a tall building, imploding from within, her windows shuddering and her foundations shaking, she will come gasping in and around your hand, Though flat on the bed, she will fall and you will hold her.

You will do this, and you will know how your woman’s pussy works, how it trembles and why it closes like a wet velvet fist around you, how she begins to lose control, how control is lost, and how she can learn to control it through you. You will do this and you will give control as much as you will get it. You will do this and you will give pleasure as much as you will receive it.

Now, imagine doing it again, this time not with your fingers but with your cock. What have you learned? And where will it take you?

deep throat & deepthroating: a primer

I want the world to be a happy, harmonious place. It’s not, but I like to think I can help it to be in my own small way. In this spirit of world peace and in this season of giving, I’d like to share with you my small knowledge of how to deep-throat a cock. It may not cure cancer; it may not stop wars or end world hunger or disarm landmines. It may not even pay my rent, but I like to think that sharing my skills can help you and your lover to a happier 2006 and beyond.

Let me offer my gift to you: 9 Steps to Deep-Throating a Cock, Chelsea-Girl Style

1) An introduction: Deep-throating is a skill, like parallel parking or fire eating. Unlike either of those skills, however, you really can’t hurt yourself or any one else by deep-throating a cock. The thing to remember about deep-throating is that the worse thing that can happen is that you will puke.

Which, ok, puking is gross and it’s unpleasant, and it will ruin the mood, but puking is not the worse thing a human can experience. Remember that and you’re good to go.

I’m going to take your basic oral skills as a given. If you need tips on fellatio 101, I suggest you visit Steph, the Cunting Linguist who gives very good advice on giving great head in two parts (part 1 and part 2). What I want to give you is a tutorial strictly intended to help you go places you’ve never gone before, or more precisely to help your man go places he never has: down your throat.

2) Practice makes penetrating: Like any extreme sport, deep-throating is an activity you need to work up to. You can’t expect to heli-board the first time out, and you can’t expect to just open your mouth and let that cock slam down your throat cold. You will gag and it will be un-fun, and this whole experience is about you and your man having fun. Therefore, you need to understand that it will take a lot of practice and warming up on your part, but I assure you that it’s worth it and that your partner really won’t mind the time you take.

As some of my very wise readers said in comments to my previous post, this skill can take a while to learn. You need your lover to be patient with you. Remind him strenuously if he is not. Feel free to tell him to stick a dildo down his throat and see how it feels if he gives you the yummy-reduced flavor of a hard time. Remind him of this: patience is the virtue that will lead you happily down the path to the vice of face-fucking.

Deep-throating is a test of limits. You are willfully and mindfully dismantling a basic human physical function, the gag reflex. It is natural that as you learn this skill that you will feel discomfort, that your eyes will tear, that things will feel frustrating, especially if you’ve never really thought about mastering your gag reflex before. Therefore, you need to be patient with yourself too.

If you never learn, it’s no big. There are lots of fantastic ways to give your lover vast swaths of oral pleasure without him entering your throat. But it’s worth trying. I love deep-throating; it makes me hotter and wetter than anything…anything. I urge you to try it out, and as you do, to give yourself to find the pleasure in the discomfort.

3) Find the space within: Take a moment and think about your mouth and throat. Now pull the base of your tongue at the back of your throat down, as you would if you were about to yawn. Think about making a big, round cave at the back of your throat as you kind of retract the base of your tongue.

Think about how it feels as your tongue begins to move, how you feel your throat open up, until you can almost feel pressure in your ears. Do it over and over again.

This action, my friend, is how you control your gag reflex.  When you have an object in your mouth and it presses against your soft palate, the movable muscle fibers sheathed in mucous membranes responsible for cutting off passage to the nasal cavity while swallowing, your natural response is to gag. However, if you can learn to create this space at the back of your throat, you are in essence learning to control your gag reflex.

If you’re interested in learning how to accept your lover’s cock down the back of your throat, the very first thing you need to do is learn how to control these muscles. And that means learning how to find the space within your throat. Practice when you’re out of bed. Get accustomed to the feeling, get the muscle memory, and then when you’re in bed or on your knees, you’ll have it down.

You know, as it were.

4) The spit is it: When I’m giving head, I’ll begin by any variety of ways—licking the tip of the cock and slowly letting it enter my mouth, avoiding the tip entirely and teasing around the shaft, starting with the taint and working my way up—it really depends on what interests me at the moment. However, I always start deep-throating the same way because my throat, like other parts of my anatomy, needs copious lube to accommodate the length and breadth of my lover’s cock.

The good news is this: you can always count on your throat to make its own lube. It’s called spit. And as Jenna Jameson has said in her memoirs, when it comes to spit, your gag reflex is your best friend.

Our normal spit is wan, watery, pallid stuff. To deep-throat you need to find that good-quality, high-viscosity, ropy spit. And you will.

I do it by pressing my lover’s cock as far as it will just uncomfortably go in my mouth and resting there. I pause for 30-45 seconds, come up for air, lick and suck a little bit, and do it again. After a minute or so of this pressing, I get that really nice, thick, embarrassingly porn-starry spit.

The key to this spitty fount is the phrase “just uncomfortably go.” You want to feel a bit, just a bit, like you’re gagging. Your gagging here is a good thing because it creates that lover’s spit. If you’ve ever tried to fuck without proper lube, you know how futile and uncomfortable it is. Your throat, though naturally wet, is no exception to this dry rule. Take all the time you need to get those juices flowing.

No matter what you do, even if you never, ever get to deep-throat completely, this spit step is key because with this spit you can stroke your man with your hands as you suck. Moreover, creating this lubrication will help his cock slide in and out of your mouth with the most pleasurable friction for you both. If you learn nothing else, learn this trick: enter the cock, pause when slightly uncomfortable, let the spit flow, repeat.

5) Taking the plunge: Once I’ve gotten a nice pool of lubrication in my mouth, I’m ready to deep-throat. I should note that even when I’m playing by D/s rules, I make it known to my man that we will each have a much better time if he forces himself gently into my mouth. Once I’m warmed up, he can face fuck me until the cows come home (metaphorically. Literally, I’d find actual cows troubling), but he needs to respect the tender passage of my throat.

Hold the cock in your hand, and with your throat all warmed up by your high-viscosity spit, pull your tongue to the back of your throat to open it to him. Slowly, incrementally, guide him into your throat, thinking about pulling your tongue back and down.

If you feel comfy, pause and see how that feels. If you don’t, back off and try again when you feel like it. I find that when I’m ready, I can slide my man’s cock down the back of my throat and swallow around it, pulling him more deeply into my throat. I also find that at some point I can open my throat up even further and accommodate more of his phallus, usually until my nose is pressed against his pubic hair, or his testicles, depending on which direction I’m facing. But it takes time, every time, and I don’t rush it. (Unless I’m being face-fucked in a Dommy manner, and then it’s a different flavor of martini entirely.)

While I’m deep-throating, I imagine what my throat is doing. I concentrate on where the cock is in my mouth and throat, how my throat is adjusting to it, and how I can relax around it. I attribute this practice of visualization to my years of lifting weights and dancing—I feel like if I can see it, I can do it. Therefore, I try to be aware of what it is I’m doing with that cock down my throat, at least until the whole animalistic passion thing raises its shaggy head and then all cognitive process shuts down.

I would urge you to “see” it as you do it. Imagining what you’re doing with your throat will help give you a sense of control and a sense of power. Just remember that if you’re too uncomfortable, stop. If you’re having fun, rock on with your cocksucking, Honey; it’s all good.

6) Find the angle, Angel: Many women (and men) find it easiest to deep-throat by hanging their head off the bed and having the man stand in front of them, easing the cock into their throats. If it works for you, fine, but the real lesson here is that angle is everything. You can control the angle of the cock by holding it in your hand. I would suggest that until you’re entirely comfortable with the act, you take as much control as you need. Your man will be so deeply appreciative of your desire to accommodate him that he’ll let you take control, the remote, the contents of his wallet and the keys to his Chevy Malibu.

I can’t deep-throat every lover in every position. Some angles are just bad. And it depends a lot on the bend of my lover’s cock. Donny has a very straight cock with very little bend to it, which means that I’m best sucking him either on my back with a pillow under my head (which is awesome if he wants to fuck my face), or if I’m on top of him and can use my hand to push his cock into my throat.

Other, more bendy, lovers, I’ve found very good luck in being on all fours doggy-style in front of them as they kneeled before me. Still others worked best if they were standing. It really depends on the size, shape, configuration and angle of the dick to be sucked. Experiment. Find your best position.

Moreover, remember that even if you can’t deep-throat in the position you’re in, you are still giving your lover pleasure. Deep-throating is not the end-all and be-all in fellatio; it’s just one trick in your bag.

7) Don’t be a one-trick pony: Deep-throating is great; I love doing it. It makes me godessy wet, and it makes me satisfied in a workman-like kind of way. It does not, however, always bring my lovers to orgasm. It’s just one of the things I can do in bed. And that means don’t feel like just because you’ve learned to sword-swallow your lover’s dick you have to do it until he comes. A lot of time, once my throat has opened up, I use a hand/mouth combo where I stroke my hand in conjunction with my mouth down the shaft of my lover’s cock, sweeping my hand down the base of his dick and around his balls with each stroke. I may end the stroke with my nose buried in his pubic hair, but it’s not there for very long.

Add your throat to everything else you know and love about cock sucking. You don’t have to go hands-free, you don’t have to suck cock like a porn star, you don’t have to suck it like your mouth is drawing a golfball through a bendy straw. You just need to find things you like to do to your lover that your lover likes. Let yourself play.

Experiment and see what comes up.

8) C’mon, c’mon: And now the potentially bad news: if you’re not an aficionado of swallowing your lover’s spunk, you are at a distinct disadvantage. Personally, I’ve never been a spitter. I just don’t understand not swallowing, but if you don’t enjoy swallowing, perhaps you and your lover can find some signal when he’s ready to come, something, for the love of all things holy, that is not a tap on the head. Figure it out. You’re adults.

Now the good news: if you are deep-throating when your man comes, it’s super easy to swallow. It’s just there and it just goes down. It’s a no-brainer. In fact, the only trouble I’ve ever had with swallowing was with a shorter-dicked lover who would come and it would go up my nasal passages.

That was less fun. Take it from me; you don’t want ejaculate shooting out your nose.

Anyone else, though, it was as easy as swallowing hot jets of liquid pie. Just not as tasty. Which brings up a point: have your man eat pineapple. It really does work. Ginger is good; asparagus is not. Wine, scotch and bourbon can be good; beer is not. The jizz of soda drinkers tastes like the soda of choice. The jizz of vegetarians tastes like fields. Strawberries are nice, when in season.

In other words, taste-wise, planning is a good thing. On the other hand, if he’s far enough down the back of your throat, you won’t even know.

9) Talk it up: Go ahead, afterward you're done doing the voo-doo that you two do so well, have a blow-by-blow. Tell your lover what you were feeling. Let him lay cock-sucking laurels at your feet. Tell him what he did that worked—and didn’t work—for you. Let him sing your praises. Hug and kiss. Fuck. Whatever. Get close and enjoy, but be sure to include talk as part of that closeness

And drink some water.

And do it again.

Do let me know if you found this instructional primer helpful. Or let me know if you have questions. I’m here to help.

kissykiss,
chelsea girl
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Great, big sloppy thanks to Raschied Britannica, who used my tip jar to express appreciation. "Booga!" to you too, Raschied. And if the spirit moves you to tip, be reassured that it's safe, anonymous and legal.