You Suck

Several years ago some enterprising lads declared March 14^th as “Steak and Blow Job Day”; also know as Valentine’s Day for Men. For the last month my husband has been excitedly counting the days until delivery of his perfectly cooked steak and well-executed blow job. I realize for some of you ladies this is no big deal, but for me it’s a day I dread. First of all, the only thing I can cook is a very dry martini, and second, I have major blow job performance anxiety. And yes, I know how ridiculous that sounds, especially since I get less nervous at the prospect of telling jokes to people who may throw fruit at me than I do when confronted with my husband’s man parts in our bedroom.

My first experience in the blowjob department was less than stellar. Somehow I managed to get through high school without giving any blow jobs despite the fact that I was getting down and dirty in parking lots. Upon arriving in New York City and discovering that rich men liked to be seen with young, naïve and anorexic-looking girls, I began to spend my evenings eating expensive meals on assorted strange men's dimes. Unfortunately, I have really bad taste in men (present husband excluded, of course) and I found myself in quite a few situations that I now plan to warn any future female offspring about. One of these questionable men, Aaron, bought me dinner, took me back to his (very dirty) apartment, and then proceeded to announce that because he’d bought me dinner, he expected me to blow him. I figured it was a fair trade; the dinner had been expensive and I was into this guy (again, I have terrible taste in men) so I was looking forward to a little sexual healing now that I was no longer starving. Plus I was kind of interested in giving it a shot. I’d never gone down on a guy before; how bad could it be? Oh, if only I’d known.

I proceeded to venture into previously uncharted territory. I assumed the position, Aaron dropped his pants, and I almost passed out from the stench. I guess Aaron must have been absent the day they talked about personal hygiene in high school health class, but I don’t think this guy had ever used soap down there. After trying not to noticeably gag, I opened my mouth to offer some excuse as to why I had to get home and he just shoved that rotting piece of meat right in there and held my head down. I won’t go into details here, gentle reader, but suffice it to say the smell may have been bad, but the taste was oh so much worse. Every time I tried to get away his giant claw hand kept holding me down. Finally, I figured it was smarter to just get it over with, so I held my breath, went at it like a champion, and almost passed out from lack of air. All the while, Aaron kept telling me how bad I was at sucking his cock. Sure I was a novice, but I’m pretty sure I would’ve been able to rate at least a six had I been able to move my head.  Fortunately, Aaron was not a marathon lover and it was over quickly. Unfortunately, he was also an inconsiderate bastard who kept me locked in a vice grip while he finished the deed. Somehow I managed not to vomit all over him, but once he let me go I ran to his bathroom, and, while trying to avoid catching SARS from his filthy toilet, puked my guts out. After emptying my stomach of the expensive meal that had lead me to this low point, I returned to Aaron’s bedroom to find him passed out in the middle of his bed, snoring loudly. Just the sight of him brought bile to the back of my throat, so after one last trip to his germ-infested bathroom I grabbed my stuff and hightailed it for the door. But before I left I quickly scribbled a note to Aaron, because it would’ve been terribly rude to leave without saying goodbye.

Dear Aaron,

Wash your balls – they stink. Also, I think you should know that I’m having a herpes outbreak and had a sore on my lip when I sucked your dick. Here’s hoping you’re infected.

Cheers,

Anna

I realize that lying about having herpes was not exactly taking the high road, but at the time it felt good to give Aaron the (metaphorical) finger.

It’s been many years and many blow jobs since that “magical” night with Aaron, but I’ve never quite been able to shake that first sense memory from my brain. While I won’t ever completely forget the overpowering, unpleasant odor that emanated from Aaron’s nether regions, the part that still gets me is that he told me I wasn’t good at it. Despite the good reviews I’ve gotten since that experience, I can’t help but obsess over the one bad one, which is just further proof of my need for continued therapy. In the meantime, I appreciate that my husband uses soap and that he always gives me positive reinforcement. And I’ve found that a large vodka martini and an extra dose of my anti-anxiety meds is just the ticket to letting go of my neuroses and getting down to business.