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From: t0949@hotmail.com
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NNTP-Posting-Date: 25 May 2002 19:10:41 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} What's oral sex for, anyhow? (Another journalistic memoir)
Date: Sat, 25 May 2002 17:10:02 -0400
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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". 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 (see
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 willingnesses (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 Ormandy'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.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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