Monthly Archives: May 2014

You know how to whistle, don’t you?

I heard a friend opine something truly awful recently: that he believed the majority of women don’t have the slightest understanding of how to give a good blow job, and it’s pretty impossible to figure out how to tell them (so that they become better at it without biting the bits clean off your kibble). Mind you, we don’t have naive or sheltered friends — we’re all pretty slutty — so I had to ask: what, precisely, is being fucked up here? How hard *IS* this activity to master (at least to a level of adequacy)?

I have, again, vastly underestimated the level of incompetence and stupidity in the population at large. Having now polled a few individuals (for SCIENCE!), the collection of how-not-to-fellate anecdotes is really jaw-dropping.

From a reliable source, who gets a pretty spankin’ amount of head: “A couple times I asked gals [to blow me] who replied, surprised, that ‘most guys aren’t into that’ which didn’t make sense to me at all… Until they put my cock in their mouth. One just put the head in her mouth. And just sat there. No depth. No motion. Just waiting. With a bored, sideways-looking expression. It was more than half dark and I would have to guess that she didn’t think I could see her face. Suddenly I understood why she had been told that most guys aren’t into that….” As an epilogue, my friend noted that “I would never say anything, of course,” which leads back to the original issue: how do you helpfully suggest improvements to someone who thinks that giving head involves roughly the same interaction as dental work (open one’s mouth and awkwardly hold a bunch of equipment while slobbering and drooling)?

The women’s stories weren’t appreciably more encouraging. One ladyfriend admitted that when she herself saw the man-parts of the fella she had recently begun dating for the first time, up-close-and-eye-level, she laughed so hard she cried. He didn’t find it nearly as amusing and stormed out of the party (**By the way, I love stories that involve head at parties, don’t you? I almost feel gypped now if I go to a party and someone isn’t getting blown during the festivities). She tearfully explained to us (having again reached eye-watering mirth in retelling the story to the assembled listeners) that she had not previously ever seen an uncircumcised penis, and thought it looked ridiculous. (Big hat! Funny!) Despite her subsequent explanations and ministrations, he was not mollified, and swiftly ended their relationship (which, she emphasized, turned out to be totally okay, since he was weirdly uptight and fanatically religious anyway, and probably would’ve made her say 10 Hail Marys in penance while she was conveniently already on her knees).

Another is quite ashamed to admit that while jubilantly giving someone head (unexpectedly, and off-the-cuff, so to speak), she removed his cock from her mouth and noted: “Huh. I really, truly always thought you were a homosexual. Weird, right?” (Timing is the worst thing about this, although I’m not sure when “I’m flattered that you’re attracted to me because I didn’t think I was the gender you prefer” would ever really be an appreciated and appropriate compliment.)

One common theme of shitty experiences does seem to be complete indifference by the blow-er…no pride in their craft, really, or enjoyment of the ministrations. Now, I contrast this to a friend — let’s call her “Naughty Girl” just for my amusement — who knows that she’s reached the perfect, most joyful and satisfying stage of inebriation when she starts blowing strangers. NG once spent a fabulous party smashed out of her panties (literally — they disappeared mere minutes after she walked through the door, as if by cosmic oversight), during which time she politely asked a fellow party-going gentleman and previous-to-that-morning-unknown stranger who had the largest anatomical gift in the continental US (or, at least, the largest she’d seen, and that’s really six-of-one, half-dozen-of-another) if she could please attempt to put it into her mouth (he kindly obliged). To follow that up, because, you know, she’s polite, she spent twenty minutes on her knees with the party host (having failed to bring along a bottle of wine or a candle when she arrived), who was most certainly too inebriated to fully appreciate the gesture, but vocally admired her work ethic and obvious enthusiasm for the work at hand. And say nothing of the shenanigans she’s undergone to carve out 10 minutes of “alone time” with a handsome lad while with other friends to spend some time vigorously practicing her mouth breathing…or the fact that one of her friends frequently acts as her handler/secretary, recording the night’s oral amusements. (“Secretary, would you read back the minutes of the night?” “Certainly… you blew the tall one, the weird one, the one with the saucer piercings and the one into nautical role-play.” “What about the one that smelled like hippie?” “No, not that I saw.”) I think it’s possible she will someday be able to claim she’s blown gentlemen in every state, or in all the Oregon state and local parks, or some such pointless-but-somewhat-impressive achievement…and hey, it’s good to have goals.

On the other hand, there are the unfortunate failings that just can’t be helped, no matter how much enthusiasm the blower brings to the (under the) table. True story:  “I had a girlfriend, petite little thing, who loved to give head and was excellent at it. Determined. Aggressive. She took it as a blow to her pride that she had a hard time deep-throating my cock. It wasn’t gag reflex, and she had a relatively big mouth; it was esophageal diameter. She would hit a wall — literally! — an inch or so shy of full-swallow. So she would FORCE it into her throat. (Which I very much appreciated, by the way.) The side effect, though, was that her face would turn purple and her eyes would bulge…but she would stick it out – like a fucking champ. The other problematic result was that her throat would feel bruised. On the inside. So, it would take a few days to heal before she could throat it again. Now, when I check out a pretty lady… I do look at jawline and esophageal diameter.” That’s some admirable Dexter-ass shit right there, ladies – setting the bar high, and pointing out new physical attributes to be paranoid about/unreasonably proud of!  (Also, a spectacular reason to introduce blindfolds into your bedroom repertoire!)

Somewhere in the nether-lands are advanced moves that I can’t tell whether are desirable or repulsive — porn implies they are positive, but I know of no corroborating testimony. (Porn keeps making promises about delivery people that I have never once seen fulfilled, so I’m becoming skeptical of its accuracy!) There’s the alternator whine (the ascending and descending hweeeeeeeeee that makes me wonder whether a belt has come loose — should I stop at Pep Boys on the way home?)… the beatbox (slurp/pop/pop/psssssh/slaaaarp, slurp/pop/pop/slurp/pop, “walk this way….”)… the sputtering motorboat (mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm….GASP…. mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm….GASP) … the headbanger (open mouth – hold tongue completely still – move head forwards and back, dragging cock along tongue, moving head vigorously until whiplash is achieved). Are these generally-acceptable techniques? Personal-preference quirks?

So, in answer to my friend, who has lost faith in women’s oral interpretation skills? I’m on your side if she has just popped your love monkey into her banana-hole and is packing it like cud into her cheek pit…she’s hopeless. Bela Karoly can’t make a champion out of her, no matter how flexible she is. But there’s hope for the ones who are enthusiastic and perhaps misguided, my penis-having friends: MOAN. Positive reinforcement works on everyone (and you definitely want to keep your interactions with the person whose lips are around your delicates positive). Moan, writhe, tell her you love whatever she’s doing, and/or would like it harder/faster/tighter/with more fingers in your rear. (Do not, under any circumstances, put your hands on the back of her head and attempt to helpfully direct her…your mouth’s not full, use your damn words. If she was the kind of girl who liked it when you manhandle her like that, she’d already know how to give good head.)

And if that’s still not working? Message me, and I’ll introduce you to Naughty Girl.



And the neighs have it.

I never got into horses in the way so many little girls did. Spending my earliest, most formative (eating-things-from-the-ground) years living on a farm full of cows, I thought those animals were fascinatingly, pointlessly charming creatures. They snorted, they munched, and periodically they awkwardly gave birth. Horses, on the other hand, were beasts I had no firsthand experience with, imprinted in my mind only as expensive toys of the kind that killed the prissy child in Gone With the Wind. When I finally rode one, in high school, it was only romantic because we were cantering across the moors of England, searching for which rubble pile was a historically-significant section of Hadrian’s wall (amongst the many which were merely present-day sheep dividers). The perfectly-symmetrical and astonishingly painful bruises on my ass bones were the only truly memorable lasting impressions of that foray into horsemanship.

I certainly did not want to watch any cartoons about horses as a child, and while I look back with nostalgia at the Smurfs and He-Man, I would rather clean the fridge than consider checking out any vintage episodes of “My Little Pony” (and you should see the produce we’ve got rotting in the crisper). I do, however, like documentary films about obscure fan communities (viewing at least one per annum is required to remain a card-carrying Portland resident), and somehow got to chatting with my boss about the showing of a 2012 film celebrating Bronies: chronologically-adult men who really, really like My Little Pony. (It’s real. Google it, I’ll wait.) Wikipedia helpfully explains that “the brony fandom is attributed to…strong characters, cross-generational appeal, cultural references, the show’s expressive Flash-based animation, and the ability for the showrunners to communicate and reciprocate with the fandom, such as including fan-derived elements within the show.” The fan movement was supposedly started with an effort to do better than Alanis Morissette at expressing “irony,” with grown men professing love for a show meant for preteen girls, but failed in an impressive new way: while her examples were mostly just unfortunate, Bronies have instead achieved actual sincerity — sort of the Stockholm Syndrome of attempted irony. (Would you expect anything less from a community which lists  “expressive Flash-based animation” as an admired characteristic of a children’s television program/important and inspirational life guide?)

Unsurprisingly, there are numerous Brony pages on Reddit (renown as a forum for geeks and nerds, although now melting a bit more to mainstream) and 4chan, on which you can discuss various inside jokes and nerdy references (are you shocked to find that cult-favorite character actors from the Star Trek empire do voice work on the show, with deliberate nods to the previous characters?). Surveys say Bronies are absolutely exactly who you think they are (very smart, introverted, heterosexual, socially-awkward boys who have trouble making friends and have never even smelled a real girl), and allegedly as of September 2012, there are between 7 and 12.4 million people in the United States that would identify themselves as Bronies. They have conventions and stuff. (Again, god bless the interwebs.) Oh, and also merely allegedly, this is absolutely not a sexual fetish-based enthusiasm, although the internet’s impressive collection of disturbing fan fiction and Brony artwork certainly would explain one’s confusion (along with the sub-group which is into My-Little-Pony-play, which is called “clop” … for which I just have no words…).

***As an aside, I would actually find it easier to understand if this was a weird sex thing, since I do know some kinky motherfuckers who are into that sort of nonsense; their community seems to be older, slightly more sociopathic, smart to the point of being almost criminally insane, and waaaaaaay more fun at parties. Particularly if they bring the remote shock collar, the bridle, the riding crops, or the obligatory horsetail butt plug. I just can’t wrap my brain around brony-ism not having a sexual component, which takes me to all sorts of previously-pink places soiled by the creepy dirt of pedophelia and bestiality, at the very best.***

ANYWAY, just so it’s clear, the adjectives “smart” and “socially-awkward” are like muskrat bait for me, and especially given that I meet a lot of weird (and charming!) nerds while running around drunk, it was inevitable that this day would come…

…the day I woke up with a brony.

There were tiny pony toys all over the dresser. Meticulously arranged, in a room that could only otherwise kindly be described as a mid-burglary scene, overflowing with engineering and computer programming books and wrappings from reheated frozen edibles (I hesitate to describe Hot Pockets as “food”), and carpeted with every textile he owned. I hadn’t seen them in the dark…and there had been an awful lot of whiskey the night before…. Suddenly very, very naked, I clutched at the edge of the elusive quilt and inquired about them with as much humor as I could muster. “Oh, yeah. It’s a great show, but the writing has really suffered in the last few seasons….”

And there I was, waking up on the first morning of what was to be a week’s vacation, in a strange city, 3100 miles from home, completely unable to find any piece of clothing that came off of my body, having just spent the night with what I now realized was a 10-years-younger-than-I-estimated Brony…whom I would spend the rest of the week chipperly avoiding.

I summoned a cab with every possible haste to take me to a galaxy far, far away, populated by regular nerds who like Star Wars, like adults. And in future: I’m checking the dressers, the bookcases, and the mantles. Your Dragonball Z figures? Totally OK. But you’d better put the ponies out to pasture if you’re thinking I might be keeping your stable warm tonight.