Best Blow Job
It was during the juncture between my political activist years and my having to try to earn a living in the normal way. A FLEX volunteer, one I'd liked well, brought his wife to the periphery of our activities. I don't remember her doing any volunteer work herself, but she hung around. The next thing I know their marriage is on the rocks. Bob immediately falls into the lap of a woman in my building whom I lusted for terribly. I don't normally think of the Chinese has having fabulous asses, but this woman, a medical student, had a heine that could wreck traffic. So: good for Bob. Meanwhile, his wife continued to visit. One day she calls to say that she has tickets to I forget who reading his poetry at the YMHA. Did I want to accompany her? Ah! I'd seen ee cummings read at the Jewish Y! Sure.
Realize: I hadn't to-date looked Bonnie over, appraisingly her suitability for sexual recreation. Bonnie was Mrs. Bob. Bob was my volunteer, my friend. I was married. FLEX was run from home. Hilary was generally there. It was Hilary who kept the FLEX volunteers, not to mention yours truly, in coffee and pretzels. But the night of the reading ... I don't remember exactly what happened: it rained like hell? She'd lost the tickets? We went and it was boring? So, either we haven't even gone after all, or, we're back at my apartment afterwards ... (Uh, where was Hilary? Visiting her father for a long weekend probably, visiting her friend, also in the DC area ... Not at home.) So we're on the couch and Bonnie is assuring me that she's single. Bob is out of the picture. I needn't worry about her virtue. She's available: willing and anxious.
(Bob didn't see it that way. He never forgave me.) (I wish him the best though.) (He was building harpsichords last thing I knew.)
In any event, without even having shopped Bonnie over, the next thing I know I'm discovering the articles first hand as I undress her. Bonnie was taller than most women I'm normally attracted to, but, as I put my face in her musk and felt my penis slide into her mouth, I realized we fit just fine. Nice butt, super tubes. And an aromatic very bog of a female complex.
Back home, Hilary is once again begging me to get a job, to worry less about deschooling, about saving the world, about becoming the world's first free librarian of public information. Hilary works at the Barnard Placement Bureau. She's forever bringing home job leads for me. I feel insulted: they're all jobs shopped through Barnard, a girl's school, not through Columbia. Anyway, I finally try to go after one: assistant directory of the Midtown Galleries on 57th off 5th. Hilary even advises me on how to follow up after the interview. Sure enough: I'm hired to start right away. So, I'm running FLEX (as the volunteers dwindle away), and working what turned out to be a ghastly job. (Details on that another time.)
Things have never been good with Hilary. Things hadn't been good before we got married. Marriage was supposed to cure all, but marriage made things fall off the cliff instead. I find myself avoiding home after work. More than one such avoiding maneuver was made by visiting Bonnie after work. And I'll never forget this particular time. She answers the door. I embrace her. My hands go to her bottom. My hands go to her breasts, back to her bottom. Nothing new about that. In fact I'd say that all of that is entirely ordinary. But this time, the second I give a good upward tug on her buttocks, her hand snakes into my pants, into my briefs, and has me, oh so expertly, by the balls.
I start. And look at her. "Well," she says, "my feminist group was just talking about this: What should you do when someone grabs your tit? Why grab his balls!"
Understand: her "grab" was very respectful, very sure of itself, very right on. No unwanted jars, no raps, no bruising, no unpleasant twists of any chords. No. She knew my balls. Very well.
Then she started to undo my pants. I'm wearing a three-piece suit, with tie, etc. I step out of my pants, my shirt tails hanging over everything. She starts working my briefs downward. She let's go my balls, just long enough to let me step out of those, then she has me again.
I don't know about anybody else. I've never done group sex, passed a couple of invitations. I'm not a voyeur. I've read that some men can't stand to have their balls handled. When I read that, middle-teen years, I imagined that I would forever remain among them. I read that some men like to have their balls handled: even semi-roughly. I always wanted girls to touch my penis, from age fourteen or so onward at least, however slow I turned out to be to actually let an actual girl do so. But I never dreamed of them contacting the balls; or if I did, it was a nightmare. Ah, but the first such contact ever made to me I will never forget.
I was with Jackie, in Boston. She'd chased her roommates for my weekend visit. We're in her kitchen. I'm luxuriating in her bottom. She's wearing the most adorable tartan skirt. I'd never imagined a black girl in a tartan skirt before, certainly not one as cute as Jackie, who also daubed a bit of red into her black hair, certainly not a black girl with a plush tush like Jackie's: plush, yet still perfectly articulated. Jackie started to strip. "Not the skirt," I said. "Leave that on just a moment longer." I kissed her breasts as she helped strip me. I get totally naked. She's totally naked except for her tartan wool skirt. I take her back in my arms. The first time I'd had my penis out on display for her, she'd been wearing a dress made of something like burlap. We hadn't actually copulated yet, and I rubbed myself raw dry humping her. But that was the distant past, several months earlier, months huge expanses of time when you're eighteen or nineteen. (Jackie was twenty.) Lubricant is gleaming from the tip of my glans. I hold Jack and feel her deluxe buttocks, naked beneath the tartan wool. Oh, how her bottom stretched the pleats behind her, the front smoothing concave beneath her perfect belly, her mons making, oh, just the slightest rise below that.
"Now," I said.
As she turned to remove her skirt, she brushed her fingers over my erection. She paused, then traced the outer curve of my testes.
Jesus Christ Almighty! I froze like a deer in the headlights. I'd never imagined such a feeling. Ditto the first time I'd ever touched my own dick, enfolding it, my hand trying to imagine and imitate the shape and texture, the hold, of a vagina. And that was as utterly unique as it was utterly impossible to imagine, utterly unanticipated. Yet Jackie outlining my balls for me with her fingertips ... Yai. I froze in ecstasy, my whole body as tumescent as my erection.
And that was again how it was when Bonnie had sympathetic hold of my balls. I couldn't move. I could barely breathe.
I ceased doing anything for her. I guess my hands still gripped her backside, but I was no longer exploring her. I was totally engaged with the feeling that was spreading throughout my body, radiating from the gonads.
She held me for I don't know how long. A long while.
We're both still standing. In her living room. Making no move toward a couch. Or a bedroom. With bed.
How do we know what another person is feeling? How can we guess? We don't know. It's hard enough to know our own feelings. We can reason by analogy: I like lobster with drawn butter; therefore, it shouldn't surprise me if she likes lobster with drawn butter. I love to taste female lubricant. Therefore, she may love to taste my lubricant. ... It strikes me that it can only be the case that however uncommunicable the feelings that were saturating me, some kind of analogous, or at least sympathetic, feeling was infusing her.
For all I cared, Bonnie and I could still be standing there, nothing more having happened these thirty-two or -three years later. But that's not how it went. Eventually, ever so slowly, she bent. She lowered her head toward me. Bonnie had wonderful long, straight black hair: hair down to her rump. Her raven hair curtained her face as she bent. She opened her mouth and received a good part of me without contact before she began to enfold my dick with the moist inner tissues of her mouth. Still, she had me by the balls. And she never let go. Until I came. A good while later.
I think once in that time I hefted her breast in my hand. She hadn't undressed, but it wasn't hard to do. She had a low cut neckline, and, of course, was wearing no interfering undergarments.
Oh, Jesus, I breathed. "But what about you?" My penis had been in her mouth plenty of times. But never before I'd sunk my face in her vulva. I'd squirted down her throat plenty of times. But never before I was satisfied with the lather I was kissing her pussy into.
"Yeah," she said. "What about me?"
I'm afraid she had to wait. More than a few minutes that time. I had to go home.
Weirdest Blow Job
I just called my old friend "Bonnie"? I'll call this gal "Heidi." They know their real names.
I was skiing Hunter Mountain with my son. As an infant Brian had napped after his bottle while being carried on my back down ski slopes in a Gerry baby pack. With him aboard I just skied the beginners slope of Sugarloaf Mountain in Maine. But by the time he was two we were back in New York, with little leisure and less money. Even by age six or seven Brian wasn't a veteran skier. So he and I are skiing the B lift: novice to intermediate slopes.
Hilary has finally split, taking Brian with her, me helpless to do anything about it except scream and curse. But her mother has given me some weird Pakistani vest, brought back from her world travels for the UN. I'm wearing it. You want to see a ridiculous, show-off male? See me in that vest. It wasn't comfortable, the leather can hardly have been tanned. The inside lining was some kind of animal fur, that bristled out, into my face. It wasn't even warm, lacking buttons. But in the spring, or on a warm winter day, I'd wear it.
Skiers wear all kinds of weird showy things; but not Pakistani yak vests.
A couple of cute girls, maybe late teens, are tending the B lift. The cuter of the pair fills her sweater very nicely. However many layers she had on, sweater upon sweater, there was still no mistaking the nipple showing through all of it. This girl did not mask her tubes.
The girls made a big fuss over us the first time we came up to the lift. I don't doubt that part of it was that they were making fun me, this ridiculous, totally alien to style, exhibitionist. When their fuss abated, mine did not. I continued to hail them, flirt, make comments. And, as we caught the last run of the late afternoon, I told Heidi that she would be more than welcome to come home with us for a nice evening fire, mulled wine, hot chocolate ... whatever. She snorted at first but then said maybe. She wouldn't come with us now, but she might stop by later.
Thank goodness she was a local girl or she'd never have followed the directions. Actually she was from down the mountains, but she'd been living with a bunch of people only a couple of towns away and knew some of the funny roads. A couple of hours later Heidi rapped on the cottage door.
Actually, this got me in great trouble later on, because Hilary's mother's brother-in-law, having more than used up his welcome at the cottage, had bought the land nextdoor and built a house that towered over it. "SybaRight's taking women into the cottage," he squealed, "even with Brian there."
But that was later, this was now. Heidi comes in. We sit around the fire. I paying her close attention, sustaining the assault. "Come into the next room for a little while," I invited her.
Again she demurred, again she assented. I hadn't said what I wanted to do, but she knew. Immediately she started removing a sweater or two. I moved to put my arm around her. Before I could kiss her, before I could get my hand on her, she pushed me back. "I'm not fucking," she warned.
"Let me kiss your breasts," I suggested.
As I did she explained that she'd just had an abortion. She'd been "messed up inside, still was a little."
With the talk swiftly so frank, I swiftly removed all of my clothes. As I came back to her I performed a favorite trick. I let the head of my cock catch against her breast. The overall direction my body was moving broke it free, as though it had caught by accident. Bowong, bowong, bowong ... My dick settled back to its erect posture. Seeing the stiff elasticity along its length always brings a gasp from the first timer.
"Let me just rub between your buttocks then," I suggested.
She lay face down on the bed and I had at her very nice legs, back, and her very very nice bottom.
"Just tickle me a little bit," I asked. Her hand went straight for my balls. I resumed my hump, and with her hand cupping me, I came all over her back.
She rolled face up and pulled my full length down to her. I kissed her passionately, but she broke away after a moment, whispered urgently in my ear. "I want you to shoot your hot come into my mouth," she said.
Now she tells me.
If I were still her age, maybe after only another several minutes to recover. But this is like 1974 or so. I'm in my mid-thirties, not quite so quick any more. And she had no intention of staying much longer anyway. Already her boy friend was going to be mad that she wasn't home. Still we talked enough for me to tell her that I was in the art business, multiple original graphics, just starting out publishing, distributing on my own.
"Oh," she says. "I'm an artist. I must learn more about print media. Maybe you could publish something of mine?"
"Whoa," I say. "I have no capital, whatever I think of your work. I'm working with artists' existing inventories, or with the artist's capital for printing."
"I have money," she said. "Enough to pay for printing anyway."
"Good. So we'll talk again."
A couple of months go by. The phone rings. Heidi will be in the 'Apple in a few days. She'll call me.
She does. I should pick her up at the Museum of Natural History. I do. She's starving. We go have breakfast at Tom's (which you know from Seinfeld: the exterior at least).
At my place I use the art hanging on the walls to illustrate media. "This is an etching," and go swiftly through the process: the wax, the acid ... "This is a lithograph. This is a mezzotint" Down the hall, at the bedroom, where I also have the drawers of prints ... "This is a serigraph."
"I don't know a thing about silkscreening," Heidi says.
"Well, in this case, the printer cut the screens by hand, tracing with a razor on a swivel ..."
"Enough. For now." And Heidi grabs me and hurls me toward the bed.
She's quickly out of her top. "The skirt stays on. I'm still not ready," she explains.
I'm out of my cloths lickety-split: which is exactly how I want to start. "Are you sure? I ask. "I swear I won't try to enter you uninvited. Please take everything off. And at least let me eat you. I want to kiss you something fierce."
"No," she says: and locks her hand onto my balls.
(2005 10 05 I'd paused here, saying "more in a minute," but then I really left this one hanging, didn't I? I'll cut to the climax and maybe flesh details another time:)
Her saying that she wanted me to shoot my come in her mouth was fresh in my mind. I'd been expecting a nice blow job all along. But now Heidi's just got me by the balls. And does she know how to handle them. Aggressively, but just short to too rough, she handles me. I'm stirring alright. Wow. Next thing I know, several tumescent minutes later perhaps, not long for me, I feel an orgasm surging.
It's so good, I'm not about to protest about the rush. I haven't eaten her. She's promised I'm not going to. She's also promised, again this time, that we're not going to fuck. I'd still expected some nice leisurely sucking, and maybe my hand in her butt, but she's milking me like a mad woman. And now my impending orgasm is arriving like the Cannonball Express, inexorable, brooking no argument. And boom, there it goes.
Now she gobbles me in her mouth. She'd missed the first spurt, but she's got all the rest, sucking and slurping, hard.
Man, oh, man. That was something. Totally unexpected, though the final outcome was as advertised.
I'm wiped. And she sticks her breast in my mouth, puffing her chest out.
But I give it only the briefest suck and sink back to rest, to enjoy my minute of tis (the perfect calm after orgasm).
She cuddles into my arms and we both rest.
After a few minutes I begin to caress her. Now she takes her panties off. Now she lets me explore her. In the end, my interest much reduced, she let me give her a nice hand job. Again I offered to get my face between her thighs. No, still adamant.
I never did get it. I never once saw her pussy. At least my hand was there. At least I got to feel her heaving against my palm.
Last word: Now I remember reciting some Philip Larkin poems to her the evening she'd come to the cottage in the mountains. She'd been so impressed, I'd gotten the book, an inscribed gift from Martha, my favorite girl friend ever (things erotic and esthetic being considered only, nothing like my Darling), and read her more. She eagerly wanted to borrow the book. I showed her the inscription, told her how precious it was to me. The book was replaceable, the inscription was not. I'd lend it to her only if she swore on her life that she'd return it: soon. She promised; but didn't bring it to New York that second meeting. She never did return it. Acted aloof the one other time I saw her.
That might merit a word: I was back in the Catskills, writing my first novel, living alone in wilderness. On a foray into town I asked about her, heard she would be performing soon at the arts center. She'd become a professional story teller! And very good she was too! Not to mention that her bosom had grown to twice its formerly more than respectable size. But I never got my Larkin back.
Oh well: those I had by memory I still have by memory. And I'll never forget that initially mouthless blow job.
Your mom and dad.
They may not mean to
But they do.
They fill you with
The faults they had
And add some extra
Just for you.
But they were fucked up
In their turn
By fools in old style hats and coats
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half and one anothers' throats.
May hands on misery to man.
It widens
Like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.
Philip Larkin
I'm tempted to tell a story of an exciting but uncomfortable blow job in a boat: in broad day light, no cover, no screen, no wall ...
And I'm tempted to gather stories of fucking & sucking in weird settings: rooftops, day-lit sandbars, ski slopes, the boss's desk top ... I have to check to see how many of those stories are already told in other settings.
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