My ratio of saying "I'm dying to eat you" to hearing it is also far from symmetrical. The several times I've heard it have been extremely precious. The second time I heard it the girl was maybe twenty-one and I'd only known her a few days. Her exact words were "I want your hot come in my mouth." The third time I heard it (1979) mixed my feelings. 1) I just fucked her brains out, just come, was totally flaccid; 2) I was late for dinner at a friend's house: a good friend: the girl was his wife: the girl had to make that dinner. Ah, but the first time. The love of my life. I'd known her, been intimate with her, for a year or two. A "69" had been our original hors d'ouevre. I'd eaten her and been sucked by her in every conceivable position. When on my face her nectar would drip into me like an IV. But she had never stated her desire in words. When she did, it was she who would serve me, not let's kiss.
"I am dying to eat you."
Yes, I said, but please let me kiss you first. It was shortest eating I'd ever given her: she really had sounded eager. We were parked in the hills over Hollywood. I got my pants off, my apparatus out. (She was the second best ball-caresser I've ever
known.) We got into position and I spent the next while alternating between closing my eyes and watching the lights of Los Angeles spread below us.
God, I can taste your pussy-print with my face.
A week and a half later we were on the beach at Malibu as I watched the sun rise amid her reddish blond pubic hairs.
Actually, I now realize my count above was off. Because the very night of that morning at Malibou she said it again. We approached Big Sur in the dark. I pulled the VW bus into the first scenic overview, making her gasp as I held braking till the front end was out over the cliff. (Hell, the front wheels aren't under the bumper, they're under me. I was with a girl who practiced her ski turns securely within the center of the slope while I jumped at the edge: if you can ski, the difference between on-the-cliff and over-the-cliff isn't that great.) "I'm dying to eat you," she said, her heart racing.
Big Sur is something else.
My title sweeps me back to the early 60's as though I were Proust remembering his Madelaine. I'd just arrived at Camp Drum, Watertown NY. A decent enough looking female non-com descended the steps from the mess hall, saw this PFC and a sergeant, and smiled. "Now that's what I call Eatin'
pussy," said the sergeant.
I'm sure the woman heard him. She didn't seem to mind at all. The more so perhaps because she could pretend that she hadn't: and may well not have.
That wasn't a curtsy; that was a salute!
2003
2003
Elsewhen in my adulthood, I won't say exactly when, I was kissing my darling, endeavoring to pay intricate respects to the clit.
Women seem to be enormously varied with respect to the minutiae of their apparatus and in their responses concerning such equipment. One's gal's clit so filled my mouth that I had difficulty assuring myself that my date was in fact female, not a clever transvestite who'd fooled me. Some women have responded: then shut themselves down: ashamed of their own feelings I suppose; not persuaded by my clear enthusiasm. Other gals, you seek and seek and can never be altogether sure whether or not you've found: what you've hit, what you've missed. You're eyes are shut. It's dark anyway. Eating is not a normally a visual experience. With some clits the nerves seems right at the surface; others seem hidden by armor. Some women don't seem to have one at all.
Anyway, in this case I was being careful, wasn't at all sure of my success, could comfort myself that sometimes the general neighborhood is close enough, when suddenly, I had it. I felt a blip. A little fillip against my tongue. "Oh, my dear," I said, I think your clit just curtsied.
"That wasn't a curtsy," she answered, "that was a salute!
The French they are a funny race:
They fight with their feet and fuck with their face.
They fight with their feet and fuck with their face.
That same gal thrilled me when she said that she'd be "honored" if I would come in her mouth.
I'm an addict.
1975
1975
On New York's Riverside Drive people would walk their dogs wherever they pleased. In the daytime Riverside Park was filled with dog walkers. But for the pooch's last pee of the night, the dog walkers tended to gather in the git of greenery on the east side of the Drive, leaving the deep park to the muggers, queers, and murderers. There was usually a fair knot of us in the middle of the bit of lawn at midnight. There were nights when two or three might still be jawing at 3 AM while the dogs still ran loose.
On one such night the crowd peeled down till there were only two of us left: me and Ginny. Ha! Had Fred been waiting for me to disappear, finally giving up himself. Had he been aiming at Ginny? Had I? Fred was married: and working in the morning. Fred is closer to forty than to thirty. So was I, more or less. Ginny was closer to twenty.
I asked her if she played backgammon. Yes, she sure did, but she'd have to walk up to Broadway first for cigarettes.
I'll go with you. No, she assured me, she'd be all right.
She knocked, she entered, we played a game or two. She smoke another cigarette. Then I kissed her.
"Jesus, where where you hiding THOSE?" I asked as I lifted her jersey over her head, her jugs seeming to expand in freedom.
"I know," she said. When I stand on my head, I have to breathe through a straw."
Kiss Ginny again, then, a quick kiss of the breasts, and SybaRight dives for the muff.
Mmm hmm, I said after a while. I love that.
Mmm hmm, Ginny said. "I'm an addict."
Soon she was showing me how good she was on the receiving end of the tongue.
One gal — what a tush! — guided me, then reguided me. Trouble was, every time my tongue got where she wanted it to be I felt like I was slicing myself on a razor blade. I never did figure out what was wrong: a hair turned on itself perhaps. I don't think she was an assassin, a smuggler for Gilette. I couldn't think of a way to tell her what was wrong.
PS. That latter gal: we once did a sixty-nine where I came and came down her throat: and never lost my erection! Not the tiniest weakening! Orgasm didn't even slake my desire. Just kept going.
I've seen doctors write of women whose clits were so thickly protected by other tissues that they barely felt normal female responses: so my impression agrees with some diagnoses. But then I heard of some renegade doctor who would surgically expose the clit of any woman on his operating table, no matter the supposed purpose of his assigned procedure! One woman couldn't stand it. It was as though someone had peeled off her eyelids! Too much sensation; and not erotically pleasing.
I just edited my commentary on Tête à Tête: Faces, Hearts, Porn [link to be added] partly to remind myself where I had discussed sensation concentrations in the body. Daily survival senses concentrate in the head end. That's where we see, hear, taste, smell ... The hands and fingers are big on sensations of touch. And the tail end concentrates body function sensations: reproductive, for example. Apropos, I've got to comment:
Fucking is for the base brain. Too much chastity and your amygdala won't like you. Sucking is for the forebrain. Sucking is vastly more intellectual than fucking.
People most commonly fuck in the dark. That's familiar, no? You fuck with your eyes shut. We're ruled by vision too much of the rest of the time: now let other sensations take the stage.
OK, I fuck in the dark too. I too close my eyes when I eat: but not all the time. Sometimes I want the lights on. I want to study that pussy like in a photographer's studio: or a surgeon's operating theater.
It's great to feel your tail end with your tail. But in a sixty-nine you can feel and see everything with everything.
Now admit it: few women can suck worth a damn. The penis feels a kajillion times better in the vagina than in the mouth. But how the penis feels isn't the whole story.
Giving and getting head is heady.
"So long as I've got a face," the scruff says to a girl crossing the airport terminal, "you've got a place to sit." Extreme Prejudice, 1987.
I never heard the term "sit on my face" till my early days in graduate school, 1964 or so. The first time I heard it in a movie was Airport, 1970. I never saw it in print till Sandman. (That started appearing in 1988, though I didn't see it till the '90's sometime.) But for the last decade or so I hear it left and right. Early 1990s a girl even said it to me: "Do you want me to sit on your face?"
In 1964 when my friend Kelly pointed out a girl in the NoName as one who liked to sit on his face, I was a little nonplussed. No one could love to suck on a vulva more than I, but I was always on top. The girl sat back, or lay back ... It had never occurred to me to lie back myself and let the girl mount my head end the same way she might on occasion mount my hip-end. Or was it just another synonym for 69, no matter who was on top? I don't know, but these days the image seems to pop up in every other movie.
Notes
Ball Caressing:
If only I'd liked the best ball-caresser better I might never have met my favorite beyond talking to her in the gallery. The best, introduced to me by my wife, worked for me as a salesman in the gallery. My love came into that gallery. I explained serigraphy to her. She left her phone number for me with the other gal! I'll get to more of that story too.
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