In Your Face
Brad and I had been negotiating the terms surrounding his performance of cunnilingus for four months. Usually, I wouldn’t stand a guy’s refusal to go down on me for four days, but I found him mysterious and intriguing (or, aloof and evasive, if you want to split hairs).
After we first had sex, I asked him about it.
“Are you turned off by it? Were you traumatized? Do you only perform oral sex for a select few?”
His response was less than satisfactory.
“I suck at it!”
I explained no one has a genetic predisposition for oral-sex efficiency. “I wasn’t born with a cock in my mouth,” I offered, encouragingly. “Furthermore, I don’t wax for my health.”
This did not, however, alleviate his concern. He was clearly sensitive about the subject, anxious about his ability to perform and just generally leery of getting all up in the punani. I thought to myself, “I will be considerate. I will gently, over time, coax him into making an attempt. And when I get him down there, I will be an encouraging, appreciative teacher.”
I am stubborn. I recognized a similar level of obstinacy in Brad and respected him for it. However, I was unprepared for his enduring and resolute refusal to eat me out. Now, don’t hasten to judgment, friends—I was not asking for anything I wouldn’t willingly, even excitedly, give to a partner. In fact, Brad loved my blow jobs. Simply adored them, specifically requested them. Additionally, I take pride in the quality of my crotch. I follow the golden rules of oral sex. I’m clean. I groom. So I didn’t feel at all that I was being unreasonable in my request. He was spurning my pussy and I was becoming pissed.
“What would it take for you to go down on me?” I asked Brad during our daily cigarette break. You see, Brad and I are co-workers with a pretty much solely sexual relationship.
“Hmmm, let me think,” he said. “Maybe a little anal action?”
“Ever hear of reciprocation, darling? I’m just trying to give you some sort of extra incentive.”
“How about,” he smirked, “you let me come on your face?”
I knew what he was doing; I could tell by his trademark smirk. The demeaning nature of cumshots had been a topic of conversation before. He wasn’t making a deal. He was trying to deter my acceptance of one.
“It’s a deal, motherfucker!” I said without hesitation. And then I made him shake on it.
Several days later, our quasi-regular sexual encounter rolled around.
Brad looked apprehensive but extra horny when I let him in my apartment. We forewent our usual conversational niceties—he grabbed me first by the hips, then pulled me closer by my neck and hair and kissed me with such naked ferocity I immediately became wet.
“This is gonna be a doozie!” I thought with a little too much glee.
We kissed, almost violently. We frantically undressed one another. We each looked at the other, panting and nude, and Brad nudged at my thighs. At least he’s a man of his word. “No,” I said. “You first.”
He moved back without argument and I went to work. I took my time, making sure it was extra fabulous, sliding the tip of my tongue along his length, bobbing his balls, the works. His breath quickened, his legs shook and shortly I received a polite verbal warning that Brad was about to blow his load.
We repositioned porno-style—he on high, me on low, my eyes closed tight, mouth agape, ready and willing to receive it down my throat or wherever. I heard his moans, the sound of his hand pumping hard and fast. And then, like a delicate sprinkle of spring rain, two tiny drips fell upon my shoulder. I opened my eyes. “You missed?” I asked.
“No,” he said defensively. And then I noticed the cum on his hands, the “load” that had not shot out forcefully but instead dribbled over his knuckles and, subsequently, dripped onto my shoulder.
To soothe his soul, I let him rub his cummy hand all over my tits. He seemed to enjoy it. My mouth became a devilish grin. “My turn.”
He was, at first, all over the place and some direction was in order.
“Lick me right... there. Yes. Leave your tongue there. Now move it up and down slowly... ohhhh fuck yeah. Now use your fingers inside.”
Soon, it was everything I knew it could be. That tongue that could, when kissing, taunt me gently then move with fierce alacrity, was doing a number on my clit. I glanced down and, for a second, felt something like guilt. But a second is only a second, and soon I wanted to scream that he should just fuck me. I was so close. I had waited so long.
Friends, of course I accepted Brad’s bet because I wanted him to go down on me. There’s no dishonesty in that. But I would be a plain liar if I said there wasn’t more to it. You see, I do not and will not tolerate Brad’s, or any man’s idiotic misogyny, in or out of the bedroom. Brad’s desire to come all over my face made me want to come all over his. What he never considered, and what I did—stemming from my most private evenings, home alone, the aftermath of which requires the removal, wringing out and washing of my own sheets, confirming that female ejaculation is not a myth—was that I most certainly could and would come, in a way he never imagined.
Like the bang that created the earth. Like champagne when the ball drops. Like a super-soaker pumped to the max. Like Old Faithful any day of the week. Like a caged thing freed.
(above text by Erin Love, photo by Brad Harris)
ALL THIS MONTH: Selections from the first volume of See You Next Tuesday, a printed anthology of 50 1,000-word sex-themed stories. Better Non Sequitur is now accepting submissions for the second volume.