The Blowjob Wars

  Note: I almost didn’t post this, because it’s sexually explicit and it’s also, well, pretty fucking emotionally intimate.  I feel conflicted about sharing such a personal memory with the whole internet, but what the hell…look at my blog, that train has left the station.

      If you get triggered (or whatever it’s called) by reading about quasi-sexual abuse, you might find this upsetting, so proceed with caution.  This thing started out as a good-natured romp about blowjobs and got really heavy in a hurry.  

       Sorry I’ve been AWOL.  I had some personal stuff to take care of and I’ve been working overtime to make money for Christmas, and it’s the end of the semester.  If you wrote to me, thanks for your patience.

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    After work, I went out with a few girlfriends for margaritas and chips-and-salsa at a Mexican restaurant a few blocks away from the Studio (well, they had margaritas.  I had Diet Coke). 

      The conversation turned, as it invariably does, to the topics of men and sex.

      Stevie gave us an update on the spousal conflict in her household: The Great Blowjob Wars of 2013

      “We were having a great morning on Sunday, cuddling and drinking coffee in bed!  And then we started to hug and get a little frisky, you know, and we kicked the cat off the bed, and my kid was at her father’s house for the weekend, so we finally had some privacy…

      I’m finally looking forward to getting some action with my man–it’d been over a week!–and then…then he has to go and ruin it begging for a blowjob!”

       The Blowjob Wars, they wageth on.  

        “He knows that I hate to do it!  So why does he keep asking me?  He’s obsessed with it!  But I’m not going to suck your dick, dude!”  Stevie wailed, and ordered another margarita.

         “He’s probably obsessed with it because it’s become such a big deal in your relationship.  That, or he told his friends that you don’t like to do it, and now they’re giving him shit about it.  Guys put a lot of pressure on each other about their sex lives.  Even grown men who ought to know better,” I said.

         “I’m sick of fighting about this,” said Stevie.  

          “Can I ask you something?  And please don’t take this as a reproach; I don’t think you should have to do any sex act that you hate.  But I’m curious: why don’t you like it?”

          “It feels degrading.”

           “Really?  You think so?”

           “Yes!”

           “That honestly never occurred to me,” I said.  I felt mystified.

           “How do you feel about it?”

            “I like it.  It makes me feel powerful.”

            It’s true.  It does.

            The Blowjob Wars wageth on…but they do not wageth on in Margo Manor.  

             I have spent some of the happiest time of my adult life sucking cock.  In fact, I’d be dissatisfied in a relationship where I couldn’t do it.  One of my Exes could never reach completion that way, and it was a constant source of disappointment for me (I never told him that, of course.  Saying that would be insensitive.).  

          I have no idea why I like it, but I do.  When I am around a man I find sexually attractive, I invariably start musing about what it would be like to suck his cock.  I think this on the subway at least once a day.  I think it when I see actors I like in movies.  I never, ever fooled around with professors in my Department–that I a boundary I have always strictly observed–but I have given some of them about a million imaginary blowjobs.  I swear to God, if I knew that I could do it without getting myself in some very dangerous situations, I would run around dispensing blowjobs all day, like some little demented Blowjob Fairy.  

         I don’t get bored of it in a relationship, either:  my boyfriends get blown practically every day unless I’m sick or we’re having a fight (and the Surgeon got it even if we were having a fight).  I was sucking the Surgeon’s cock on a regular basis, right up till the bitter end (ha! lame joke!). 

         I can’t begin to tell you how many times I sucked that man off.  When I try to make a guesstimate, my mind quails.  My brain doesn’t have the computing power.  I spent a goodish (and, for the most part, very happy) portion of our relationship crouched on the floor, in between his legs.  In cars.  In stairwells.  Behind restaurants, at night.  By my bed.  By his bed.  In bathrooms.  At the desk.  In front of the television.  In a million hotel rooms, from New York to San Diego.  

        He would give it to me as a gift when he was happy with me.  He would use it to punish me when he was angry with me.  He would use it to correct me when he thought I required discipline.  He would lecture me while I sucked his cock (and, often, when he fucked me).  A little reprogramming session.  It’s actually sort of amazing, you know, how effective that was as a pedagogical technique.  You’d think I wouldn’t have been able to think about anything else when I had a dick in my mouth, but, actually, I was able to focus on his words quite well.  Perhaps it was the arousal that such proximity to his penis would invariably provoke within me.  It was like a spell.  

        The mouth is not for speaking.  It is not for eating.  It is for sucking my dick.  You were put on this earth to make my cock feel good.  The most important job in your life is to keep me happy.
       
       The only time I ever resented it were the times I was angry with him–usually with significant justification, as the man was pretty much selfishness personified–and I would be expressing my grievance, and he would stop, turn around, and open up his pants.  And then just stand there.  Waiting expectantly. 

        Because we both knew what that meant: Argument is over.  Shut up.  Come here.  Suck my cock. 

        Isn’t that what men say to each other when they’re angry?  ‘Suck my dick?’  Well, that’s what he was saying to me, figuratively and literally, and there were times when it felt like a slap in the face.  It would infuriate me (as, I’m sure, it was intended to).

        But, more often than not, I would do it.

        Because of the mandate to obey.  

        It’s a complicated feeling, to take an insult like that, and deny your own righteous rage, and participate in your own oppression by cooperating and humiliating yourself.  And it is.  Humiliating.  Because you know, while you’re doing it, that a dignified person with healthy self-regard would say something along the lines of: How dare you trivialize my feelings and my complaint by interrupting me with a blowjob request?  Who the hell do you think you are? 

        Yup.  It hurts, to suck cock under those circumstances.  Which was the point.  It was supposed to hurt.  Pain is crucial to the sadist’s enjoyment.  And you know what sort of man the Surgeon was.

        I would stop talking, and drop to my knees, and crawl across the room.  Asking myself, at every step, if I was really going to do this to myself.  If I was really going to reward his insult by giving him what he wanted

         With every step I crawled, the room was filling up with tension.  I couldn’t look him in the eye.  It was too fucking humiliating.  I couldn’t raise my eyes above the open fly of his trousers.  His hands were in his pockets, and I wondered if they were clenched in anticipation, as he waited to see if I was actually going to go through with it.  The rage and shame were breathtaking.  And they were increasing, second by second.  My blood was rushing in my ears.  

         I reached up and unbuckled his trousers.  I saw, out of the corner of my vision, that he was staring at my face intently, but I didn’t look up.  I couldn’t handle eye contact.  I recognized his belt.  It was a gift he’s brought for me at Bloomingdale’s.  He’d beaten me with it many, many times.  My chest was so tight I could hardly breath.

         I reached into his pants and freed his cock.  He was hard.  Hard as a rock.  He always was on these occasions.  It’s quite a power rush, to make someone do something you know they don’t want to do.  I know.  

        It was the final second.  Time for the moment of truth.

        I went to work.

        It didn’t take long.  The situation was too tense.  He came so hard that he screamed and bend over double, crushing my small skull in between his hands, the fingers twisted in my hair.

        Did I swallow it…?  Do you really have to ask?

        “That was incredible,” he said.  Yes, yes it was, for all kinds of reasons.

           “I love you.  Go make me a drink.  I’ll take care of you when I can manage again in an hour,” he said. 

           I did.  

            He was happy again, in a good mood.  Smiling.  Order had been restored.  Margo was back in her place.  

          Everything was right with the world again.

         And that is my blowjob blog post, which turned out to be a hell of a lot more complicated than I thought it would be when I sat down to compose it.


3 thoughts on “The Blowjob Wars”

  1. I’ve often wondered why consuming one’s own cum is such a terrifying thing for so many men that it counts as something only to be done when she who must be obeyed commands it, and it is done as an act of self-humiliation.

    There’s something creepy about a guy who will think nothing of expecting a woman to swallow a load, but who’s scared shitless when the boot is on the other foot so to speak. It offends my sense of social justice.

    Anyway, here’s a happy ever after tale involving a blow job. A few years ago I suffered a horrendous crash on my racing bike which left me with multiple pelvic fractures and a smashed hip socket.

    I was on my back in traction, in severe pain and unable to move for two months. Followed by another four months in a wheelchair and on crutches. My good lady was terrified that I might have done irreparable damage to the old plumbing, so there was only one thing for it – wait till the nurses were out of the way and….the rest, as they say, is history.

    Oh, and a year later I was back on my bike as well.

    1. Hi Tony;

      The distaste for semen I can chalk up to personal preference (though I have noticed the double standard of which you refer). I do not share the aversion, but I know people who do, and I don’t think they can help that it squicks them out.

      I have a bigger issue with men who expect oral sex, but don’t reciprocate.

      I remember your BJ story. I’ve never done it in the hospital, lol. It’s a funny story, though I am VERY sorry you had such an awful crash on your bike. 🙁 Did you get hit by a car? Did you run off the road…? My little brother has smashed his motorbike twice. Thank God he was wearing his brain-bucket, and his arm and wrist got the worst of it…

  2. I hate this man. he is lucky enough to have a girl eager to meet all his sexual needs, and he still finds a way to make it violent in the emotional sense. was he ever nice to you? you can do better. –Laura (from the party)

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