I met her at a Passover Seder. I was a tourist. She was holding forth at the other end of the table about how she was hiding the afikomen in her pussy (“Come find it!“). I thought she was trying too hard, and this behavior turns me off, but at the same time I wanted to break her down and wipe the smug expression from her face. Another five years would have done it anyway, but I kind of wanted it done now, and I knew exactly the wiping implement I would use.
Women who say how good they are at giving blowjobs usually are pretty good at giving blowjobs. I wish the percentage were lower, because then a certain type of person would not feel compelled to tell everyone how good she is at giving blowjobs, which itself is the primary reason I would give for not enjoying a blowjob in the first place.
These are things I’d rather discover on my own than to be brayed of across a room. And what’s wrong with a bad blowjob now and then? They grow on trees.
She kept repeating the story about the guy whose dick sometimes falls in her mouth. I had a good idea why that guy was somewhere far away. The bloom was off the Rosen. He had slowly become aware of the nattering fleshmass radiating from the blowjob area.
But, unlike fellatio itself, a blowjob braggart doesn’t exist in a vacuum. Somewhere she’d learned she was good at it. “I write blogs about it,” she was saying, “I teach classes about it. I’m really good.”
Sometimes, when attracted to someone you wish you didn’t want to get blown by, it is instructive to remember that two gag reflexes are to be suppressed that evening: yours and hers. At this point one realizes that the object of one’s reluctant affection will only stop talking once one puts a cock in the hole in her face from which the sound is emanating.
So I edged down the table, asked her for the URL of her website, and frankly told her why this night was more important than any other night.
“Oh, I don’t think you could handle me,” she said.
“You may be right,” I said, thinking that, if by “handle” she meant “see more than once,” she was definitely right.
“You know,” she said, “I’m going to write about you.”
“Not right now, I hope,” I said.
“A lot of men don’t like sexually aggressive women,” she said.
“Are you a sexually aggressive woman?” I said. “Talking about it isn’t the same as doing it.”
“Well, we’re all either voyeurs or exhibitionists,” she said.
“Are you an alcoholic?” I said. “Alcoholics tend to engage in binary thinking.”
“Yes,” she said. “I’m an alcoholic.”
“Are you drinking now?”
No,” she said.
And it was on.
As I was the youngest at the meal, it was I who answered the question “Why is it that on all other nights we eat either sitting or reclining, but on this night we eat in a reclining position?”
Manipulating her into a reclining position on some pillows, I reminded her that she was no longer a slave but there might be some bitter herbs involved.
The problem with fucking big talkers is that one becomes aware of their need to appear freaky without having the ability to jettison the pervasive self-consciousness required to be freaky. Amid all the R. Crumb-level splupping and sklurking, interrupted by dirty talk that was more affectation, and accompanied by hand gestures that reminded me of show choir, her technique was like a traveling circus at the end of the tour, full of energy and despair.
I had to take her by her ringlets because, unlike her, I wanted to be back for the Manischewitz.
Faced with this, fellatio turns into irrumatio, the violent face-fucking popularized by Rocco Siffredi and whispered of in the Necronomicon, and which just means more work for me.
“You got a little aggressive there,” she said.
“I’m a sexually aggressive man,” I said.
That was earlier this year, and we still see each other now and then. I noticed that “irrumatio” popped up in her blog shortly thereafter, which she described as the mark of a sexually selfish partner.
Oh well. I seem to recall that, during drinks, she was nowhere to be seen advertising her blowjob abilities on this most special night. And I call that a mitzvah.
Previously on Porn Valley Observed: What didn’t happen
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