Head of the Class

I was 17 when I gave my first blowjob. When it was over I asked him, the 16-year-old jackass whose backseat I was currently leaned across, if it was ok. He shrugged his shoulders, paused for an eternity and said, “Yeah, it was alright.” I may have been an amateur but I knew that was neither the average, nor desired response. I later found out he’d moved to my town because of an alleged affair with a male high school teacher, so it’s fair to say he’d probably had better and more experienced blow jobs before.


For better or worse, anytime you pick up a new skill, or add something to your sexual repertoire you are eager to try it again. As a newly minted non-oral-virgin I guess I was no exception. Although I didn’t run out to blow every guy I could get my twinky hands on my senior year of high school, I will say the decision to perform the act on a new paramour took significantly less soul-searching than it did eventually to decide to go all the way. It was like I had learned the perfect one-liner, or a simple slight of hand that no one could figure out; I had a new party trick and I was eager to try it out.


My high school boyfriend probably benefited most from my eagerness to put my DSL’s to use. The back of his Ford Explorer in a parking garage or lot was usually the scene of the show and the only reason it seems significant is since I remained a virgin our entire relationship, this was as far as we went. He is my 4th longest relationship to date, so I had plenty of time to perfect my skills before graduation.


That summer, no longer a virgin of any kind, I still wasn’t eager to don a condom for just anyone. I began to hit the ‘scene,’ tragically laughable in the small town I lived at the time, but it did allow me to meet a few interesting locals before I fled to college. One particular guy took me to a house he’d recently vacated. Since I’d had neither in my mouth before, the taste of beer and cigarettes as he kissed me made me want to vomit, but I composed myself and finished the job on the floor of his old, empty living room. The other standout, whom I actually dated for most of the summer, actually caused me to choke. Not because his girth was too much to handle, but because he exclaimed, “Don’t stop, get it, get it,” while in process. I started laughing so hard; I couldn’t finish.

Through college and the year that has followed, I have collected the stories of friends who’ve vigorously rinsed cum from their eye only to be accused of being high, who have burst into tears when a load hit their face, and who earned a reputation for keeping a diet coke can on their night stand for surreptitious spitting. My best friend’s older sister hosted a BJ clinic for us when we were underclassmen, and I sometimes was called upon to consult a wary girlfriend on the best suggestion for head and hand placement. I wouldn’t claim to be an expert in the theory or practice of fellatio, but my unrelenting thirst for people’s tales made me at least a very reliable secondary source.

So, after all these years of ups and downs, and downs and ups, you’d think that no situation could surprise me in the bedroom. I would generally agree with you if my recent long weekend hadn’t brought me right back to high school. No, I didn’t corrupt a young man or commit statutory rape over state lines, but had an encounter with a species that has (almost) entirely avoided me since I set foot on my college campus: The Closet Case.

He was a friend of my friend and my gaydar was beeping louder than R2-D2 in a lightning storm so I ignored her dubious claims that he was hesitant about admitting his sexuality. It was my first night in town and after several beers and a short cab ride back to my friend’s place, I later found myself alone with him. After our breath quickened and our touching became more localized, he pulled me into a nearby room. There I was again, in a completely empty room where neither of us resided; and he begged me to show him my party trick, one he was unwilling to perform himself.

This time I stood my ground, and let him finish the game by playing his own hand. Maybe after all these years I’m too much of a pro to fool around with amateurs; then again maybe I just didn’t want another jackass say it was just alright. After all, we may be significantly better than our harshest critic, but it’s our worst reviews that stay with us the longest.

Originally appeared on 7/22/2008 at http://www.homo-neurotic.com/2008/07/22/everybody-does-it-head-of-the-class/