Wait, they always say it! It’s a courtesy. If he’s going to come and he doesn’t warn you, he might as well have asked you to go dutch for dinner. I mean really, you just have to warn her; once you do, it’s up to her what she does with it.
“Wait, you mean there’s really an option?” my friend Louise asks while turning her 3-carat ring off its top-heavy side.
“Come on,” I said, “how could you not know there was an option?”
“Well, I didn’t want to become the girl where he says, ‘yeah, she’s the girl who doesn’t swallow.’ I mean that’s like, ‘yeah, she’s the girl with the lazy eye or pigeon-toe walk. I’d rather die.” First of all, if her guy were out with the boys, he’d lie. No way would he admit his girl didn’t swallow, especially if he were with a group of guys. Perhaps if he were one on one with another guy, and the other guy happened to be complaining that the woman he was seeing didn’t swallow the seed, he might mention her unwillingness to do the deed, but otherwise, it’s mum’s the word, all the way home.
Meanwhile, when I asked my other friend, to be known hereafter as “Fountain Girl” if she spit or swallow, she responded, “Huh? What do you mean? I fountain!” Then she giggled and asked for another drink. Then she giggled again, wondering when I would giggle back.
“I’m sorry, what? A fountain?” What does that mean?
“I give him a spray,” she said. “Let him come all over himself.”
“But then what do you use to keep house down there,” Louise asked, leaning in for an answer.
“Oh, any old thing will do really.” She sounded like The Christopher Lowell Show. “A dirty t-shirt. Socks. A towel is old-school.”
“What about you, Beth?” I ask.
“I guess I do both.”
“Well, how do you decide?” Fountain Girl asks.
“On my mood.”
“I always swallow,” Amanda says while her conservative boyfriend is just shy of earshot.
“Wow, and you’re not even Jewish,” I respond. I remember my conversation with Chris.
“I just think it’s more of a mess to spit, and it lasts longer that way. Besides, you’re asking the wrong question. The real question is,” she leans in and whispers, “will he kiss me afterward?”
“Well will he?”
“It depends on his mood. But ’tis the season, so I’ve been lucky.”
“Oh, no, last guy I was with would never let me kiss him after I went down on him. He thought it made him gay,” Fountain Girl added.
“Please, every guy has tasted himself. And if he denies it, he’ll lie to you about everything else, too.”
“But guys? Um, is there something wrong with me,” Fountain Girl asks, eyebrows pinched, “I think it’s sexy when he kisses me after he goes down on me. It’s dirty and hot.” The girls look at one another in silence and then, as if we’re cheerleaders practicing a move, we all shake our heads affirmative.
“Yeah, that’s fine.” None of us care.
“Yeah, it’s weird. It’s like after he goes down on me, he feels weird about kissing me, like he’s doing me some favor by not kissing me, but the truth is, I don’t care. It’s all sexy and one hot thing. Why parse it into moments?” I won’t tell you who said that.
“Besides, women taste better than men do anyway. Or at least I do. It’s not like men taste bad, unless they’ve come from the gym and all they smell like is balls, but overall, there really isn’t a taste. But, the aftertaste kind of stings a little. Like I ate too much pineapple or ate too many scallops. Sea scallops. Yeah, whereas a woman tastes like–and ladies, I HATE to use this word, really, but like–lemon curd. Ooooh, CURD is such a four letter word. But still, you know I’m right.” No one says anything.
Market research (at Stone Rose) says, “Best woman I ever tasted, tasted like General Tso’s Chicken.”
“Wait, that was the worst right?”
“No, that was the best. You all taste totally different. The worst taste like spicy pungent chicken.”
“Wait,” I interjected, “you mean to tell me ‘it tastes just like chicken? As in, try it! It tastes like chicken?”
“Well, uh, yeah. But I can perform a taste test tonight if you’d like.”
“Yeah, bye now.”
All this talk came about after a few drinks with a few friends. It really all began when Beth told me about her holiday. “So how was it?” I expected to hear about a long drive home, some traffic, about her new vintage LV bowling bag (Love the idea of NEW vintage). Maybe hear about some spiral ham or lasagna. Instead, I hear about her ‘oh so proper’ sister from Scranton, PA, who was married with child at eighteen years old. She’s the proud sister of my fag hag friend Beth, and she hates the BJ just as much as Beth’s gay boyfriend hates to receive them. It’s December. “And you know what that means,” Beth says. “It means January is coming. No pun intended.” Huh? “You see it’s my sister’s husband’s birthday in January, and she only does the BJ once a year.” Here she goes again with “The” BJ, as if it’s a button-down shirt. “Anyway, when I saw my sister, she said, ‘uh oh, his bday is coming, which means he is. Bethy girl, you know what that means don’t you?” Then Beth fingered her diamond cross and guided it across her neck in a subconscious swinging motion. “Bethy girl, you know I hate to suck a dick.” Not her husband’s dick but A dick. The apple doesn’t fall far. Beth says “Oh, Adam doesn’t like THE blowjob.” The way you’d say, “oh, he doesn’t like to wear brown shoes with gray pants.” The problem is, come the holiday season, “the husband” begins to smile more, anticipating what he likes to call, “the mistletoe moment.” Their entire family, including their mother, discusses this openly. Everyone at the dinner table knows about the BJ BDAY. They discuss it over pulled pork. He’s a Capricorn. “You know, it’s really not that bad,” Beth says trying to quell her uptight sister’s fears.
“Ugh, what about the germs, Beth. My God, the germs!”
“Well you don’t have to swallow.”
“Swallow? Are you kidding? I wouldn’t dare!” Turns out Beth’s sister brings a Dixie cup to the bed once a year to play catcher for the eve. Oh, the Dixie Cup. I never want to become this woman. You know why? In my fucked up head, all I could think is, “he’ll want to find it elsewhere if I don’t make him happy, so I better not be so uptight.” I’m right there next to Louise thinking, “shit, I don’t want to be known as the girl who won’t swallow.” But then again, I don’t want to be known as the girl who’s a bad kisser either. Maybe I care entirely too much what anyone thinks? Nah, if that were the case, this journal of mine would be hidden beneath my bed.
