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The Worst Blowjob I Ever Gave - Every Damn Day In June - 7/30 - Love, Violet
When I was in high school in the mid-90s, sex was not really the hot thing to do. Pregnancy and HIV/AIDS provided enough cautionary tales that we were far from previous decades’ free love. What sex we did have was well wrapped and not the messy, unctuous, cummy affair that it can be. There was no trusting the rhythm method, no glorious pull-out and warm dousing of semen on thighs or buttocks or bellies but with our hormone saturated adolescent logic we easily, carelessly, rationalized blowjobs. No one used a condom for giving head. That was absurd. Not even the graphic photos of gonorrhea of the throat or the looming life sentence of herpes that they showed us in health class could slow down the delicious thrilling terror of what was the epitome of sex at the time. Giving head meant you not only liked him, you really liked him, but you also ran less of a risk of being labeled a slut because you hadn’t given it up entirely – obviously you still has self respect! – but you also weren’t a cock tease and your poor boyfriend or boy du jour also wouldn’t face the tragic, horny abyss of ‘blue balls’. It was not simply a requisite, an expectation that you’d suck dick but also that you’d swallow because “only whores spit”. Again, lots of logic here. Where were we getting our information? The most memorable blowjob of my youth, and really what sparked my complicated relationship with semen, occurred the summer after twelfth grade. It was also the first night I’d ever spent with a boy. My parents were away and he came from the sort of family that barely exists; he’d been coming and going, getting kicked out or running away since he was 12. He was now 20 and I hadn’t seen him in two years. I had been a cautiously romantic sixteen year old last time I’d seen him and surely in those two years I had become a sexual dynamo and not only was I prepared to do what it took to keep this delinquent’s attention, I was going to drink him down with skill and panache that I’m not sure I had, looking back. As soon as we made plans for that weekend (hang out with some of my friends on Friday night then a movie at my house, he could stay over if he wanted. I’m sure I’d said all of that casually, with a flip of my hair, and a well timed eye roll and “whatever”.) I began to plan and fantasize in the way that only the pubescent can. I knew I didn’t want to have sex with him, he was too “wrong side of the tracks” for that, but it was time to make nice with the cock I’d felt straining against my thigh that time we’d made out in a hammock two summers before, the same cock I’d shyly touched through his Fruit of the Loom boxer briefs as we made out that time behind the ice rink after my figure skating lesson. “Oh my god though, what if he cums?” This was my bestie speaking, no slouch herself when it came to the art of oral pleasure. “Isn’t that the point?”, I retorted non chalantly. He’d better cum. If he didn’t then I’d obviously be an abject failure and failure was not an option. He was older, totally bad-ass (read kind of a loser), and hot enough to qualify as a mega summer fling before I went to university, the perfect warm up to college guys. Looking back I didn’t even like him that much but he was great practice and not part of my social circle so there was nothing to lose. I was a shitty human, clearly. Friday night rolled around and we met up, hung with friends and after getting back to my house we made it a whole twenty minutes into Jurassic Park (on VHS, no less) before the making out was in full swing. His shirt came off, then mine and his hand put my hand on the bulge in his jeans. This was it. I slipped down his body and off couch to kneel between his thighs. He lay back, one arm behind his head the other draped casually over his stomach. His hips lifted as his jeans and shorts came down and his cock sprung free. Tense, hard and cut, he was a perfect God for just a moment and I was his eager and determined worshipper. Forget the shitty knuckle tattoos and jagged appendix scar, he was perfect and his cock was already weeping. This would be a slam dunk. The perfect, glistening beads of precum were just he beginning. I worked him over like a champ until he was damp with sweat and sucking air through his teeth, sitting up, pushing my hair off my face. He uttered a staccato announcement of his impending orgasm, a rushed and stuttering warning as he pulled his cock from my lips and let loose an impossibly large load onto my lips and chin. To say he came furiously would not do it justice. Rope after rope of creamy cum flowed from his cock and it wasn’t stopping so I took him back into my mouth and began swallowing as he howled. Then something went terribly wrong. We somehow got out of synch because suddenly I couldn’t keep up. What had started as a fountain of ambrosia was now a burning geyser of hell fire, choking me and forcing its way into my sinuses. Determined not to appear a novice, I gagged it down but with a shuddering cough the worst happened: it came out my nose. The look on his face was sheer horror and I can understand why. When I imagine the scene from his point of view it would have been all red weeping eyes, smeared mascara, a river of semen from my nose joining the froth already on my chin all with a pained grimace and dry heaves. In his defense he gallantly pulled out and handed me his shirt. Without thinking, I blew my nose in it. And that, dear readers, officially killed the mood. I was mortified, he was kind about it. He stayed the night and there was much better success in the morning. This time I paced myself and I was ready for the total deluge of his orgasms. Long after that night, after that summer, I was gun shy when giving head. That particular incident made a huge impact on my readiness to receive and experience a man’s cum, regardless of where it was intended to end up. Obviously I’m past the trauma by now but that endless stream of cum will forever be imprinted on my mind and somewhere I probably still have the tshirt. Every Damn Day In June is run by Hyacinth Jones of ‘A Dissolute Life Means …’, her sex, life and sex-life blog. Click through to read more!