A Long, Sloppy Blow Job

There are times I will hook up with a guy even though my better judgment tells me to run in the opposite direction. Then I wish I’d listened to my better judgment.

I spent Wednesday in the city. The family’s away for a few days. I took myself shopping, to dinner, to a show. I hung around in a coffee shop trying to connect with one (any one!) of the guys who keep telling me that when I’m in Manhattan, we should get together. Then finally, frustrated, I boarded my train back to the suburbs.

I thought it might be easy to score some sex online. Unfortunately, all the offers I got were from guys in Manhattan, who were suddenly interested in me now that I was twenty miles away. The closest I got was a Latin kid who was listed as being in my city, but then who revealed he was really in New Rochelle, twenty-five minutes down the road. (In Michigan that would’ve been nothing. Here, it’s a long-ass haul.) And that he didn’t have a car. And that he couldn’t host, so I’d have to pick him up, bring him back to my place, then take him back after. At one in the morning.

I was about to give up and just hit the sheets when a guy much closer started hitting me up. He was all top, he told me, but he was in love with my dick and he wanted to give it the expert treatment it deserved. I’m cock-proud enough to enjoy such blandishments, certainly. But I’m usually looking for anal, I told him.

Two tops can have fun together too, he wrote back. I would love to give you a long, sloppy blow job for as long as you like.

I enjoy getting head, I typed. But it doesn’t usually get me off, and I don’t like the guy expecting me to shoot when it’s not likely to happen from a blow job.


Guys say that to me all the time, he said. Then I show them what a real blow job is like.

I said, All right, as long as you know what you’re doing, and you’re not planning to try to beat my dick into submission with your hand.


I use nothing but my mouth, baby. For as long as you want it. Up to you.


So I shrugged, gave him my address and some very explicit instructions on how to find my house, and told him to text me when he pulled up, and that I’d meet him on the front porch. I didn’t need him ringing the bell of my upstairs neighbor at one-thirty in the morning. Then I flipped on the porch light.

Now, I should explain something about my current living situation. I live in a big old house in the middle of nothing. I mean, really. There’s a vast wilderness surrounding the house—nothing but flora in every direction. You know that Andrew Wyeth painting, “Christina’s World”? Well, that’s pretty much what my current living situation is like. Only I have indoor plumbing and cable.

It’s really hard to miss me, in other words. And I give very good directions.

The guy only lived ten minutes away. My phone vibrated fairly quickly with the notice that he was outside. I opened the screen door, and went out on the porch to greet him. And I waited. And I waited.
I could see his car. It was parked on the street where I’d told him, right in front of the slate stones that lead up the vast grassy knoll to the house. But I couldn’t see him. I texted him to ask if he was coming in.

Nothing.

It was five minutes before he texted again. I can’t find your house.

I’d had one unfortunate late-night encounter last year with a methed-up individual who had been pounding on the front doors of my neighbors across the street , while texting me that my road had nothing but even-numbered addresses on it and my address was odd. I was already dreading a repeat of it. I texted some terse comments about how my house was the only fucking house in the area and I was freezing my ass off on the front porch.


I’m at a building with a mail slot that says book deposit on it, he texted me.

The idiot had parked directly in front of my house. And then he had turned, walked five minutes down the street, and arrived in front of the public library.

What. The. Fuck.

I wasn’t all that happy when, a good ten minutes later, I finally got him into the house. He wasn’t all that attractive a guy—definitely there was some disconnect between his fairly good-looking pictures and his actual appearance. But I stomped into the bedroom, kicked off my pants, and let him go at it. I was slightly relieved he didn’t remove his own clothes, since that would make it easier to get rid of him if I had to.

I was pretty sure I was going to have to, fairly quickly.

For one thing, the guy’s ‘long, sloppy blow job’ technique consisted of grabbing my dick in his fist and letting his lips travel as far as the ridge of my head. And apparently ‘for as long as I liked’ was approximately two and a half minutes, because that’s when he started beating me off like he was frantically auditioning for a Shake Weight ad. “You gonna come?” he growled, in none too sexy a manner. “You gonna blow that big beautiful dick for me?”

I pulled myself up, unattached his death grip from my tender meat, and led him back to the front door with a gentle thanks, but no thanks.

So, guys. I’m advising that you not oversell your oral skills. There’s such a thing as good, hot oral sex, and then there’s such a thing as a guy between your legs with his mouth on your dick, not doing anything sexy or that even feels good. Believe it or not, I’m actually going to notice the difference.

When I do, I’m not going to hesitate to boot you out the front door—and make sure that you find your car, so that you’re not wandering around the parking lot of the local public library down the road.