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Downtime
Sex in the Sub-City

For all of those people out there who tell me constantly that there is never enough - or any - sex in this column, well you're in for a treat. I'm finally giving you what you want. You've waited long enough, patiently sitting through my Harry Potter obsession, my bad jokes and my low ranking on Hot or Not. Now it's time to deliver. And while I'm doing this to satisfy all those sex fiends out there (who make up the bulk of my audience), it's mainly because I'm going away for a while, so there won't be another column for at least a couple of months. My hope is to give you something to remember me by, beyond the fact that I don't wear any underwear and think that Osama Bin Laden is gay. I'll be in Los Angeles and Thailand, two hotbeds of sin, so if I get inspired I'll try and send something along. But don't hold your breath. The last thing I plan to do is be anywhere near a computer. In the meantime, enjoy, thanks for reading, and happy holidays.

The first time I went down on a girl I was a sophomore in college. I was drunk, she was drunk, and we were wrestling around on my bed, sloppily kissing and trying to get each other's clothes off. By the time both of us were naked, the room was a mess. One of my boots had connected with my CD case, knocking the entire thing to the floor. The other boot took out one of my plants. The next day it looked like a tornado had hit, with pieces of clothing everywhere. And because the room was a total sty to begin with, our clothes simply blended in with the ones already there. Nikki, the girl in question, simply gave up on locating her underwear and left without it. I found it months later beneath some pizza boxes.

After what I thought was a significant amount of time - it could have been five minutes I was so drunk - I began fumbling around on my nightstand for a condom. But as I did so Nikki grabbed my arm.

"Wait," she said. "We can't do this."

"Do what?"

"You know - sex. Have sex. We hardly know each other."

"But we're naked."

"So?"

"So you'll get naked with someone you hardly know, but not sleep with them?"

"Yes."

"That doesn't make any sense," I said, frowning. "Besides, what time did we meet tonight? Nine o'clock? Ten? That's almost five hours. That's like forever."

"No it's not."

"It's forever for a fruit fly."

"You're not a fruit fly."

"Some things get all the luck."

This went on for a while, but Nikki wouldn't budge. While she was right, and we were virtual strangers, I was young and I was drunk. Beyond that, I was horny. I wanted to get laid. That's not even the entire truth, because I was so gone that I just wanted to get off; I really didn't care how it occurred. I would have stuck it in her ear if I thought it would have done the trick.

After rolling around some more, I again breached the idea of us having sex. Only this time I called it "making love." She didn't buy it, so again I was at an impasse. My only chance was to go for plan B, but I wasn't sure if this was a plan B kind of girl. Usually a girl who is not up for plan A is automatically not down with plan B, but there are exceptions. Some girls are all about plan B, thinking it's no big deal, while plan A for them is huge. Other girls think plan B is the worst thing ever, and would go with plan A any day of the week. Some girls I'd heard about would even take plan C over both A and B, although I had never come into contact with them. In fact, over the years I've only met very few plan C girls, so perhaps my information at the time was bogus. Whatever the case, A was out, C was certainly out, and so I focused all my energy on B.

And this has always been difficult for me, because the last thing you want to do is ask for it. It's supposed to develop naturally, just kind of happen on its own. To have to suggest it kind of ruins it, making it more of a chore than a willingly offered act. But I doubted Nikki would offer it up anytime soon. By now we had been naked for nearly an hour, and the furthest south she touched me had been my stomach, and that was only by accident. If I waited for her to go down there it would be forever. And by then I'd already be getting some, for we would have gotten to know each other really fucking well.

The only way I was going to get any plan B was to do it myself, to her, and hope she would reciprocate. But the problem, of course, was that I had never done it before, and didn't really know what to do. I'd seen it happen once or twice in some pornos, but you could never tell if the girl actually liked it, because it was her job to moan at the top of her lungs. And the guys doing it were so cheesy, and the way they flicked their tongues was so snakelike, so clinical, that it was hard to even watch for more than a few minutes. So no help there.

I would simply have to venture down there and hope for the best. At this point she was on top of me, so I turned her over and started kissing her. Then I began kissing her neck, slowly working my way down to her breasts. Her breasts were beautiful and soft, and I could have stayed there for a lot longer but I had work to do. I had a plan. So I kept going, eventually reaching her stomach and then her belly button. When I made it to the top of her pubic hair I almost hoped that she'd pull me up, like a coach taking out a rookie pitcher before a seasoned batter stepped up to the plate, but she didn't. Instead, she sighed and put her hands back behind her head. I was given the okay, and so down I went.

In my drunken stupor I tried desperately to remember what I knew about the clitoris, but I was drawing a blank. In fact, I had no idea what is was. More importantly, I had no idea WHERE it was. All I knew was that it was important, and that I didn't want to miss it. So I decided to cover as much area as possible and make broad strokes. I treated her pussy as if it was a giant bowl of ice cream, or a tremendous lollipop, and I was determined to get to the chewy center.

So I did this for a while, running my tongue up and down, up and down, like I was licking a gigantic, hairy postage stamp. Throughout it all Nikki uttered a few moans, but I could tell that they were mainly for my benefit. I had to alter my method or risk losing reciprocation. I suddenly remembered something I'd learned in one of my Sociology classes, Research Methods. When investigating a particular topic (how often the average American masturbates, for example), there are different ways to go about collecting data. You can survey a large cross-section of the population all at once, or conduct more intimate surveys locally, and then tally up the results at the end.

Realizing that the situation before me fit best in the latter category, I decided to work on a smaller scale. Or, as the environmentalists like to say, I chose to: "think globally, act locally." So I abandoned my general sweep and concentrated instead on a smaller area, knowing that her reaction would tell me if I was in the right place. If the reaction was negative, I'd move on. If positive, I'd stay right where I was. After trying a number of different spots, I finally had results. I didn't know if I was near her clitoris or her g-spot, but wherever it was she was suddenly overcome with excitement. I was making her moan, and it felt great. My plan was working! Truth be told, at that point I didn't so much care about the plan. I was happy to be making her happy, stranger or not, and the feeling was something that stayed with me long afterwards.

Of course, what also stayed with me was what happened next. While my tongue is by no means tiny, it is not Gene Simmons caliber. To continue doing what I was doing, I had to keep my face so firmly planted in her bush that it was hard to breathe. Now I had a serious dilemma on my hands. If I stopped and took a breath, the momentum would be lost. If I kept going I would likely die of asphyxiation. I decided that I had to continue at all costs, with one exception: if I could just reach my asthma inhaler, after a quick puff or two I'd be good to go. So again my hand began crawling across my dresser, searching in vain for that lifesaving plastic tube. Nikki was oblivious as I did this, laying back and letting out a myriad of wonderful sounds, growing louder by the minute. But I was having no luck finding it. Finally I had to abort the mission, figuring that if I did die, this was the way to do it.

After a few minutes of some serious wailing, Nikki began to quiet down. Thinking that I had lost her I sped up the tongue action, doubling what I was doing before, like a doctor desperately trying to save a dying patient. I thought of a porno version of an emergency room, some mullet-haired stud kneeling over his unconscious patient, yelling: "We're not going to lose this one! I'm going to administer three cc's of cunnilingus, stat!" Then he licks her manically until she comes too. Once she awakens, they fuck.

After playing this out in mind, all at once Nikki herself came to, in a matter of speaking. At least she was making noises again. Only this time they weren't moans, or sighs, or cries of pleasure. They were snores. I stopped what I was doing and looked up and noticed that she had fallen dead asleep. Like a man, she had gotten off and then passed out. I felt like some kind of sex slave. Like I was her bitch. Like a pussy. I guess you are what you eat.

A few months later I got a chance to try again. Only this time it was with a girl who I was dating, so the pressure, while still there, was greatly reduced. I had time on my side. I could do it over and over until I got it right. It was like having my very own Resusci Annie doll, only with a completely different set of instructions. And my girlfriend of course was happy to let me learn. By the end of our relationship, which lasted for over a year, I knew all about the clitoris. I sometimes think we dated as long as we did just so she wouldn't have to start all over and train somebody else.

But the most important thing I learned, which I had a brief glimpse of that first night with Nikki, is that giving pleasure is its own reward. Reciprocation is nice, but it's not always necessary. Especially when dealing with plan C.


--Russ Josephs

E-mail: [email protected]



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[email protected] | December 2002 | Issue 33
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