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
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."
"You know - sex. Have sex. We hardly know each other."
"But we're naked."
"So you'll get naked with someone you hardly know,
but not sleep with them?"
"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.
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