The message I received at 8:23 from J, 5’10, included the address of a location that Maps told me would be twenty minutes away. In the Bywater! Eccentric. Already questioning if I was actually horny enough to be venturing out this far, I took the Claiborne exit and almost slammed into the Prius on my left as I tried to merge onto the highway. The scene opening up to my right was worse than even my rotten luck would normally warrant. It looked like every street in New Orleans had flooded. I groaned. The watery hellscape yielded few rays of hope. Inching forward, I eventually noticed that parts of St. Bernard weren’t as badly flooded. Cars that had reached the right place before the wrong time were scattered, lining unwanted pools like metal manatees in a zoo with no drainage. The rain stopped like two hours before I left mom’s house. How was it still this flooded?
At 9:34 I pulled up to the house. By 9:45 my RAV-4 was fully parallel parked out front. Shotgun style. Wide ass porch lined with thin, yellow-and-red patterned columns. J, 5’10, had a little pillow on one of the chairs. A hanging succulent swung slightly in the breeze. That’s kinda cute. It’s charming when a man has a hobby that’s useless, but ultimately harmless.
The first time I tasted cum I puked. The guy didn’t yell or hit me or anything. Didn’t even say anything. Maybe he did. All I remember is seeing the orange-yellow contents of my guts and pulling my shirt back on before scrambling out into the cold of the parking garage. We haven’t talked since. We probably wouldn’t have anyway. He was twenty-three? maybe twenty-four. I was sixteen. That big of an age gap wasn’t even acceptable then.
I remember thinking, what if he has kids my age? That had me feeling real fucking icky. Then he started patting my head, I guess to encourage me. My thirsty little ego benefitted from this, but the part of me concerned about the kids—call it whatever: the superego, an ailing sense of dignity—found his pats too demeaning for me to appreciate compliments. We were in his really nice BMW, I mean really nice, with leather interior and seat warmers. The lower half of my body—twisted into a pretzel on the floor of the back seat—ached in a dull sort of way. When cramps came, it was no surprise. The vomit was, though.
Some girls are spitters. Any spitter is inherently a quitter. In the world of gays, this is anathema. If Gaga herself were through some cruel twist of fate ever to take a knee and orally service a man, and she spat, the gays would be forced to find a new leader to YAS! at. Importantly, however, we can all agree: swallowing cum is repulsive. No matter what the man has eaten.
“Relationship expert” Hymn Michalka tells us that, in ancient China, there was a tantric technique called the White Tigress. Those who consumed their man’s semen lived longer, stayed more beautiful for longer, cleared their skin. In certain cases, these happy few spunk-consumers were rumored to have been able to tap into the fountain of youth.
Some of us are not so fortunate.
“It's only fair you do your part to make your semen taste better for that special someone so that oral sex and a blowjob can be more pleasurable for both of you,” says Hymn, an idiot who thinks that a weekend in Cabo and a smattering of Google searches gives her insight into your sex life. On Miss Michalka’s website, one can hire a Tantra Coach to personally come to one’s house and assist them. This coach arrives at their client’s home and, what exactly? Demonstrates deepthroat techniques on an eggplant? Drools into an Erlenmeyer flask until the client knows their perfect amount of saliva?
If one’s sex life is broken—or worse, boring—it’s either their fault or it’s his. Unfortunately, no amount of coaching can fix boring. No matter how sexy he is, even if the eggplant is a foot long, it’s not worth tepid sex. There is almost nothing more detrimental to the human condition. Before giving in to despair, one might remember: it’s ok that he’s boring. That’s probably just become a part of reality, and one probably thinks they can love him enough to accept that. Maybe that’s true. But if he’s boring, then it falls on the only other party involved. The sex cannot be boring.
Front door in hand, J, 5’10, smiles back at me. Two good omens. Fine motor skills, basic empathy. I walk in and after appropriate introductions he offers me champagne. Ah, oui! is what I think. Sure, thanks, is what I say out loud. Twirling my slender glass of Veuve Cliquot between my fingers, I ask J, 5’10—who is maybe 5’7 and whose name does not start with J; it’s Larry—what he does for fun. So like, what’s your deal? Are you into film? Men love being asked if they’re into film. They always are. The question alone gives their eye a twinkle that nothing else can. By 10:22 his manhood is in my mouth. The moaning is near-constant and annoying but it indicates that I am doing well, which I know. I had him pegged as a chomper as soon as he offered me the Veuve. I can’t tell you why, but it’s true: rich men often enjoy some teeth in the mix. Might be the monotony of luxury that brings out the masochism. Or maybe—and less likely—the rich are just freaky.
You’re really fucking good with that mouth, you know that?
I catch my eyes mid-roll, try to play it off as a sign of pleasure.
Now I’m at a sort of psychological crossroads: stop blowing this man for just a moment, so that I can give him a proper thank you, or try to show my acknowledgement in the form of some subtle sign. Maybe a wink upwards. Either way, I have to take an altogether avoidable risk. I decide to continue, winking, twisting slightly to show I heard him. It works, and we’re back.
But not for long. You know you’re a little whore, right?
Larry’s really pushing it with this one.
By 10:34 I note that his moans have started to shake. He’s convulsing slightly. Almost done, I decide, relieved. Then it hits me.
I’m bored as shit.
The man is boring. When we started, he was just annoying. Now he’s irredeemable. The eyes open and he looks down at me expectantly, surprise forming on his face.
Who said you could stop, whore? I bite down—balls and all. I do it in an annoyed bout of anger, maybe forgetting myself a little. But then I hear the same wounded but pleased moan as the first three or four. As I’m getting up I guess he falls off the bed. He starts saying whatever it is he wants to say. I’m already closing the door. Thanks for the champagne, I say, admiring the succulent one more time as I pass it.
In the car the radio proved to me that it knew exactly what I didn’t want to hear. “Semen is mostly comprised of water with fructose, sodium, some vitamins and minerals,” said Antonia Hall, a psychologist, relationship expert, sexpert, and the award-winning author of The Ultimate Guide to a Multi-Orgasmic Life. People love vitamins. Why do men’s particular combination of vitamins smell like ammonia and taste like saline drops mixed with mucus? Because as swallowers we have to stay humble. Were jizz to taste pleasant, those on the receiving end of the service would not know how to act. The appeal of being a spitter would drop dramatically, and girls and gays would find ourselves to be enjoying the job too much. Perhaps, I considered, the repulsive taste gives us a humility—a humanity that otherwise we would lack. Maybe the problem wasn’t the stuff itself, but the men. A younger man, one closer to my age, would he have better-tasting baby gravy? Without noticing, I’d drifted to the right. My car flipped over the I-10. Four of my ribs broke on impact, and a concussion threw my head into unconsciousness.
I decided on a hookup hiatus after that. Some wicked karmic force had surely punished me for the way I’d been living. Normally I might not have decided something so radical, but the pain was enough to keep me convinced. Interestingly, when you break a rib, they can’t do much for you. Three different doctors told me “just be patient,” and “don’t put pressure on them” and “they’ll heal over time.” I repeatedly expressed my anger at the lack of pain meds. Every doctor told me that the fractures weren’t threatening my spleen or my lungs or the blood vessels at the top of my ribs. One doctor was tall, with thick wavy black hair and that classic Greek smile. A few black chest hairs peeked out from the V in the shirt of his scrubs. Catching myself in the middle of this moment of weakness, I closed my eyes. Don’t even think about it, I commanded myself. So I didn’t. Each doctor recommended I take an ibuprofen, or maybe acetaminophen. I explained to each that I had been doing that, I had been downing both medicines in excess for the last three weeks. The pain was too severe.
Sometimes the pain you feel can make you feel more human. Maybe in the same way that cum tasting bad makes you feel more human. I don’t know either way. Mine was certainly never a comforting pain. For the next month I lived in near-constant fear of laughter. Laughing always brought the worst sensation, like a porcupine had wedged itself into my midsection. I stopped laughing. I tried to see things I would have found funny as annoying instead. It didn’t really work. One night, later on in the recovery process, I was agonizing in front of the living room TV when my mom came in. She informed me that I had to update my license if I wanted to continue driving once I’d healed. I said ok. She explained that the DMV across the river was the best in terms of wait time. You’ll be in and out, she said. I said ok. The next morning I drag myself to Hahnville, a real one horse town, and wait in line for a little over an hour. Two tweens are in front of me in line, loudly discussing their driving permit test and whatever else enters their minds. I am halfway through one of the girls’ Bachelor predictions when the Greek doctor enters the waiting room. The girls’ voices seem to rise as my mind races.
Why is he here? This must be a test. God’s testing me. She knows I’m weak, she knows and she wants me to understand it.
“I follow a capybara on Instagram. Her name is Sweetie.”
“Yeah I follow Sweetie she’s dope. Did you know she’s vegan?”
“Yeah it’s in her bio.”
Greek doctor takes a number and sits down. I can’t help myself. I’m wondering how long it took him to do his hair. He probably wakes up like that every day. I don’t even think about his wonderful black chest hair. Or the cum thing. I wonder if he wakes up with someone or if he too is waking up alone.