Once again I turned up at Jefferson’s with alcohol. Since he hadn’t had a chance to get tested, we weren’t having sex, but still, I was nervous. Maybe more nervous that we weren’t having sex. Cause that left more time for … stuff.
As usual, we nattered away for an hour or so, sitting on his sofa. At one point Jefferson observed that we hadn’t kissed or anything – was it his responsibility to make a move? I had kind of expected him to. In part because, you know, part of what we’re doing is dominance/submission, but also, I don’t know, I was just waiting for him to take the lead cause it’s easier that way. Easier for me. If I don’t make the first move, then I can’t be rejected. I said as much. But then I launched myself at him eagerly, and we made out on his couch, listening to Todd Rundgren.
In his bedroom he sat in the armchair while I undressed. I was wearing tights, which seem to demand a teasing, stripper-like unveiling, but, I don’t know, it seemed so calculated. So instead I just dragged them off. Jefferson observed that my disrobing technique seemed a little perfunctory.
“I know,” I complained. “It just seems coy to strip off like that.” What’s my deal with coyness? I’d like to be sexy, but I hate the thought of being sort of … well, the only way I can think of it is Jessica Simpson-like. The combination of total obliviousness and salaciousness. I’d like to be sexy because I’m straightforward, not sexy because I’m too dumb to realize I’m being a tease. But really, I have to work on this. There ought to be a happy medium between taking off my clothes and pretending I’m Carmen Electra performing strip aerobics. Perhaps I should undress slowly – but not too slowly-- while maintaining eye contact and not smiling. Not frowning, but not smirking, either. Hmmm.
“I like you in skirts,” Jefferson said, eyeing me. “That’s a good look on you.”
I like wearing skirts cause I hate the way my legs look in jeans.
“Thanks.” Naked, I edged into his lap. “I’m insecure about my looks,” I explained. I don’t know why I felt compelled to reveal that, but as he’s read much of this blog I guess it’s not a surprise. I squinted at Jefferson thoughtfully. “I bet you tell all the smart girls they’re pretty and all the pretty girls they’re smart,” I realized.
“I don’t think--”
“No, you’re not calculating,” I said. I looked at him. “I like that.”
“Why don’t you undress me?” Jefferson suggested at last. I lifted his pullover and t-shirt over his head, and then tugged at his pajama bottoms. He was pale, and freckled. “Wow,” I said. I liked the way he looked, especially his paleness. I commented on this.
My mouth traveled down along his belly and towards the crop of fair, curly hair that covered his groin and lower abdomen. I buried my face in his groin and sniffed. He smelled sort of sweet. “You smell like maple syrup!” I said. “Or maybe a granola bar…” I sniffed again. “An Oat and Honey one?” I considered.
My mouth moved around to his cock and I breathed him in, and licked at him, like a cat. He stood up and I repositioned myself, on my knees, so I could suck him off.
“Here,” he said after a moment. “The underside, here, is the most sensitive. You don’t have to pay much attention to the tip.”
I felt chastened. I have always felt proud of my blowjobs, but perhaps they are given with more enthusiasm than skill.
“OK.” I wrapped my mouth around his cock again, and started sucking away. He pushed his cock further into my mouth, and started to gag when I felt the tip hit the back of my throat.
“Relax,” said Jefferson. OK, OK. I took a deep breath, and took him in again. “Don’t give me a blowjob now, just concentrate on taking it in,” he said.
“Ah,” I said. When his cock reached the back of my throat I thought for a minute I couldn’t breathe, but of course I could. It’s like when you swallow but keep the back of your throat closed. It was just pressure in a place I wasn’t used to. I held up one finger to signal, Wait. I got a bit more comfortable with his cock sitting against my throat. Then I moved a bit, and Jefferson pushed his cock forward, and I felt it slip into my throat. Tears sprang to my eyes; I gagged.
“You took a lot in!” Jefferson said encouragingly.
I sat on my haunches, bemused. “I always thought deep throat was a metaphor,” I gasped. “I didn’t realize you could actually swallow a dick.” I felt like the world’s biggest ignoramus. What had I thought deep throating someone meant? I guess that if you gagged, you had done it. Jesus Christ! How come I hadn’t realized that, logically, after it hits the back of the throat, the cock can go further? Down? I rubbed my eyes.
This is what it means to have your mouth fucked, I thought. Never mind blow jobs, this is having your mouth fucked. I took him again, and as I struggled past the tension and pressure Jefferson said, “I’m all the way in.” I looked down and saw no part of his dick whatsoever, it was all in me, hard and full. I was thrilled. He pushed his dick a little farther into my throat, the farthest it had been. I felt my throat widen a bit. Then I gagged, and gasped.
“I thought it was a metaphor,” I repeated. How did I get to be 33 without realizing this?
He went down on me. That is generally a source of anxiety for me, since I rarely get off. My mind always wanders, and I feel guilty that I haven’t come. He flicked his tongue over my clit with professional skill. “How’s that?” he asked, squinting up at me.
“It’s good,” I gasped. Only every time I thought I might come the mechanism in me sort of broke, and I was left on the edge. “I keep reaching this plateau,” I said. “Um… a little higher…”
We sat on his floor with my legs wrapped around him.
“Wanna get married? Let’s get married,” said Jefferson.
“I want six kids,” I warned him.
He started to laugh: “I’m halfway there.”
I started thinking about myself, and Jefferson, and Jordan and Daniel. And I thought, maybe I’m submissive because that way I only have to obey; and if I obey, I can’t be bad at it. That is, if I’m no good, it’s not my fault. (Is having things not be my fault my driving motivation? Sometimes I wonder). Perhaps my submissiveness is an aspect of sexual insecurity. Funny. Although I didn’t start regularly having sex until I was about 24, I’ve never thought of myself as sexually insecure. I guess it’s because I come pretty easily. As though that makes me savvy, rather than just lucky. Anyway. I wanted to tell all Jefferson this.
“I just have the urge to keep yattering at you,” I said.
“Well, we can talk,” he pointed out. We clambered up onto his bed. “Do you want another drink?”
I looked over at the bedside table, where a quarter inch of whisky sat in a glass tumbler. “I think I’d like to sip yours,” I said at last. “Maybe a very small whisky, please.”
See, when I come across insights like the one above, I don’t generally share them with anyone but my therapist Caroline, and sometimes Marc. I mean, I express my anger and happiness and whatnot, but I don’t like to emote about my thoughts. I just think that most emotional revelations are interesting primarily to the people they happen to. It’s so easy to talk about oneself (ahem!) and while I can do that for hours, I do not want to bore the guy I’m fucking. Oh, and I might as well admit it, I think my instinct to not always talk preserves a little mystery. There. All right. I said it.
SIDEBAR I don’t deliberately withhold information, it’s just that stuff like this – the idea that my instinct for submission might have its roots in my fear of being bad in bed – well, like I said, this isn’t fascinating to anyone but me, I should imagine. Plus, I am wary of revealing just how insecure I am, about my sexual prowess, and my attractiveness to men. There’s no value in that kind of vulnerability, I think. It’s just a roundabout way of asking to have one’s ego stroked with statements like “No, you’re totally hot, you’re the best ever!” And those statements, under these circumstances, mean nothing except that the person asking for them (i.e. me) has self-esteem issues. Self esteem issues are never attractive, and I always want to be attractive to the man I’m sleeping with. Anyway, it’s not Jefferson’s, or anyone else’s, job to convince me that I’m pretty. (That job belongs—or belonged, as that ship sailed some time ago-- to my mother, who missed that part. But we’ll leave my grievances against my mother for the time being, since they’re not nearly as good copy as my sex life). It’s only his job to believe that I’m pretty. Cause I do think any man I sleep with should believe I’m good looking, and that he’s lucky to sleep with me. I would hate to go to bed with someone who didn’t think I was attractive. God willing, I will never, ever do that. I do think a responsible and respectful lover tells his/her partner s/he’s gorgeous. That’s just polite and aids the shedding of inhibitions. Anyway. SIDEBAR ENDS
Jefferson brought me a drink and lay on the bed, and I straddled him. “It’s just,” I started. “I don’t want to fail you. I want you to enjoy yourself here.”
“Are you saying that I don’t have to like you?” said Jefferson.
“No!” I was horrified. Like I said, I have self-esteem issues, but I should hope my sense of self would demand a little more than a man merely tolerating me. “No, you have to like me,” I said sternly, though it’s hard to be stern when you’re naked and sitting on top of someone. “Otherwise there would be no point. No, that’s not what I’m getting at.”
I thought for a minute. “You know,” I said, “With Daniel, it’s like I’m in charge, cause I’m older, and I can’t do anything wrong. We have a great time together,” I hastened to add. “And with Jordan, I can’t do anything wrong with him, either, because he’s in charge. I can fail, but it’s his responsibility. He can direct me. With you, there’s a little more to it. It’s not just me being submissive, and it’s more demanding than what I do with Daniel. And I want this to be fun for you, and not just about you giving me lessons.” At least, that’s the gist of what I said. I was feeling muzzy and rambling. What I think I meant was: with Jefferson, I feel the responsibility not (just) to please him, but for him to have a good time. I know Daniel has a good time. Jordan… I dunno, it’s not about that, exactly; we’re not friends.
“It’s not like there’s only one way for you to be with me,” Jefferson observed. He said some other insightful and nice things, too, only I can’t remember what they were. But he said, “I want to do lots of things with you, have sex with you and watch movies and beat up on you…” That last part was perhaps not the most traditional declaration of intent, but I got the idea.