I’ll never think of oral sex the same way again.
I’m not a lesbian and I don’t consider myself bisexual, but I’ve eaten pussy.
To be fair, it was just the one pussy and I was under the influence of about seven or eight goon and juices (the budget-conscious uni student’s choice drink) at the time.
One moment I was chatting to a girl from class leaning against the door frame of a stranger’s bedroom (college parties had a way of ending up at random people’s houses; to this day I don’t know whose doorstep it was I vomited on at The Great House Party Of ’04, but if you know who I am, I’m sincerely sorry for your pot plant); the next, I was falling into bed with my legs scissored around her, sans underpants.
How we got there will forever remain in the black hole of booze-destroyed brain cells, but I do have a foggy memory of looking at her lips as she spoke, standing in the doorway, wondering what they’d be like to kiss.
We shared several classes together and had always been quite friendly, and though I’d admired her beauty before, it was an envious kind of fascination, rather than an attraction.
She was opposite to me in almost every way. Short and voluptuous with waterfalls of vibrant copper hair. I looked dull in comparison, with a limp over-straightened dark bob awkwardly draped over my spotty face and a chest that left me questioning if I’d actually undergone puberty.
Still, under the influence of alcohol in my early twenties, sex with another woman as a heterosexual was to me like dabbling in dope with my flatmate and her hooked-up contact – something I could tick off on the bucket list of experimental things to do while I was still young and stupid.
My memories of our encounter are fragmented into a disjointed montage of heavy petting and bra-flinging, but I do remember one thing quite clearly: I went down on her. And it wasn’t what I expected.
That night I learnt many things: that my fine motor skills (read: bra unhooking) are surprisingly unaffected by wine; that sex can in fact be hilarious and erotic all at once (in our drunken, fumbled attempts to remove various items of attire we accidentally kicked one another in the head on several occasions to great comical amusement) and that sex with a woman has many perks, including but not limited to not having to manoeuvre around a penis and the ever-present threat of being poked in the eye (it happens).
But most profoundly, I discovered that oral sex with a woman isn’t the messy, odorous experience I’d feared it would be and subsequently forbidden all previous partners from practicing on me while altruistically offering myself up for head-giving duties free of charge.
Thanks to the perpetual assertions of male douchebag friends that oral sex on a woman is a pungent affair reeking of the scent of day-old fish, I’d braced myself for the worst as I wiggled my head between her legs and twisted her underpants to the side. Then…nothing.
If I had to compare the taste of a woman to anything, it would be…nothing.
Because there was no distinct odour or flavour to the experience. In fact, giving oral to a woman was an unexpectedly sensual adventure into soft folds of flesh and undiscovered pathways to pleasure enwrapped in nurturing; a world far removed from the expletive shrieking girl-on-girl scenes I’d seen in porn.
And though my endeavour into the realm of sex with a woman ended that night in my early twenties, I never filed it in the young-and-stupid-experimental-years cabinet, preferring to leave it like a book on the shelf of self-exploration that I could open and flip through every so often when I’m feeling self-conscious about letting my husband make the unchartered journey down there.
Comment: Do you feel self-conscious about getting head?
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