the most important thing I learned from my first BJ
It’s not what you think.
I knew something was going to happen that night. It was my first “fancy” school dance with the older boy I’d been dating, and things had been escalating between us.
Every time we were alone I could feel that new and exciting fire of attraction stoking hotter and hotter. all. over. I have always been a horny little miss, but shit was getting real now. Genitals were now in the picture.
I still remember his lips, how soft they were, how they had this firm plumpness to them, like Swedish fish — not squishy, but strong, yet tender and sweet. His neck was always adorned in this perfectly understated gold chain that peaked through his t-shirts, like an invitation to see what was underneath. Following the lines of that chain around his neck always sent my heart racing. And he always smelled so good. I was painfully attracted to him.
So in the weeks leading up to the dance, even as I opted for the black sheer nylons for that night — despite my younger sister’s annoyingly accurate vote for the (better, more coordinated) sweeter, sparkly sheer option — I couldn’t resist the classically sexy black nylons. Just the idea of him sliding them down my legs, like a scene in some movie, was enough to make the less ideal fashion choice seem like the right one. I mean, it wasn’t a bad choice, just not quite as cohesive of a look. You can tell my sister I said so, she’s usually right about these things.
But that’s me. I tend to follow the urgings of my heart, or other regions of my body for that matter, sometimes without much regard for what might appease the status quo or an onlooker. (It’s an old habit I’m retraining in this newly 40 year-old version of me: unabashedly following the urgings of my heart, my joy, my pleasure.) This salute to sexy was the deciding factor, without shame, and I’d make the same choice again and again.
The whole drive to the dance his hand gently rested on my thigh. I loved his hand there, on me. Is there anything sexier than a man with his left hand confidently on the wheel and the other on you? It has this incredibly erotic way of making you feel so safe and so desired at the same time.
I honestly don’t remember the dance, other than them playing our song, “Amazed” by Lonestar, (this was when I loved in a little town in the Iron Range of Minnesota, and it shows by this song choice) it’s shameful but true. I just interrupted my writing to listen to it for the first time in YEARS. Good Lord, so awesomely cheesy.
I’m transported back to us IM-ing for hours. Once, he even called the local radio station to dedicate this song to me — *sigh, so romantic. Sometimes I can’t resist a little nostalgia, it’s good for you, literally.
On the way home from the dance (Sno-Ball, as it was so appropriately named — just kidding, that did not happen) his hand now gripped my thigh, the tension creating a lightness around his fingers where the nylons stretched. So much tension that mid-drive, I leaned across the space between us.
It wasn’t long before he pulled over on the side of the quiet back road, maybe a mile from my house. I lived out in the sticks, a place where, at that time of night, you could trust that you’d be alone amongst the trees.
Is it still road head if you’re pulled over?
Either way, it was a huge turn-on for me. Hearing his breath, and the release of his moans. Feeling his body squirm beneath me, his fingers in my hair and then running down my back. It was beautifully strange — how different giving head was in this moment, compared to how it had always been portrayed in our culture.
It was kinda scary — yes, the weird new thing so close to your face, but also, the stigma surrounding the infamous BJ. The way most dudes talked about it, they wanted it so badly, but at the same time, you were a dirty slut if you actually did it. They’d talk about how they’d demean a girl, dehumanize and disrespect her during the act, push her head down so she’d “choke on it.”
Yeah, that sounds lovely. Real intimate. Sign me up.
If it wasn’t something to be scared of for the those reasons, it was to be feared for the ways it labeled us as sluts if we do it, or dare to even…like it.
Yet, they’d still expect it, even as they spoke so degradingly about it — just as they’d seen or heard it by the culture they learned from — porn and general rampant misogyny. While at the same time, perpetuating the gender gap (I apologize for my heteronormative perspective here) in returning the favor. Tisk, tisk, silly boys.
According to David Fredrick’s book The Roman Gaze: Vision, Power, and The Body, the stigma behind oral sex dates back to ancient Roman culture.
According to Fredrick, Roman sexuality was focused on power above anything else: dominance and submissiveness. And providing oral sex was the most disgraceful thing somebody could do because it was completely subservient.
In Frederick’s book he states: “Both ancient literature and graffiti tell us that fellatio was the province of prostitutes; it was a sexual act no Roman male of the elite class would request of his wife” (161).
He goes on to further explain that for a man to perform oral sex is even more submissive, feminizing and disgraceful.
“In the Roman hierarchy of sexual debasement, the man suspected of performing cunnilingus was even more defiled than a man who was a passive partner in male-to-male sex” (165) - taken from this article by Girth Brooks (great pen name for a sex writer might I add.)
Blow jobs have been socially manipulated by a misogynist culture as just another way to defile, disregard and disrespect women, while shaming pleasure altogether — telling males, this is something you should want, but it’s BAD. And they’re BAD if they do it. And returning the favor is the only thing worse.
But that night in my boyfriend’s car, from a place of safety and respect, it was hot as hell, and super empowering. I felt like I was in the driver’s seat, and I liked it.
I remember the look on his face when it was all over — sheer joy, mixed with this adorable disbelief and desire to please me in return. I mean, it’s not “easy.”
“You men have no idea what we’re dealing with down there. Teeth placement, jaw stress, suction and gag reflex–all while bobbing up and down, moaning and trying to breathe. Easy? Honey, they don’t call it a job for nothin’.” - Samantha Jones
The next morning in the shower, I heard the bathroom door creak open, “how was it? Tell me everything, did you have fun?!”
My mom and I didn’t really have secrets. I trusted her with them all, and I knew I was lucky in that way. She was like me, she understood me, she still does. And if she doesn’t, she tries.
So I told her,
“I gave him a blow-job!” I said as I popped my head around the shower curtain.
“You flewzy!” She teased. “Well, I hope you had a good time too, that’s important! You make sure he returns the favor!”
“Oh my god, Mom,”
“I’m serious.”
“I know,” I said with a smirk and an eye-roll behind the curtain.
“All these boys think their johnson is magic, but they better wrap it up, and they better put you first. She comes first! That’s the rule.”
“Ok, Mom.”
“Oh, god!” *Insert stressful sigh.
“Just be safe and protect yourself please, including your heart. You make sure, whatever it is, it’s what you want.”
Advice to live by. God bless her.
Truth be told, I don’t remember those iconic black nylons sliding down my legs that night. But I remember the erotic role they played that whole evening. I remember what I felt — pleasure. fun. prowess.
I remember ending that evening feeling satisfied.
And I remember my mom’s words the next day, like a North Star in the galaxy of my sex life from then on, guiding me to always prioritize my pleasure.
Thanks for reading y’all :) leave a heart or a comment, share with your friends. See you next time! Xo
Big love,
-kels
Bless your wonderful mama!