...and then I found $20!

So, due to the nature of the subject matter I'm looking to tackle today, I thought I would abandon the usual tone of these posts (y'know, that whole soaring, too-sexy-for-my-Keats deal) in favor of something a bit more casual. Something more like the way I speak.

I may have a literary mind, but that doesn't mean that I'm walking around in a hyper-real fantasy land all the time. I mean, I'm not Enya.

It's the same idea behind the whole 'lady in the street, but a freak in the bed' concept--thank you, Ludacris.

By and large, people like knowing that I'm in possession of a few brain cells, which occasionally rub up against each other like horny teens at a junior prom, but no one wants all the gory details of the crazy night that follows thereafter.

It's about knowing when to turn it off.

So, yes, colloquial and vulgar, here I am--ready to talk about sucking cock.

I've only ever had one penis in my mouth and it belongs to, you guessed it, Jefferson.

Let me tell you, it's one gorgeous appendage. Rosy and plump, with its satiny tip and low-slung balls, all nestled in a bed of soft, sandy blond fuzz. His pubic hair is straight too, which I find endlessly amusing.

So his cock isn't seven miles long and it doesn't share the circumference a can of Diet Coke, but as the great Mercutio chokes out before passing over the edge of human existence, "'tis enough, 'twill serve".

Or if Shakespeare's too highbrow, he's Baby Bear's damn porridge--just right--and I was all too eager to gobble that up.

I don't know why I thought cock-sucking would be easy.

I mean, It seems just as idiot-proof as sex is--there's a protrusion and there's a hole.

Insert 'A' into 'B'. Then go to town.

Bored of my own mind and hands and toys, I had turned to the net about two years ago in search of other minds to 'interact' with. Sadly, there weren't many minds available, so I settled for E-libidos instead.

Since I can sling a mean sentence (read: use adjectives), I sort of ended up morphing into a cybersex goddess.

I didn't even masturbate half the time--I'd be feverishly searching for the right onomatopoeia to describe that sound my pussy makes when my dildo is crashing into it, sending femme come dribbling down my thighs, a fine spray of it coating my pumping fist.

Needless to say, I've talked an insane number of guys off, describing in detail 'my' blow job technique, a.k.a. what I've picked-up from the fuck-ton of free porn and web articles I've devoured. As far as I was concerned, it's just a matter of putting research and theory into practice.

Far easier said than done.

I mean, no matter how great my imagination is, no matter how vivid my diction, penises will forever be a mystery to me.

Why?

Because I don't have one.

I know you were probably assuming as such, but I figured I might as well put that out there.

I have a clitoris. Not one of those monster clits either, just your standard, run-of-the-mill clit--one that likes to hide deep underneath my labia.

So, when I wrap my hand around his shaft, mimicking those silicone sweeties on my computer, I can't for the life of me picture what he's feeling.

Why is he wincing? Did that hurt him? Did it feel good? Really good? Should I do it again? Should I do it a bit harder? Was that too hard? What did it feel like? Fuck!

And the second my mouth goes there, I'm even more panicked.

Teeth out of the way or he'll punch you in the head, no doubt. Tongue is good, but where should it go? Underside? Towards the tip? Cosmo said most of the nerve endings are towards the tip...then should I go deep? Will that feel good? Better than if I didn't? Did he just groan?

Amid all of this insanity, my head swimming with "Am I doing this right?!", I took him a bit too far down and puked on his cock.

We joked about it later on over lunch, laughing over how it's become a sex blog staple to have the "...and then I threw-up on his dick" post and I managed it during my second time at bat.

In that moment though, I was obviously mortified. I was laying on my back on his bed, tucking my arms in tightly to my sides to keep the mess contained on my chest, greyish-tinted vomit running along my skin, pooling in the gentle slopes of my stomach.

He ran for a towel and tried to keep things light between us.

I tossed up a "Thank Christ for the sex sheets, eh?" while he got me cleaned up.

We shared a laugh at that.

I could always ask him what he wants, I suppose, but that's kind of the antithesis of hot. Plus, if all goes well, someday his won't be the only penis I'll have to contend with.

What I need is a freaking crash course in cock.

And I'm asking the audience. Readers, let me in on some of your trade secrets, tips, anything--I'll love you forever.

I'll put this out there now, for the creepy comments which may or may not surface at this request:

No, I don't need YOUR cock to practice on.

But thanks for the offer.