Spring Break rocked my world. Sure, it was chaste, due to the fact that my man’s penis opted to head south of the border rather than south of my panty line, and sure, I was bitter knowing that my grandma’s mildewy palm tree shower curtain was the closest I’d be getting to tropical climates. But I was content, nonetheless. Why? Because for once in my life, I did not spend my break living in fear of GOLD.
This past quarter, I pulled off spectacular grades. And it was all thanks to a blow job.
Not so fast, skippy – no need to collect on that “Does she fellaysh the faculty?” bet just yet. The recipient of this act had no executive power, no grade-determining authority and couldn’t hack into a computer database if Jack Bauer were to walk him through it. The recipient of this act was, in fact, my usual lucky son of a gun. Except this time, he had no idea what hit him.
It started out as ordinary playtime. A little cuddling turned into kissing, and a little kissing quickly migrated below the equator. A little light fellatio tease would surely whet the appetite for other ventures, I thought. But as I pulled away, I saw the disappointment in his eyes. It was then that a sudden wave of determination overwhelmed me. This shit had to get done. I pinned him back down on the bed, and with a nod that said, “hold onto them hats and glasses,” I went in for the wildest ride in the wilderness.
Now, I’m not one to brag, but if you’ve ever wondered what Mozart symphonies, the Grand Canyon and Bob Dylan songs are made of, you might want to ask my recipient. I watched as he writhed and twisted; shock and awe and bewilderment and gratitude all flashed simultaneously across his face. Everything went slow-mo. “Chariots of Fire” builds to a crescendo as fireworks burst overhead, and friends and family cheered from bleachers in the distance. I crossed the finish line with two proud fists in the air (well, at the base of his member), as my recipient sank, vanquished, into the bed. I heard not a word out of him for the rest of the night, save for occasional twitch and murmur of: “Hallelujah.”
From that moment forth, I could conquer all. I, Jenni Perez, was poised to take the world by the dick and suck it into submission. History final? Ha. Spanish? Ja ja.
This, my friend, is one of the greatest joys of sex. It separates itself from everyday life like theater separates itself from film. A performer could spend hours, days and months on the set of a feature film, running line after line, take after take. It could be years before his work is seen and chubby preteens body slam each other for the chance to be the Bella Swan to his Edward Cullen.
On the other hand, theater is instantaneous. The audience is with the performer in real time, offering their praise with each move he makes. This instant feedback can produce a long lasting high and a sense of skill and purpose in everything he does. And so it can with you. The bed is your stage, and the person you share it with is simply waiting to shower you with applause (or semen… same thing).
While no one can argue that being on the receiving end of sex is stellar, there’s definite merit in giving without expecting reciprocation. It’s a position of power that feeds on the fact that, even for just a moment, a person is living or dying by your very touch. Ease up, and you’ll shatter their world; buckle down, and you’ll shatter their mind. There’s no self-help book thick enough to give you that kind of self-esteem.
Here’s to a victorious Spring Quarter, Gauchos. I’ll be observing you during midterms – if there’s a little extra swagger in your step, I’ll know you’ve seen the light.