Perfectly 1993 Guy Part Six: Learning to Love a Blowjob

Eventually, it became clear that I was gonna have to go home. The guys were starting college and Last Bitchy Gay Guy’s dad wasn’t renewing the lease on the spare apartment. In the last days before I went back home, Perfectly 1993 Guy and I decided to tackle another block of mine: blowjobs.

 

I’d done a couple that didn’t feel too onerous, but a particularly harsh night of casual sex when I was younger had made me associate going down on a guy with contempt, with being treated harshly. Nothing in the universe was harsh about this guy though, so why not give it a whirl?

 

He stood to the side of the couch arm while I sat looking up at him. His face was beatific, he looked so vulnerable and patient. Kind. His penis was truly the most lovable of all, medium-sized and always friendly, just a perfect companion.

 

It didn’t take too long! Just a few minutes of tentative, teeth-minding learning on my part and he was groan-whispering “I’m gonna come.” And he did. It was another in a series of momentous exchanges of love and warmth.

 

Swallowing was then, and for some reason remains, a point of pride for me. We had planned out that part in advance, so he had a Peppermint Patty ready to counteract the taste. (Which wasn’t so bad of course!) So lovely, so thoughtful.

 

We literally brushed each other’s hair after that. I explained, in the way that one explains something one knows absolutely nothing about, that this was “a lesbian thing.” I think I got the idea from “artistic” nudes in my dad’s photography books that I used to sneak (lengthy) peeks at when I was little. Whatever the inspiration, the mutual hair-brushing was very nice.

 

In the parental back-and-forth of those years, it was arbitrarily my dad’s turn to house me. I packed almost everything I had into dad’s small car, heartbreakingly leaving behind the Popples knapsack that contained (Among, I assume, other treasures) my senior year book, never to be seen again. (Remind me to borrow my sister’s copy  sometime for that pic of me and my friends’ legs, all in black and white striped stockings and lug-soled Mary Janes.)

 

I don’t remember the ride home with dad, aside from the relief of being on the way home and the hope for future mail. I had to get some kind of job to pay for the long-distance phone calls. I had to figure out my post-graduation life. I felt loved, wistful, dreamy. I knew I would miss Perfectly 1993 Guy so much, and that our story wasn’t over yet.