Putting it in my Mouth: Head, Autonomy and the Politics of Giving [Love, Anonymously]
by Anonymous1
The first time I gave head to a young guy, as a teenage girl myself, I loved it. The tastes, the feel, the rhythmic sucking, the skin on skin feel filling my mouth. I didn’t know what I was doing at first, but I learned, under the patient, steady and grateful tutelage I received at seventeen, the first time around. The attention to detail ended up lasting me throughout the rest of my dick-sucking endeavors. And I could suck into an oblivion, with gusto.
In the right angle and positioning, I thoroughly enjoyed the entire experience for minutes on end. I got adept with other techniques, incorporating hand stroking and squeezes simultaneously, using pressure, tongue tricks, reading his body and responses. I could be a self-conscious, timid fuck at times, (rife with beauty and self-esteem issues holding me back) but with giving head, I championed. I was confident and self-actualized and ejaculate was one of my rewards.
I was also a virgin for all of 22 years of my good, black Catholic-girl life and I only had sex for the first time, with that particular person (who knew I hadn’t had intercourse before) because I fell for the infamous “I promise, just the tip” ploy and next thing you know, the length of a penis was in me. Just like that, in the quick stroke successions of the blink of an eye, my v-card was revoked.
I only enjoyed the control of giving head later in life, in the early then toward my mid twenties. But more than that, I am a pleaser and I like pleasing my (a) man and making him feel good. I just enjoyed it, the process, the act. And I need to have free reign ideally, no heavy hand guiding my head and that shit. Just, you relax, let me do my thing — and I would. Somewhere between getting older, I noticed some guys repeatedly began demanding head. Requesting it outright and the autonomy of the act for me (even though I wanted to) seemed to
wane just because he required it.
“Gimme some head,” “how about some head?” Or something to that effect.
Like getting head was their damn birthright.
It seemed to quell the fiery enthusiasm I felt for cupping a flopping penis in my hand and stirring it to life in my mouth, how I wanted to, when I wanted to. The more I got asked for head, the less joy I got from the act — though I still did it. Of course. Ever the pleaser.
I gave head to guys who didn’t believe in eating the pussy of a girl who wasn’t their official girl or were against the act in general, to guys who I supposedly dated but not really — because we were “just friends” depending on who asked him and what time of the day (or night) they asked him. And I gave good head, regardless. Never, ever crappy head. If I went in like that, I went all in. I tried to live by the code that it’s better to give than receive, no matter what, but I couldn’t shake the feelings of being unfulfilled and worse yet, vilified.
The worst example was this guy who I used to sleep with regularly for some time. He was pretty-boy cute, the kind of guy I would never approach, claimed to only like ‘real’ hip-hop and out of nowhere, approached me one day for my number. We lived in different buildings of the same apartment complex, right near to one another. He was a younger undergrad and I had just started graduate school. In the beginning, we both got sexual intercourse out of it — oftentimes it was quick, the ubiquitous no strings attached script with zero foreplay — and very convenient, because of our neighbor status. It scratched an itch. But we also discussed birth control methods at length and I tried to have discussions about who he was doing otherwise. Not that it should matter but he was the only person I was sleeping with at this time, and he knew this, even as he remained guarded (or perhaps lying outright) about his own sexual dalliances. Outside of the hook-ups, we conversed and hung out informally on more than one occasion, in the presence of both friends of his and mine.
Then, one day, I gave him head. Somehow, the head-giving automatically translated a turn of events in the arrangement to him. Invariably, head took precedence and loomed over all our interactions. My willingness to give head became this fucked-up overarching defining factor for almost all further sexual negotiations between us. And I let it happen. And while it became a problem that I had trouble fixing, eventually I did. But not before it reached epic proportions.
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