Claire: My first blow job

I finally did it. I packed up my shitty college dorm room, drove forever with a car full of out-of-style clothes, and landed in this new city for my first real job. Two months in, I’ve figured out the traffic, become competent in my job, and started grocery shopping as much for healthy choices as cost. What I haven’t figured out is how to go on a single date. Not one. I haven’t even been asked out.

It’s maddening. I’m 22, in the prime of my life, fully prepared to meet someone, fall in love, have sex, and get married, maybe in that order, maybe not. I joined the singles group at church, and my office is full of unattached men, so it’s not like I live in a monastery. This is my target audience. Eligible men are everywhere. None of them are asking me out. The only action I get is from my fingers, imagining what I’m too chickenshit to actually do.

bro I’m doing my part. I joined a CrossFit gym (yes, I’ve become one of those people), and I’m down about twenty pounds from my pre-graduation peak. Maybe ten or twenty more until I hit the number in my head, though I’ve definitely put on muscle, so the scale is doing that mysterious “science things are happening” wobble. But it’s working. My face is slimming out (bye bye, double chin), my stomach doesn't poof over my jeans anymore, and my muffin-top is almost gone. Sure, I lost almost a cup size, but trust me, I had inventory to spare in that department, and what I have left looks great (read: even bigger) on my smaller frame.

Some days I even humbly feel like I’ve bumped myself up from a solid five to a respectable seven on the rating scale that exists in the darker corners of the male psyche.

So why is the new, hotter version of me still invisible to men? Shedding unsightly fat rolls, toning up, and generally leveling up my physical appearance should magically summon a parade of interested men like some kind of makeover TV show. But no. Absolutely nothing. Crickets. As much as I’d love to blame the universe, the problem is still me.

I’m smart, nerdy, shy, and dress with zero fashion sense, like a secretary in a 1950s office. I radiate a “respectable, well-behaved, probably still a virgin” vibe. It’s not exactly the siren call modern men heed. I'm boring.

And then there’s my fantasy, the one I’ve been clutching since high school: I meet a guy at work or church, we bond over shared values, date sweetly and slowly, fall in love first, maybe waiting until marriage. Then we have sex, and it's everything I imagined. A wholesome, patience-rewarding, Hallmark-approved storyline.

The reality?

Problem one: If men at church or work won't even ask me out, the idea of them patiently courting me for months before I put out seems impossible.

Problem two: I don’t want to wait. Not anymore. I already had a daily masturbation habit and monster libido when I was fat. Every pound I lose, every workout, seems to turn up the volume on a very insistent inner voice that is tired of being a proper Christian woman. I want excitement. I want connection. I want to get laid!

I know what must be done. Changing who I am is a work in process. In the meantime, I need to cast a wider net. Reluctantly, I take the obvious step I’ve been avoiding: I join several online dating apps. I agonize over my profile for an hour, decide it’s mediocre at best, and hit publish.

Within 24 hours, I'm bombarded with more male attention than I’ve received my entire life combined.

It’s a chaotic, typo-filled avalanche. I learn fast that men cast a thousand lines and hope one bites to get laid fast. Their messages are caveman poetry: two sentences if they’re feeling literary. They clearly haven’t read my profile, and many expect instant results. “So what are you doing tonight?” or some variation of this is typical. It’s overwhelming, depressing, and eye-opening. But it does give me something I didn't have before: options.

A week into this strange new digital love bazaar, I finally match with someone willing to have an actual conversation. Full sentences. Questions about my interests. A joke that didn’t make me cringe. Mark is thirty, handsome, and at 5'11", he's my height, which is a plus.

We agree to meet for drinks at a place two blocks from my apartment. Close enough that I can walk, which feels both convenient and grown-up, like I’m starring in my own urban coming-of-age movie.

I show up in jeans and a conservative top. My closet doesn’t really come in other flavors. Mark strolls in fashionably late, and he looks great. Confident. Stylish. And several inches shorter than me.

So he lied.

I don’t say anything, because that would make me a bitch, wouldn't it? Besides, I’m tall, not delicate; dating a shorter guy has never been the dealbreaker people assume it is. It’s just that honesty would’ve been nice.

But thirty minutes later after two drinks, several jokes, and one flattering compliment about my eyes, I decide to give him a shot. It’s not like I’m turning down better suitors. Mark isn’t religious, he’s a bit arrogant, and he's up-front about not wanting anything serious. He's divorced, too. The man is practically a neon sign flashing NOT YOUR FUTURE HUSBAND.

But maybe that’s the point. I desperately need dating experience, and maybe learning to navigate someone like Mark will keep me from fumbling when Mr. Perfect comes along. And, frankly, I'm super horny, and Mark is easy on the eyes. Not that I will have the nerve to act on my sexual urges, but the urges help keep me in the seat.

It becomes clear quickly that I’m in the presence of a seasoned professional. He’s smooth in a way I see in movies, fluent in flirtation. He knows exactly how to lean in, exactly when to laugh, exactly what to say that makes me feel unexpectedly desirable. I feel like the center of his universe, even though I know deep down it's only to get separate me from my panties. I begin to relax and have fun.

I can tell he’s running a well-honed playbook. He’s already assessed that we’re not long-term compatible. He’s probably read me perfectly: I’m pretty enough, I have a great body under bad clothes that he would enjoy, I'm improving my confidence but still a little starry-eyed and inexperienced. He’s charming, good-looking, emotionally unattached. He knows the script, every beat of it. He wants to get down my pants fast and move on to the next conquest.

Maybe that should bother me. Instead, I feel strangely calm. Like this is a lesson I am supposed to take, a chapter I’m supposed to live through. Maybe this is exactly what I need to grow up a little.

Then Mark leans back, gives me a slow, knowing smile, and says, “Want to get out of here? You said your place was nearby?”

Wow.

He wants, expects sex. Now. Tonight.

Of course he does. Deep down, I knew the question was coming, but hearing it out loud still jolts me.

“Mark,” I begin carefully, “I don’t know. I want to, but I don’t… go all the way on first dates. And I know you probably have expectations that might be more than I’m comfortable with.”

I grin as I say it, partly apologetic, partly proud of myself for setting a boundary, partly just thrilled that someone actually wants me, the girl who’s felt invisible since arriving in this city.

His eyes soften just a little, like he wasn’t expecting me to push back but he’s intrigued that I did. His next question really shocks me.

"Is a blow job out of the question?"

I almost cough up my sip of drink. He grins. It's humor, designed to soften my defenses. It's harmless banter, right? That being said, he still wants me to suck his dick. Somehow, it works on me.

I surprise myself with the answer, grin stupidly, and probably sound too enthusiastic. "That's bold. Umm, no, I suppose it's not out of the question."

"Then let's go." Mark pays for my drinks over my feeble objection. I appreciate it, but I also recognize it's money well spent, a deposit made to ensure I'm more likely to spread my legs later.

He drives me the quarter mile to my apartment. We make out for a while, which at least I've done before. I have to lean down to kiss him, so he quickly moves us to the couch to sit and make us more equals. He's an okay kisser. I don't feel a huge spark or anything, but it's fun, and I definitely need the practice. Sloppy, wet tongues come into play. He massages my large breasts through my shirt, and then a minute later he's taking off his shoes and pulling down his pants. He grins, and down come the boxers. He's hard and ready, and I'm a little more flattered than I should be at that.

It's bigger than I thought it would be. For a short guy, Mark is packing intimidating girth. I'm glad I already told him he can't stick it in my pussy tonight. He takes his shirt off, and now he's completely nude. "Want to do it here?" he asks with a nod towards his dick.

"Okay..." There's no way I'm going to tell this guy I'm 22 and never done this. I think I know enough to fake it. We'll see. He scootches down to put his butt on the edge of my couch, and I kneel in front of him. I reach out tentatively and clasp his cock, marveling at it, and I pump it a few times gently. Rock hard, but soft skin and head, hot in my grip, he moans and relaxes his head back against the sofa.

I've read a lot of tips on how to do this well. But nothing beats real world experience, and I have none of that. And fellatio is a skill I wouldn't mind bringing to my marriage bed versus acquiring after the wedding bells ring. I suspect even the most holy of grooms might appreciate the lesson I am about to learn.

He's very hairy down there, and as I get close, he smells manly and clean. I lick the crown, slowly, like I know what I am doing, then open wide and slide my full lips down. He moans. He fills my mouth and stretches my lips and jaw, so thick, but I am able to go to the base. He isn't long at all. A higher girth to length ratio, the nerd in my head notes. I bob my head, slowly, and his hands go to my head to rub my hair or whatever.

I draw a blank on what I read. The pressure to perform distracts me. I just slide my lips up and down the entire length with as much suction as I can. It seems to be working. He starts to moan, and his grip on my head strengthens. I'm nervous, but surprised to realize that I really love doing this for him! I can't imagine how amazing it would be to do this for someone I love. Mark will have to do for now. I'm in control, feeling powerful, and I love seeing him react to the pleasure I give him: that little change in his breathing when I hollow my cheeks and suck harder. Feeling his quads tense, his whole body respond as he gets close.

"Don't stop, baby, you're good at this," he moans. My own clit throbs in time with each pulse of his cock. His validation spurs me on. I love this!

He doesn't last long. A minute later, he announces he's going to come. I haven't considered what to do with his ejaculate, but it's too late. His cock pulses between my lips. A jet of pressure into the back of my mouth, and a thick liquid pours into me, quickly coating everything with a gross, spunky taste. He pulses again, I make the mistake of inhaling, and the overpowering stench hits me. My gag reflex kicks in. I try my best to stop from throwing up, then I involuntarily swallow, and half of the load slithers down my throat. I cough as some of the slimy goo also tries to go down my windpipe. His cock plops out, and one more glob of yellowish goo comes out as he finishes ejaculating.

Abandoning what's left of my dignity, I run to the bathroom as Mark laughs. My gag reflect hits again over the sink, but I manage to hold back the vomit. I spit out his load that I didn't swallow and quickly rinse my mouth. Then I rinse my mouth out again, then again. He's left a sticky film that coats everything and is hard to wash out. I use mouthwash to kill what's left of the taste and smell.

That was disappointing. I really enjoyed going down on him right up until the ending. But that's on me, and I know I enjoyed it enough that I plan on getting a lot more practice. I will find a way to enjoy taking the load!

I come back into my apartment's small living room, and Mark is chilling on the couch with a grin.

"Sorry," I say. "I don't usually swallow. I'm trying to get used to it still."

"You took it like a champ, I'm not going to complain. That was entertaining to watch anyway."

I sit next to him and lean in for a kiss. He pulls back, hesitating. I realize why, and it's a little disappointing. "I swallowed it all and used mouthwash," I say.

He mutters okay and kisses me. But after thirty seconds of making out, he's not into it with the same intensity as before I coaxed out his load and the huge hormonal dump. I pull back and look at his cock, small and flaccid. The thick head is oddly tiny now, a thin nub sticking out. But an inch of wadded up and still-thick shaft looms behind it, comically dwarfing the head as it sticks out of his hairy pubes. I back up and give him space. I don't want to lead him on. This is as far as I'm willing to go, as I already told him. I should probably stop kissing him so he doesn't get hard again, or better yet, ask him to leave.

But before I do, he holds up his empty drink. "Can I get another?"

I get him the drink. It's a stiff rum and Coke. By my count his fourth or fifth one since we met up at the bar. I don't know what to do. He's a player; he got the relief he needs in my mouth. I just had a great time sucking his dick, but this isn't going anywhere. Why is he still here? My mind tells me what I need to hear to justify letting him stay. Maybe he wants to get to know me, maybe he wants to ask me out again?

But that's not it. Really, he just wants to fuck me. And maybe I know that deep down and want him to try. The good girl has officially left the building.

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