The Blow Job Story….

No, this is not the story of my first blow job…or anyone elses.

It is the story of a truly clueless young man,(me), about the ways of sex.

I did not hang with any of the fast crowd, and the few guys I hung with, Kenny and Dobby, had no idea that our tiny appendages were good for anything but bladder relief.

And when I say fast crowd, you have no idea.  In sixth grade, Butchie and Denny used to hang out with Kathy B., who, incredibly, was gigantically bellied with a baby wannabe. Bet you didn’t see that in sixth grade.   They were the Ritz Carlton of sexual knowledge to our Holiday Inn Express.

I was way into my twelfth year before I learned about the fundamentals of sex.  Barry, the gigantic eighth grade pervert, who lived up route 17K aways, told me all about how men placed their stiff member inside a woman.

No fucking way.  As with all others, could not imagine Mom and Dad doing that.  Sadly, never got past that thought, and still believed the five of us were immaculately conceived.

Came home from Barry’s house, stared at Mom, went to my room, and thought about my new ‘special’ knowledge all day.

But where was I to get more knowledge?  This was 1962, pre Internet, even pre polyester leisure suits.

Secretly combed the house for ANYTHING that shed light on this sex thing.  Finally found a ‘girls first introduction to having her period’ foldout in my sister’s dresser drawer.

Amazing, it almost showed stuff…and also introduced the menstruation thing, which completely set me back.

Had to be very careful with this pamphlet.  After reading it for the day, I had to make sure it was put back EXACTLY in the same place.  Sis and I hated each other on our best days…her discovery of my going through her dresser would have taken us to a nuclear stage.

When eighth grade approached, I was eager to share my knowledge with all of the guys.  I wanted them to think that I was almost scoring with women (which would not happen for several millenia).

I sat behind Carmine C. in History class.  Carmine was from Maybrook, which means he knew about sex since birth.

I tap Carmine on the shoulder and say, “Hey Carmine, I heard Billy Hunter gave Sarah Jones a blow job.”

Carmine stares at me…forever.

“You asshole, a guy can’t give a girl a blow job.  Who taught you about sex?”

Using the Donald Trump redirect maneuver, I moved Carmine’s attention in a different direction, pointing out the new shiny pencil sharpener in the corner.

This blow job thing, so much to learn, but where?  Better give Barry the Perv a visit.

Barry had the uncanny ability to take something dirty and piggy, like blow jobs, and make them much more so.  Why in the world with anyone with a mouth ever do that?

——————————-

At about the same time, I found a girlie magazine in the woods across the street from our summer home in Cape Cod.  The pictures were black and white, and the ‘girls’ were saggy, fake blonde, and old as hell.  Compare that to today, where the girls look like the high school babe you dreamed of dating.

The pictures in the magazine also did not show everything…at least below the waist.  But I was beside myself with curiosity…and shared my good fortune with all of my Cape Cod buds.

I never removed the magazine from its woods foxhole.  If I brought it home, Mom would have found it.  And if she did not find it, I would have been a nervous wreck anticipating her finding it.

It’s fifty four years later, and I know less now than I did then.

I mean….

what’s a cream pie?

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