Where Do I Come In?

I’m a three position max kind of guy. After that, I’m lying on my back and I’m cranking it out ‘til something happens or I fall asleep.

My idea of adventurous sex involves moving. And if I do anything besides flat-back (stand, squat, bend, sit, prop myself up on one elbow, elevate my body into a push-up position, etc.), it’s only to prove I’m still athletic enough to do it. Meaning that it’s not for your pleasure, it’s for my reassurance. But just to reiterate: I cap off at three.

I never know what to do with my hands when receiving a blowjob. When I was 14, this guy on the wrestling team named Greg Duplechain told me that you should always rub the person’s shoulders when she is going down on you. At an all-boys high school, this kind of open dialogue about blowjob etiquette is mostly going on between everyone all day long. Walk by any table in the cafeteria and you’re bound to overhear the term “donkey punch” more than once. Rub the shoulders, I thought. How considerate.

Teenage boys will blindly follow one another’s advice because each one assumes the other guy has slightly more experience than he does. Greg Duplechain spent his summers in Arkansas at Camp Ozark — where I assumed he fingered girls from sunrise to sunset and participated in bunk-wide circle jerks after lights out. He knows his stuff, I thought. I would later find out that shoulder-rubbing is fine for a little while, but then my weak hands make it strenuous and awkward. Now, my go-to move is both hands behind my head. Guys in porn do this, and it looks so cool. And looking cool is something I’ve been trying to do since I was born. So there I am, receiving oral sex from someone I probably conned into it with my hands behind my head like I’m a fireman posing for a calendar you might find at the mall newsstand in the 1990s.

But then what do I do with my eyes? I can look you in the eyes, I guess. But then it turns into a staring contest, and I get anxious and break eye contact immediately. I can’t beat you in a staring contest while you’re sucking my dick. How much ego does one man need? I already won when I convinced you to give me head. I don’t need to assert my dominance by staring you in your distant, hopeful eyes. So I guess I’ll just keep mine closed. But does that make me appear smug or disinterested? Maybe I’ll just look out the window. But then what if a neighborhood kid walks by and peeks inside to see if anyone’s home? I’m never expecting children at my house, but it could still happen. Girl Scouts or wayward teens on their way to the bus station could drop by at any minute! It’s around this time I decide we should probably do something else.

When it comes to roles, I don’t particularly have a preference. It’s complicated and squishy either way, and my choice to top or bottom ultimately comes down to what the other guy looks like. My work as a Creative Director comes in handy here. I can see the picture in my head beforehand and make a professional recommendation for the final composition. But sometimes I just get hammered and throw caution to the wind because I don’t care what goes inside where after I’ve shotgunned a case of High Life and neither should you.

What else? Um. Oh! I like handjobs. Handjobs are the only kind of sex where you can also sit in a booth and enjoy a chicken parmesan at the same time. Straight guys get so psyched for Steak & BJ Day, but count me in for a chickparm and a mildly enthusiastic HJ. I don’t even care if there’s pasta.

Alright. I’m not really sure where I’m going with this anymore. I think it started out as a short essay about my compulsion to feel comfortable during sex, and then I got sidetracked and started discussing my quirky, relatable sex habits.

I’m glad I put it out there, but what are you supposed to do with that information?

Shit, and I totally intended to mention weird places in which I’ve ejaculated, but I never really got around to that. The title makes more sense now, doesn’t it? Kind of funny, right? Well, I guess now’s a good time to talk about cum since I’ve gone full-on Frank Underwood. Okay, here we go:

I basically won’t cum above your shoulders unless I love you. Or unless I hate you.




Well.





I guess that’s all I have to say about that. A little anti-climactic, I guess.





Cum joke.





I’m going to sleep now.

I don't even know how this fucking happened.