My friend and her husband are ending their marriage over the most banal of issues – sex.
“But Samara, your marriage didn’t work out. Should you be passing judgment?”
Shut your pie hole! My marriage didn’t end because I wouldn’t blow my husband!
They’re ending their marriage because they are “sexually incompatible.” He wants her to do certain things that she hasn’t done since they were dating. He’s angry that she’s being “withholding.” She’s angry that he’s a “sex addict.”
Essentially, they are ending their marriage over blow jobs.
I do not profess to be a sexpert. However, If I were to write a manual on how to have a successful marriage, I would name it,
“Put Your Mouth On His Penis.
After all, the way to a man’s heart is through oral sex.
Perhaps the ladies are not digging this. The guys probably are. Of course they want to read about how I’m ‘pro blow.’ But hear me out. This is not for them. It’s about keeping marriages alive.
For some reason, in the marital bed, blow jobs seems to go bye-bye. Not initially, but eventually. Life is stressful. The tub needs to be recaulked. The dog has gingivitis. You have to bail your kid out of jail.
Women work 24/7. Outside the home, inside the home – it never stops. The last thing some women feel like doing, during sex, is more work. And there’s a reason it’s called a “job.”
With intercourse, you can lay there and get intercoursed in a rather non participational way. And he’ll still be happy. What does he care? He just needed the valves cleaned out, even if you were reviewing the Christmas shopping list in your head. But a good blow job requires much more participation.
When you were first together, you used to bob some knob. Sex with him was new, and you were turned on enough to do just about anything. Now? Sex with him is predictable. That’s not necessarily a bad thing. The one thing I liked about The Ex was that he always knew how to get me there, almost as good as I could myself (I said almost).
But old sex lacks the fire of new sex. There is a quality called New Relationship Energy (NRE) that makes women do things they stop doing, eventually. You CAN’T. You just can’t stop smoking the pole because you’ve been married forever.
Here’s an analogy. Let’s say, you adore shoe shopping. Putting on new pair of shoes makes you feel limitless. Sexy. Powerful. Now imagine, every time you want to shoe shop, your husband says, “No.”
But, you tell him, “I need that. It makes me feel good. Plus, I earn my own money so this is a moot point.”
And he says, “No.”
“I don’t feel like it.”
“It’s not my thing.”
“I don’t enjoy picking pubic hairs out of my teeth.” (just go with it.)
Just accept the fact that even if you’ve been married forever, you have to slurp the gherkin once in a while. His birthday. New Year’s Eve. Columbus Day. Passover. Penguin Awareness Day.
Ladies, just suck it up. Pun intended.
Pretty much anything you do down there will work. But The Ex claimed I knew how to operate a joy stick – so, I will share.
This is not about oral as foreplay, but blow job as main event. An entire five paragraph persuasive essay – with an introduction, body paragraph, and a conclusion. The kind where you swallow.
MEN- CLEAN UP DOWN THERE! We don’t need a big whiff of nasty undercarriage! If you want us to put our mouths on your penis, be hospitable!
Consider yourselves warned. Let us proceed:
- A little eye contact goes a long way. Pull your hair back so he can watch. Put on a show. (Don’t roll your eyes and look aggravated. This is a mood breaker.)
- Get your hands in on the action. The average mouth is 2-3 inches. The average penis is 5-6. Do the math, and call in for back up. And for Christ sake, wet your hands a little. Don’t dry rub the guy. You’re not at a Boy Scout Jamboree, trying to start a fire rubbing 2 sticks together.
- It also helps to eliminate your gagging reflex completely. Of course, this is physically impossible. But a girl can try. Practice deep throating a cucumber.
- NO TEETH. I know that some women do the whole “let me just graze it with my teeth” thing. HELL NO. Keep the chompers OFF. The perfect blow job would, in fact, be given by a gorgeous woman with removable dentures.
- Have some idea of what kind of intensity your guy likes. Not everyone wants to be sucked like a Dyson upright (but a surprisingly large percentage do).
- Don’t forget the twins. Cup them. Fondle them. Gently. Don’t throw them around like you’re rolling dice in a Vegas crap game.
- Hum. Why do you think they call it a hummer? Hum a little tune while he’s in your mouth. Nothing complicated. I like “Ave Maria.” Go for seasonal. Maybe some Christmas carols.
- Swirl your tongue around on the coronal ridge– the part where the shaft meets the head. It’s extremely sensitive. Covered in nerve endings. So, go lightly. Otherwise, it’s like clamping two jumper cables to his tender sack.
- If you’re feeling really adventurous, go for the perineum. The taint. The little area just past the family jewels. This is dangerously close to Butt Stuff, so take it slow with your man.
I strongly advocate the Power of the Blow Job. When I was married, I could pretty much get The Ex to agree to do anything after I’d blown him.
Me: “Honey, would you mind replacing the roof and repainting every room in the house?”
Him: (post blow job) “Sure, babe.”
And the whole gift thing? Pfft. Forget that. Every other wife is running around, pushing through crowded department stores trying to find him the perfect birthday gift for the umpteenth time. I NEVER had to do that.
I just had to brush my teeth.
The Ex always tells our son he fell madly in love with me because of my cooking. I love to cook. I own tons of cookbooks. I’m very domestic. I know – totally incongruous with many aspects of my personality, but true, nevertheless. I actually own an amazing collection of Julia Child videos from her 1960’s television show “The French Chef,” which I got on Amazon.
The first time I cooked dinner for the EX, I agonized over the menu. It had to be perfect. For dessert, I made Julia Child’s internationally famous chocolate souffles. These exuberantly rich gravity-defying bites of chocolaty heaven are an ambitious endeavor. And painstakingly intense to time. I went crazy making sure the souffles would come out of the oven at the precise right moment.
And where do you think they ended up? In the bedroom, all over us. Him, specifically. I basically licked the damn souffle off Mr. Winky. All that work was WASTED. I could just have easily bought a few Dunkin Donuts and played “Ring Toss the Boom Stick.”
Incidentally, I don’t really think he married me for my cooking. I think that’s something he tells Little Dude. Cause it’s not nice to tell a 12 year-old, “Son, Mama sure can suck the chrome off a tail pipe!”
But – maybe it was my cooking. Either way, whether it was my cooking, or my blow jobs, as Julia would say:
About the author: Samara blogs at A Buick in the Land of Lexus. She has been published on Scary Mommy, Cosmopolitan, Marie Claire, Redbook, Good Housekeeping, and Woman’s Day, among others. A native New Yorker, Samara currently resides in New Jersey with her son Little Dude, the coolest 12-year-old kid on the planet.