Who wants pretty blowjobs anyway?

pret·ty [prit-ee].
–adjective
1. pleasing or attractive to the eye, as by delicacy or gracefulness: a pretty face.
2. (of things, places, etc.) pleasing to the eye, esp. without grandeur.
3. pleasing to the ear: a pretty tune.
4. pleasing to the mind or aesthetic taste: He writes pretty little stories.

Someone got here searching for “pretty blow jobs” and while usually I just ignore those searches, I had to ask myself: What does that mean? Pretty girls giving blowjobs? Perfect looking blowjobs? No spitting? No effort? Is there such a thing?

Aren’t blowjobs, and, well, sex generally, supposed to be, on some level, not pretty? Not perfect? Not “pleasing or attractive to the eye?” I don’t mean not enjoyable, I mean, not delicate. And yes, on some level, raw, ugly, stripped down. The faces most people make when they come, or during sexual activity, I’d venture, are not always or even often “pretty.” We can make much prettier faces when we’re relaxed, at ease.

They don’t call it JBF for no reason. I haven’t done the walk of shame, or the subway of shame, in a while, and that’s okay, I’ll live, but there was always something about the JBF hair, the jostled clothes, the bright sun, the awkwardness. It was titillating in its own way. It was “I’ve got a secret.” It was scrambling for a store that was open before work to buy something new, and I remember those specific mornings all too well (ah, Black Table, we miss you). I didn’t always love it, but that’s afterward; in the moment, I certainly did. I craved it and still do sometimes. Not just the newness, but the devil-may-care part. The part where tomorrow doesn’t just not matter, it doesn’t exist. Of course there’s a part of me that misses it, misses the thrill of not knowing what will come next, of not knowing how late I’ll be up or when I’ll get home, and not caring. Of feeling like the night is endless, and not so I can type into the wee hours. Maybe I just miss being not in my thirties. Maybe I miss thinking I had forever to figure things out.

It feels like another lifetime when I made my crazy 2007 New Year’s resolutions to be all abstinent, though after my book deal dinner martinis, I’ve stayed away from alcohol. But sex is another story. Even if I stay away from doing it, it’s there. In the work, sure, but that I can separate from my real life for the most part. They’re connected but I don’t lose sleep over it. But me sex, sex I could be having, sex I want to be having, and what those both are, sometimes I do lose sleep over. It’s there even when I want to pretend it’s not⎯and yes, I often want to pretend it’s not. I want to pretend that I can blithely skip along and not care, not feel. I mostly go along with the orgasm diet but I don’t even know if I want to be that always-on girl. Sometimes I like not having to think about it, not missing anything. Pretty can also mean bland, the smile you give someone to make them go away, perfectly even, the corners of your mouth raised just enough, but never too much. Pretty, hollow.

I guess what I was getting at with the cynicism about the lighthearted stories I often write is that part of why I do what I do is because sex isn’t always pretty. And by that I don’t just mean “good” or “enjoyable”⎯I mean that even when it is good and enjoyable, or maybe especially when it is, it’s not pretty. It’s not safe or easy or simple. It can’t be too preplanned; well, it can, but there is still always the surprise element.

In my ideal world, it’s not that I want the surprise element all the time, but I’m imagining if sex, or life, were always “pretty.” Were always flawless and easy and camera-ready. Were always easy to find and there were never any issues or attempts or compromises. Were never any sweat or hair-pulling or screaming or shock. I don’t think I would want to live in that world. I’m not saying I don’t sometimes want that, or want to look at it.

I wrote a few pieces this week that I am entrusting to the USPS and then, well, saying goodbye. Or good luck. Whatever. Maybe the time has come to move on and write about something new, but anyway, part of what I was writing about was, in fact, that rush of energy. I got it at my party for sure and it’s funny because that wasn’t really “sexual” for me, but it was sexy. I say it wasn’t “sexual” because I didn’t leave there wanting to fuck. There wasn’t anyone I wanted to drag into the bathroom. It was hot, for sure, but that’s all I needed. But I got high off the spanking, the showing off, the nipple clamps. I got things I haven’t had in a long time and I realized how much I’d missed them.

There was this moment when E. and I were spanking a boy with a great ass for spanking (yes, there were several that night, but super skinny ones are not really my thing, though they were fun too, mostly when I was just observing them discover the thrill of getting spanked for the first time). Anyway, there was this moment that I thought was so hot, and so beautiful. “Oh, fuck!” he screamed, really loud. His face was red and his ass was red and the whole room was electrified. We were really pounding him and I’d never done that before, that tag-team thing. It was like all the excitement of spanking someone, intensified. “You can say yellow, you know,” she said, reminding him about safewords.

“I don’t want to say yellow. I want to say, ‘Oh, fuck!’” O.M.G. If any moment in that night would’ve gotten me off, that would’ve been it. It was so perfect, so real, so not “pretty.” It was “I want more, but I don’t know how much more.” It was “Do it until I can’t take any more . . . and don’t stop before that.” It was “I don’t really know why I like this so much, but I trust you, I’m yours.” It was really sweet in its way, even though things got more heated than I’d expected.

That’s the thing, to me, about spanking, sex, whatever. You can’t tell them where to go. You can’t always control not just what someone else will do or want, but what you’ll do or want.

And I’m such a control freak that even as I admire that, miss that, want that, part of me likes being able to just say no. To be quiet and not crazy, to have everything, if not pretty, not messy. I have enough mess in my life, in my head. Or maybe I just don’t want to admit that I miss all that because then I have to rely on someone not myself and I don’t know how capable I am of that. Jewel (yes, Jewel, okay?) had this quote that I remember after all this time. “Cynicism isn’t smarter, it’s just safer.” She’s right, of course, but sometimes safer, prettier, as much as I can say I don’t want them, are appealing. Easier. “High risk, high reward” K. used to say, and she was right too. But…I don’t know if, ultimately, I am a risk taker. Maybe I’m a low risk, low reward kind of girl. I don’t think so, but I’m not sure.

My novel, Everything But..., which I promise to tell you more about once it’s actually closer to publication (June 2008, I think) is about a woman who has to choose between pretty and passion. Between prim and proper and potential. Before logic and lust. She gives up a lot to make the choices she does, but she gains even more. I’m thinking though that in an alternative world, it’d be just as easy for her to play it safe. To resist those urges. To hide in the comfort of what she’s known. She could, quite easily. Of course, then I’d have no plot and no book. But the point is, all of us, including me, could play it safe. We could ignore all the “messiness” and un-prettiness, of sex and all its attendant parts, and that wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing. There is a time for pretty, for sure. Despite what I say here, I hope whoever was googling that term found what they wanted. Sometimes I want that too, but only sometimes. I’ll take the un-prettiness the rest of the time, though, because those rewards, to me, anyway, are priceless.

And to end on a fun note, check out this hilarious yet sadly all too true anti-Bush video "Clinton Got a Blowjob" by Eric Schwartz - it's got all these awesome cameos by random people chiming in with the song's title:



I have to update this because I just saw that Scwhartz wrote a song called "Keep Your Jesus Off My Penis." !! And another called "Monica's Mouth."

And some lyrics from "Clinton Got a Blowjob:" (but DO click above cause the lyrics alone fail to do it justice - and you can email him a clip of you singing "Clinton Got a Blowjob" and have it added to the video):

George Bush vacationed while New Orleans drowned
Clinton got a blowjob.
Sat in a classroom with the towers falling down
Clinton got a blowjob

He fucked up F.E.M.A
Which fucked up Katrina
Not to mention the Conventions of Geneva
With twenty-four civilians murdered in Haditha
Clinton got a blowjob

And he has a CD called Redder Than Ever (and another called Songs My Mother Hates) - you can also listen to individual songs (yes, I'm now a fan):

Buy cd

Redder Than Ever