“Blowjobs, Boyfriends and Getting Butt-hurt: An in depth look at the generational lie that is our sexual liberation”

Parental-advisory-explicit-lyrics

WARNING: WHAT YOU ARE ABOUT TO READ CONTAINS EXPLICIT MATERIAL AND IN-DETAIL RECANTS OF SEXUAL ACTIIVITY WITH DOUCHELORDS WHOSE NAMES WILL BE CHANGED IN ORDER TO PROTECT THEIR “I BRUISE LIKE A PEACH” EGOS. IF YOU HAVE ANY QUALMS WITH THE FOLLOWING WORDS: ejaculate, fuckery, man-flesh, oral, or various other swear words or slang terms for the human anatomy, I URGE YOU TO STOP READING AND CLOSE THIS BROWSER IMMEDIATELY. FOR MY  ASSAULT-LIKE USAGE OF WORDS COULD POTENTIALLY DRIVE YOU TO CALLING MY MOTHER AND/OR TRYING TO SAVE MY SOUL. NEITHER OF WHICH WILL MAKE YOU A BETTER LAY
(…Just so we’re clear)

Salutations my fellow weirdos.
It’s been quite some time since we’ve spoken, and for that, I blame everyone but myself, because white people.
But to keep on the theme of the depraved sexploits of today’s fearless twenty-somethings, it’s been brought to my attention that these sacred traditions of casual sex and drunken hook-ups may not actually be all we’ve advertised them to be, and I think it’s time we dig into that.

Gird your loins and let’s get started.

As most of you may or may not be aware of, I have now ‘officially’ been single for well over 8 months now. Yes, peppered with little stints of drunken claims to legally retarded cave people every few weeks or so, but never truly letting it get to the point of allowing them to call me their girlfriend to anyone but their pillows. And in that time I have had the privilege of experiencing several misadventures, though I’m sure beloved by some women (who I can only assume have dick-shaped holes in their hearts), have taken me by quite the perpetual surprise.
I am very publicly still trying to get used to this new age era of sexting, nudes and booty calls and perhaps I just haven’t quite mustered up the courage to take the initiative of actually going through with these acts of chivalry. But look guys, I am trying. It’s clearly just taking me a little time to catch up with you trailblazers.

We should begin with my most notorious sociopathically noncommittal claim to fame of “I don’t do boyfriends” that you may or may not have witnessed me slur-screaming at a guy at a bar.
And it simply means what it sounds. Though, I suppose when overanalyzed by some of you assholes, I guess one could gather a deeper more “my parents’ divorce totally didn’t affect me” kind of connotation.  But in all actuality (when I’m sober), I truly just have not had the desire for what relationships have begun to stand for these days.

I thought I could do this casual dating scene that seems to leave so many of you so empowered, and I really did give it the good ole college try for a few months, until I realized that there’s actually no such thing. The casualness you fuckers have so confidently been selling and arguably coaxed me into with these elaborate tales of how gratifying and easy the single life is these days, has proven to be my least favorite fallacy since the whole ‘you can’t get pregnant if you’re on top’ debacle.

With that said, what is with you men?
Does having an average sized fleshy sphere dangling between your legs automatically make you immune to listening?
When you bring home these bar strumpets whom you actually pride yourselves on kicking out within hours of the sexual shortcomings, yet when a girl that doesn’t dislocate her jaw for an Instagram shout out tells you that she doesn’t want a boyfriend and are interested in a potentially casual sexual dynamic, you all of a sudden grow a conscious?
I find it hard to keep up with watching my girlfriends have these relationships that are “nothing more than sex” and then once every 16th crescent moon, one of you man-children decide you want to play crazy husband and bombard her with texts and calls demanding she tell you who shes’s talking to, when it had already been discussed that you either were or were not exclusive.

And ladies, you’re just as much to blame in all of this. Stroking your ego with these conquests you profess to not have any emotional ties to, yet when asked after four Fireball shots who that girl in his Facebook picture is, you turn into one of the girls from Flavor of Love.

We’re contradicting ourselves here, guys.

And yeah, until recently, I have been really good about not getting emotionally invested in any of these big dumb animals, not just out of my inability to possess an emotion, but mostly because I don’t want a relationship dynamic that has the potential to turn into such a tumultuous cliché.
And perhaps it’s been much easier for me, due to the fact that I wasn’t actually pursuing sexual relationships with any of these monsters.
But once I did, I fell back into those old habits of spraying my perfume on his pillow, making him kiss me in front of that girl who bought him a shot, and the old favorite  ‘baaaasnbbbbyyyyy’ texts. And honestly, there’s no one to blame here but myself for my fatal attraction to emotionally handicapped shells of sex.
But hey, at least I own that. I see pride and ownership in the lessons I’ve learned, even if it is at the speed of smell. I still do my damnedest to take responsibility and in my opinion, am pretty consistent in my openness of my lack of experience in this newfound quest of clitoral liberation.
With that said, that does not excuse the inconsistency you clowns are blatantly showcasing for the all the world to see, most importantly, the women sober enough to pick up behavioral patterns and the fact that you only call her ‘sweetie’ when you’re wasted.

It’s been said that my uber-alpha dominent tendencies with men have always subsequently landed me in a position of control. “Cheated” control, because they’re stupid, but control no less.
And in my drunkest of stupors recently, I publicly confessed to wanting to change my ways and only pursue relationships, or as I like to call them, obligatory time-wasters, where there is a more equal-ish playing field of where I am actually forced to behave like a real human. You know, with like, emotions and shit.To ensure my success in no longer stomping around in my Thunder Cunt super-suit, some of my closest girlfriends have mandated a system of protocol for when I am engaging in conversations with men. In order for them to support me, I have to ask permission before I respond to a text, call, Facebook message or a voicemail, as to guarantee that I won’t fall back into my gilmanistic ways and inevitably turn these poor souls into eunichs

So far, it’s been a series of screenshots and frowny emojis in grouptexts, only majorly involving one of the two souls that I may or may not have had dangling in front of my plate for a while. The general consensus has been that I am only to correspond with said souls if I am A) sober and B) not being a cunt

Needless to say, it’s been a slow couple of weeks for conversation.

In making these changes in my courting behaviors, I have realized several things, most notably being
– men are far less scared of you when you don’t point out that statistically speaking, people that look more into your left eye rather than the right tend to be liars
– you’re prettier when you’re not being a pretentious asshole
-guys pursue taking your relationship to a sexual level far more aggressively when you’re not constantly reiterating your stance on “nonexclusive sex”

Essentially, the data I’ve gathered has led me to the conclusion that if I don’t take initiative in being “in charge”, if you will, of the relationship, he will try…. And fail.
But, like, definitely try.
And ultimately I’ve decided that if that’s happening even when I’m being on my best behavior (lying), odds are that I’m probably not spending time with the “right” kind of guys.
To which, I am totally fine with.
Dry humping and pretending to give a shit about his cowboy boot collection and above-average penis size was exhausting anyway.
This is just all the more reason to keep holding out ‘the goods’ until some poor guy comes around that appears to be more worthy of being attacked by a disheveled broad that smells like cigarettes and Xanax and is biting his earlobes like she just got out of prison.

So, I’m ready when you are, Mr. Right.

In lieu of my most recent life choices, most fondly, my $52 bar tab on a Thursday, (which, you may put your nose up at, but when you’re a girl and you can trick people into thinking you’re a pretty, nice, normal person, that number equates to around 400 girl dollars)
I quite hilariously ended my notorious 5 month celibacy streak for a guy whom later expressed to me that he thinks that women who read or have any ambition to pursue a further education are, and I quote, “too much work”.

I really appreciate, by the way, those of you that choose to leave out the fact that you think Mark Twain is a fictional literary character until AFTER we’ve let you enter us.

So, yeah, I could potentially be charged with sexual assault on someone a little too on the Radio-y side, but he’s pretty, so, I’m just going to try my best to strike it from the record and move on.

Back to the sex.

He had definitely put in the appropriate minimum amount of ass-kissing to get me to do something other than make him feel as though he no longer needed to hide his boner while we’re cuddling or act like he was satisfied to get to play with my nipples  for 15 minutes before we went to sleep.
Apparently me wanting to dry-hump to Comedy Central for the 11th consecutive night was just too much to ask of a living, breathing, 26 year old man. So, despite my heart telling me to keep the firm grips of power over my vagina and make him “work for it”, my 8th vodka-water was telling me to put my underwear in his pocket and grow the fuck up.

So, after over a week of some super sensual over-the-pants action and some pretty romantic boob-play, I felt like I had finally been drunk enough to allow him to mount me, while I say “hey!”, “slow down” and “WHOA” for 3 ½ minutes straight. His climax left him appearing to be feeling quite satisfied with those majestic moments of love-making. I can’t really complain about the length or performance of the drunken fuckery of it all, for as long as I had gone without any real penetration, I would have been cool with just pretending. But he was a good sport about my virgin-y anatomy and physical responses and did what they always seem to do with the whole, “this never happens” spiel.
I laughed and told him I was ‘good’ on giving it another try. After seeing the amount of hell-fucking-no in my eyes, he agreed, proceeded to kiss me on the forehead and then ask me to turn around so he can put his newest boner in my butt crack, while we spoon until we fall asleep.

o-WOMAN-UNHAPPY-BED-facebook

So, here I am, once again, feeling like the belle of the fucking ball, looking at this guy like, yeah, okay, this probably wasn’t my best move, but it’s not like it was a stranger or anything. Anything to make my morality feel less like a sad 14 year old girl.

But it could always be worse. He could have tried to like, make me blow him, I guess. Ew. Yeah, that would have definitely been worse than the fucking.

Speaking of blowjobs, yay!
Those of you drunk/dysfunctional/awesome enough to be a part of my immediate social circle know that I have a very unique view on this expectation.

Now, when I say unique, what I mean is, childish, unappealing and anti-boner-y, but again, I’ll let you be the judge.
When a guy asks me if I “like” to give head, I always respond with first, a look of repulsion, and then the speech I’ve been reciting to the theme of ‘Bootylicious’ since senior year of high school.

Let me put out into the universe now, that generally, if you’ve never HAD to give a blowjob with your previous partners, odds are you’re never going to WANT to give a blowjob with your future ones. So like, you can keep pushing my head down, but it’s not going to happen, dude.

And I know what you savages (including one of the big dumb animals I recently broke up with) are thinking:
‘bullshit. No girl is too hot to give head.
And you know what? You’re probably right.
But unfortunately for you, the guys before you led us to believe very differently.
So, how about you just be thankful that I let you see and sometimes touch my naked body and sit the fuck down.

Mmkay, pumpkin?

First of all, I would like to focus my attention on you traitors to the vulva that are so quick to drop to your knees for the first guy to offer you a gin and tonic. What are you doing? Stop it.
I get the whole, mutual attraction thing and I suppose I can understand the desire to want to make them feel as satisfied as they’ve made you feel. But the ‘ladies’ I’m referring to are not ones that got anything satisfying out of that. I’m talking to you bitches that just do it. Taking away the sensuality and beautiful intimacy that is supposed to lie in getting your face fucked by a man. Making it random and un-special-ing the shit out the act is really starting to piss me off.
It makes it super fun to be the girl he dates after you, let me tell ya!
So, I really appreciate it.
I’m looking at you too, you gaggle of strumpets out there on the dance floor of a country bar telling people that you’re one of a small percentage of women that can achieve climax from felatio…
REALLY? Like, fucking really?

Here I am, asking a red blooded American male to be patient and respectful of my 1940s viewpoint of mouth to genital hugging policies, and that when I feel comfortable enough to cross that intimacy bridge of letting him have sex with my throat, I will notify him and we can further explore it from there .
And then he hits me with that shit?

Look honey, I am genuinely sorry that the dude that roofied you on Halloween in ‘09 told you that “real women” can cum from giving oral, and that maybe if you got some more dick under your belt/roof of your mouth, you could achieve it as well.
But that does not excuse you going around town, blowing dudes like you’re getting paid in video game lives that somehow transfer into reality and campaigning a slogan that I’m not totally sure scientific facts support.

And I totally commend you on your enthusiasm for gagging on random sweaty man flesh. And I’m sure you’re really good at it and maybe I’m just insecure about my own beej-abilities or the fact I have the gag reflex of a baby that needs to burp.
But you’re really putting a lot of pressure on the rest of us.

So, I don’t ask that you make a serious lifestyle change, by any means, but perhaps maybe consider just a splash more discretion on what you put into your mouth.
Just some food for thought, man.

Which brings me back to me, and whether you want to admit it or not, some of you: I get that they like, love it or whatever and it’s something that is supposed to be fun and when it’s reciprocated properly butterflies can pop out of your asshole and semen is good for your skin and the rest of it, but what about for the 94% of guys that suck dick at giving oral?
What then?
I’m just supposed to repay your Stephen Hawking impression against my clit with an act that’s going to leave my throat sore and my morals covered in daddy tears? That hardly seems fair.
In my opinion, based on my anatomical and ethical restrictions, I find that “reciprocating” the “favor” is only something I will seriously consider after one of two things have occurred.
1) if I ever do something so disgusting and mean that I actually feel the need to apologize, but I won’t, because it’s me. So, putting your cock in my mouth seems like less of a sacrifice than my pride. So, congratulations! It’s Beej City: population: you.
Or 2) if I have consumed at least half of my weight in tequila and you keep telling me how pretty I am, yet making a point not to give me too much attention or affection to where I begin to question how you feel about me.

And I know what you’re thinking:
Jeez, Katie, how do you even just get through your day without having to physically fight off all the men trying to be your boyfriend?

And yeah, it’s really hard.
Yet, here I am, every day, just fighting the good fight.
Trying to get awareness out about the hardships of the Great White Cock Tease.

I would never ask any of you to completely change your line of thinking or even to conform to my line of thinking, I just ask you to consider the following:

In my personal opinion, giving a blowjob  is significantly more intimate than sexual intercourse. When you have sex, you’re usually drunk (right?)(..no?) (totally… me either), so you’re usually more ambitious and less concerned about how perfectly aligned your landing strip is, and you’re not sitting there with binoculars, watching the penetration take place like it’s the Kentucky fucking Derby and his climax is California Chrome.
(Except dudes. They do that. Why? Why, dudes? It’s weird and it makes my vagina want to turn into a bear trap. Please be more courteous when aggressively staring into the top of our labias, while you chew on your lip and say ‘fuck’, ‘yeah’, and ‘shit’ under your breath)

My point being, with sex you’re basically just thrusting on top of me for the length of what? A Kings of Leon song?
Forcefully gyrating a Saran-wrapped appendage into a place that I can barely see and that I’m more concerned with the aesthetic damage you’re potentioally doing rather than the actual pleasure I’m receiving from these blissful 5 minutes.

Okay, sure, kissing and saying weird shit that we each think the other one wants to hear can be fairly intimate, I guess, but is so medial when it comes to the grand scale of being asked to put a real live human penis, which has been in various orifices of what I can only assume was tens of virgins, into the same opening of my face that I use to tell my parents I love them and express my opinions on social injustices.

Just to really hone in on the central thesis of this primitive act of love:
You want me to emphatically gag on your ejaculate just because you went down on me for 4 minutes?
I’m sorry, until I have something going on down there that has the natural capability to make you involuntarily tear up or start to vomit, stop calling it equal.
Cuz it’s fucking not.

And while we’re on the subject, I need to know that you do understand that your drunken humming into my labia and the Beastie Boys turntable impersonation your fingers are doing on my clitoris is in no way equivalent to being facially assaulted by your erect penis, right?
Are we all on the same page as far as that goes?

For the record, if a girl is drunk enough to do you the favor of setting aside her dignity to give you a few minutes of euphoria, you be grateful. And under no circumstances whatsoever, do you ever thrust.

For christ’s sake, we’re trying to share this beautiful moment of degredation with you, we didn’t agree to a friendly game of skull-fucking.
So, pipe down, take a few mental snaps for your Highlight Reel and let’s just call it a day.

Typically, after we (narcissists) take such a step in a relationship of letting you enter one of our major areas of pride, it’s kind of an unspoken rule, for me at least, that that now establishes us as something other than “hanging out”.
And hell, I may be wrong, but generally, when I tell a guy upfront that I have no interest in pursuing a sexual relationship with him and then he continues to show interest and dedication into earning my trust, I assume it’s going somewhere. And it’s not like I’m picking out china patters by any means, but I assume you’re not going to tell me to leave 40 minutes afterwards.
Perhaps I’m naïve or just a silly little woman, but whatever it is that you guys do to convince us you’re “not like any other guy”, gets me to believe that you’re actually not. So, to follow the theme of douchebaggery you’ve all been sporting like last season’s Ray Bans, when that does inevitably happen, therein lies the feeling of being butt-hurt.

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As much as we would all like to believe we don’t care about anyone, let alone the people that we’re spending the duration of The Fault in Our Stars to. But we do. Which offensively contradicts our liberated attitude of ‘We don’t want a boyfriend, we don’t want a girlfriend, but that won’t stop me from blowing up your inbox with question marks and emojis implying a handjob’.
It’s bullshit, people.
We’re better than this.
What was the point of professing our maturity and independence earlier? It’s beyond exasperating to say all this shit only to end up feeling like a crazy girlfriend.

If casual hook-ups do exist, can they just exist? Or will it always land you in an uncomfortable dynamic of one person caring more than the other?
Is a casual fling or, I hate that I’m about to use this title, ‘fuck buddies’ even be a thing anymore?

We all know I’m too crazy and emotional to dive into an activity like that, but what about everyone else? Those of you with emotional maturity and an actual sex drive? It doesn’t make you a monster to want to fuck someone without dating them. I feel that way all the time. I just don’t have the balls to actually do it.
But you do. So, by all means, let me know. E-mail, text, call me. Is this dynamic extinct as a result of our growing neediness and instant gratification?

I’m all ears, people.

If I still have your attention, first let me say, “bravo!”

I so appreciate your support and involvement in these articles and all the projects I’m working on. I hope I didn’t offend any of you too terribly badly and if I did, that sucks for you. I know it’s a challenge to be supportive of someone with the attention span of a Cocker Spaniel in heat, but I acknowledge, appreciate and hope you continue to be as amazing and loyal as you have.

Stay strong.
Stay black.
Stay on top.

2 thoughts on ““Blowjobs, Boyfriends and Getting Butt-hurt: An in depth look at the generational lie that is our sexual liberation”

  1. Katie, I love the passion and rawness in your writing. I actually explored the concept of casual sex last year. I was and still am in a place where I don’t want to be in a relationship but would still like to get fucked once in awhile. Check out my article on Blogher about casual vs intimate sex: http://www.blogher.com/casual-sex-vs-intimate-sex. P.S. When you find a guy who is actually good at going down on you, trust me, you won’t mind giving a little back;)

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