I think I’m pretty clear about what I expect from casual relationships, and when I first met Hal, I reiterated what I wanted: a man to show up and eat me out as long as I wanted, then leave. He wasn’t quite a sub, but he had a specific purpose in my life, and I did not want him to step outside of those boundaries. I don’t let men spend the night. I wasn’t interested in dating him. What I wanted was to bust in his mouth as many times as I could over a few hours. He seemed fine with that. I should have known better.
When we met in person, I didn’t do my usual screening. Normally, I ask for a chemistry meeting, where we have a drink and chat to make sure we vibe. The chemistry check has been a lifesaver, maybe even literally. One guy had such an abnormally high voice I could barely tolerate my whiskey, neat. Another guy constantly explained things to me, even reading cocktails off the menu, like I didn’t have the same menu or couldn’t read. It made me think he couldn’t follow directions.
I’d been in New York a few months, and I guess I decided to throw caution to the wind because I invited Hal over to my apartment sight unseen. He’d shared a couple of pictures, but I had no idea if he actually looked like the photos he sent. They were typical man selfies: him in the driver’s seat of a car with a baseball cap, some with the camera angled up so I saw his thoughts through his nostrils, but whatever. He wasn’t hideous. When he arrived, the first thing I noticed was that he was a big guy—tall, at least six two, and wide, solid like a football player, with quiet, vivid blue eyes. He lived in New Jersey and drove a fierce all-black SUV. He worked in construction and went fishing almost every weekend the weather allowed. Too late, I realized that if we had met first before he came over, I probably would not have let the dalliance move forward. He was a blue-collar man Looking for a Good Woman.
I opened the door, and I could see his face relax into the pleasant shock men get when they realize I don’t look like an old chewed-up shoe. I’m no Lupita Nyong’o, but I’m also not the worst thing to see on the other side of a door. He came in, and we sat on the couch. Even though I had no desire to learn much about him beyond the basics, I’m still southern, so I offered him a drink. We smoked (I was already pretty toasted in an attempt to be relaxed), and then he got on his knees. He took off his baseball cap and revealed a wispy comb-over. In his pictures, he had enough hair sticking out the back of the cap to make me think I’d have something to pull. In fact, it made me avoid grabbing his head in any way, because he was sweaty. I don’t mind a sweaty man. I actually love the way a man picks up a sweat while we’re f***ing. It shows how hard he’s working to please me, but something about grabbing a wet head is a serious turnoff.
So! Hal got on his knees, and yo. He was amazing. Perfect pressure, speed variation, use of full tongue, greedy moans, slurping, spreading, everything. He knew when to move away from the clit and dip his tongue inside. Recognizing the clit as important is great, but the honey hole needs love too! He gave the right amount of attention to the lips and surrounding area. He was too enthusiastic when eating ass but I got him together quickly. For a while, that’s how our relationship went. He’d come over and roll up. I’d smoke while he ate me out, and it felt absolutely decadent. And he would go to town on me for hours. Literal hours.
Not every woman is into head like I am. I know this. One of my friends asked if I ever get bored with getting head for so long. (If it’s good? Never!) And one guy asked me how I could only want head, without wanting p-in-the-v sex. I often do want more, but it’s been my experience that once men put their dicks inside me, they become more difficult to get rid of. Maybe that’s a humblebrag.
So, no. I have no problem with a man eating me out for hours at a time. I enjoy looking down and watching their eyes search mine for approval and instruction. I love the flash of disappointment when I say thanks and usher them out. I should’ve stuck to my rules with Hal, but I didn’t and it brought me nothing but a headache.
When I think about the way he ruined everything with his emotions, I get angry—not only because of what he did, but because of the loss of some of the greatest head I’ve ever received in my life. He would arrange me so that I was flat on my back with my ass on the edge of the bed; then he’d pull up a chair like I was an actual meal on a dining table. He’d get me to come, then keep licking me softly until I’d calmed down so he could start back up again. He once timed himself so he could see how long I could hang before tapping out. If I remember correctly, it was three hours and forty-six minutes. Almost four hours is a long-ass time for any kind of continuous sex, I know, but dammit, that boy was good. And then he ruined it.
Excerpted from the book Sometimes I Trip On How Happy We Could Be by Nichole Perkins. Copyright © 2021 by Nichole Perkins. Reprinted with permission of Grand Central Publishing. All rights reserved.
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