Cunnilingus. I’ll be honest, it’s not my thing. Perhaps it’s a difficult topic for me because I can’t find a euphemism that feels enticing. “Teasing the beaver” sounds vaguely illegal, and likely to attract PETA enthusiasts. “Yodeling in the canyon” makes me feel slightly insecure about my anatomy. Then there’s the favorite of all Star Wars geeks, “French kissing the Wookie”—need I say more? As if calling my little Panty Hamster a Wookie wasn’t bad enough, the idea that some freak in his mother’s basement is not only aware of oral sex, but also names it, bothers me, to say the least.
But is this really about the words? Sure, most names for a woman’s anatomy involve some horrible reference to various unattractive mammals, but I think what bothers me most is the point of view. I mean really, how many of you women refer to Gina as the Afro Clam? And really, do you request oral sex by asking someone to partake of the Afro Clam Banquet? I’m guessing … no. So why are the names amusing but vaguely disgusting, while the sexual act that is singularly for us gets named from the point of view of the person who happens to be doing the servicing? It begs the question: to whom does the act belong?
I decided to take it to the streets and conduct a little research. With a bee in my bonnet and a fire in my loins, I gathered the most interesting women I know. As I sat around a table, surrounded by drinks and intelligent women, I felt confident that we might hash out some answers. Perhaps we could find some common ground that we could all have a laugh over, then pat ourselves on the back for being so enlightened and fulfilled. Instead, I came face to face with a rather uncomfortable reality. Oral sex had become the new frontier of performance anxiety, but not for him … for us. All women expressed some level of concern over her man’s feelings and her own performance, whether it be dread over an unshaved Gina, (God forbid the whisker biscuit might actually have a few stray, well … whiskers) fear to start anything that couldn’t be finished properly, (keep in mind this refers to her achievement of orgasm, not his ability to elicit one), or a willingness to engage only because it’s part of his expectation. As I sat there, my discomfort with oral sex became utterly clear. Not a single woman at that table really loved the act, orgasm was rare, and the need to be a growling badger of passion took precedence over pleasure taken.
Kellie*, a filmmaker in her early thirties, openly admits what I suspect all of us have felt at one time or another: that appearing to be passionately engaged and wildly pleasured was more important than actually feeling it. She described the frustration of feeling pressured to come. “I feel like I have to give a warning after a few minutes, letting him know that it’s not going to happen. That’s really annoying, like why do I have to give a warning?” She was giving voice to the growing unease in my mind. It would seem that our female attempts to explain the importance of orgasm to the male population had turned the whole thing into a sport. It had become the Super Bowl of sex, equipped with two minute warnings and penalties.
Margo*, a social worker who just turned thirty, had a little laugh while describing the pitfalls of modern sexuality. Oral sex is her only path to orgasm, but it hasn’t been a well-paved one until recently. Although orgasm isn’t on the table unless he’s under it, (if you know what I mean), she doesn’t initiate or make demands if a man fails to satisfy. And yet, like the rest of her female counterparts, she expressed concern over performance when in a reciprocal position. “You don’t want to be the girl who gives a bad blow job, you know what I mean? Like he’s thinking, ‘I could have fucked the homeless lady, but …’ you know?”
