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?”
I thought I knew, but I wasn’t sure. Somehow, Margo equated sex with street folk as preferable to a subpar blowjob. She wasn’t alone. Every (straight) woman I’ve known lives in dread of becoming “the biter,” that female of urban legend proportions who can’t seem to keep her teeth out of the equation. And yet, when the talk turned to our pleasure, not a single woman at that table felt inclined to judge a man’s performance. I don’t think it was out of some misguided, Tammy Wynette Stand By Your Man nonsense, but out of discomfort with a perceived shortcoming. Somehow, we’ve equated our orgasm as a measure of sexual attractiveness to others.
As I sat there, looking at this highly educated group of beautiful women, I realized that we all suffered from a mild case of Objectile Dysfunction—the need to come, but not because it felt good, but because it makes us a better sexual object for someone else. There’s no judgment here. I openly enjoy being object while objectifying. It’s true, I occasionally dabble in a little shallow, symmetrical sex. Asses to asses; lust to lust. But this was a new and perplexing wrinkle in the female quest for sexual satisfaction. In our attempt to please our partners, I feared that we were handing over the trophy of orgasm.
Naomi*, a thirty-two year old graphic designer, makes no demands … none. She’s “just not that into it.” Enduring a preliminary bit of labial lambada in order to assuage his ego before jumping into intercourse, she climaxes with neither. Although she embraces oral sex as an integral part of her sex life, Margo finds it lacking in intimacy and really has little expectation of orgasm. Kellie describes her oral sex experience as “satisfactory,” but if she can move onto intercourse, she will. Not exactly a glowing review, but understandable as she prefers to come during penetrative sex. Nothing I heard gave me the idea that any of us found it particularly earth shattering. It just didn’t seem right. Certainly some guys get a kick out of it, but it’s supposed to be for us.
I’ll admit, out of courtesy, I’ve endured the occasional mushy-mouthed attempts at pleasing me, where it felt more like I’d had the misfortune to sit on a mollusk than receive head, but I’ve never felt particularly inclined to submit for long if it wasn’t going where I wanted. This was just good sense, right? I threw my theory out there, faced the wolves, and admitted that I thought oral sex was a real snooze, but a useful tool if at the end of the night things hadn’t gone exactly my way. When I mentioned my rather demanding tactic of using oral sex as a “closer,” detailing my less than suave request, (“You don’t really think you’re finished, do you?”) the women who knew me shared a look and began to laugh. I realized that they thought I was that girl, the boorish sort that behaved with all the sensitivity of a rhinoceros in heat. I started to worry, thinking that what I had thought was sexual progressiveness was simply bad manners.
There was one episode in particular that came to mind. An ex-boyfriend trudged north from the southern battlefield of my nether bits after a particularly drawn-out episode. I slipped slowly into unconsciousness as he rubbed his chin with a satisfied smile. Unaware of his need to share in my glory, I drifted off as he congratulated himself for tenacity, “Man, I almost gave up when I lost feeling in my lower jaw.” Looking back, I wonder if I should have been horrified, struck with remorse, and embarrassed by my gluttonous nature. Perhaps I should have offered something in return, or spent my last moments of bliss congratulating him on a job well done, but the truth is, had the tables been turned, there would be no congratulations coming my way. He expected his orgasm. It was a given. And truthfully, I felt the same way about mine.
I’ve never been particularly dictatorial about the process, nor picky in the method of achievement. But to have or not to have, honey, that isn’t even a question.
As unrepentant as I am, I don’t want to become the woman so obsessed with the destination that she forgets to love the journey. And strangely, because oral sex is equated with female orgasm, it re-ignites those old debates over a woman’s right to climax and how important should it be. I had ventured into the topic like a babe to slaughter. My arrogance and certainty that I knew almost everything there was to know about sex was swiftly dashed upon the rock that is female complexity.
The enigma of sexual pleasure goes beyond the question of ownership of the oral sex act. Because it is shared, it cannot be controlled or predicted. In fact, part of enjoying it is letting go. That’s not to say that I feel totally at ease with the idea of letting a man lead the way, or feeling pressured into believing that my orgasm is somehow his souvenir … but I have a feeling that many women would feel uncomfortable with my methods. Kellie, Margo, and Naomi aren’t shrinking violets, unaware of their own wants and desires, nor are they uncomfortable with getting what they want in a variety of ways—they just accept the limitations of their partners and themselves. Once I realized that their compromises were not born of fear or oppression, but from a need to compete, I realized that this might be our trade for sexual freedom. We play as equals in the sexual arena. It’s no surprise that we might suffer a few performance issues and a dysfunction now and then. After all, as any woman can tell you, “taming the two-lipped shrew” is a dirty business … but we’re glad that somebody is willing to do it.
*All names have been changed.