In the same way that the men of my generation have learned that it's OK to entertain the use of hair fixatives other than Royal Crown and the like, in the same way that we've learned that chicks these days rock out better than we do, we have also learned to embrace cunnilingus—just as some of our more forward-thinking sisters welcomed the blow job into their sexual vocabulary at the dawn of the sexual revolution.
However—and by no means do I want to sound like a crybaby here—I feel I speak for men in general when I say that, well, cunnilingus is difficult.
Women have the aid of porn in demonstrating the finer, artier touches of fellatio; by the sheer fact that we lack any cohesive knowledge of the female genitalia, men as a species are at a disadvantage.
It's dark down there. We certainly don't want to presume something we don't know (because, if we're found out, that would be Bad), but nor do we want to come off as rubes, lost in some far-off province of Pussyland. This is because we have pride; women have it, too. Sometimes, it's a good thing; in the realm of oral sex—where there should be at least a cursory first-time Q&A—it can be bad. Chief among the reasons?
Teeth are involved.
So you have to ask. If the woman truly wants the benefit of this kind of attention—and in my experience, fellas, most of 'em do—she'll tell you what's up. If she doesn't, well, that's her problem, soon to become yours.
I got lucky: I didn't even have to ask.
Summer 1994. I am on tour with my then-rock band, whom we will call, say, the Kansas City Royals. It's late August; we've been on the road since July; our record company pulled our support a week ago; we're broke and stuck in Portland until the following week.
We spend most of our time sweating, arguing with one another, and showing our hosts, Kelly and Justin, how to do "knife hits" with sticky pot, an electric stove, two butter knives, and a sawed-off two-liter Mountain Dew bottle.
It's the time of the season for lo-ving.
So Kelly introduces me to her friend, a saucy, bossy, big, and bouncy Pacific Northwest babe with almost no vowels other than "y" in her name. She's a few years my junior, but—as I find out over the course of one malt-liquefied night (remember, this is '94, irony in drinking was HUGE)—she's easily thrice as experienced.
Feeling one-upped in so many ways, I attempt to go down on her. Silence. Now I'm in trouble; worse than generating a bad reaction from this woman—who is by no means a cold fish—I'm getting no reaction at all.
"Oh my god," she says, and immediately I know it's not the good kind of "Oh my god."
"You have no idea how to do that, do you?"
"Well, let me show you."
What follows is some two hours of head-tilting, tongue exercises, and tenderness punctuated every so often with remarks such as "I can't believe no one ever taught you this," as if "this" was some kind of math. And in a way, I suppose it is, in the sense that cunnilingus should, at this point in the game, figure into an ever-evolving sexual equation, in which parties who engage for the first time should come to the table, as it were, with a set of basic skills.
Because I watch HBO a few times a year, I know that girls learn blow job skills on bananas, cucumbers, and drunken freshmen. Guys have no vaginal correlative. (A jellyfish? Wilted cauliflower? There's nothing.) And because a lot of girls are too nice to say anything, most of us can't eat a pussy to save our lives.
The problem is, in this day and age, we have to: Our women, compromised, careful, and still as fun as these times require of them, deserve nothing less. And while love might be a strong word for how I feel about the 'lingus, you get the idea; really, it's somewhere between "don't mind" and "BOY! WOULD I!"
And that, I suspect, is as it should be.
More sex education:
Felicity vs. Buffy