Internets, please meet one of my besties, Jenny from What the Blog?

Jenny & I met years ago on….oh, God.  I’m about to admit that yet again, one of my closest friend’s is the result of an internet board.  whatever.  It’s 2010.  & people meet their spouses online, so really, what’s the big deal about meeting girlfriends?

SO ANYWAY.  Jenny & I chatted on a board for a year together before I decided to throw a grown-up girls-only slumber party at my house.  The night of the party, she was one of the first guests to show up.  Knocked on the door, I hollered “It’s open!” from the kitchen where my girlfriend Meredith & I were already chugging champagne, & in walked my destiny of the girl variety.

The amount of squealing to occur surely went past dog-hearing & straight onto hamster decibels.   That night, I introduced her to gin & tonics.  5 lbs of Chex Mix was spilled on the deck.  We fell on our rears.  Jenny summoned some dinosaurs in my powder room.  & then the dog locked us out of the house.

Do you need further proof of how awesome we are together?  I think not.

So from me & Jenny, here’s our gift to the readers.  Your reward for a long week of work, children, & the general rat race of life.  Cheers!

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Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to celebrate the union between What the Blog? Jenny and The Heir to Blair … Blair. Let us bow our heads in prayer:

Dear Internet Gods, thank you for the wonderful opportunity of substitute bloggers that is making Blair’s life just a little bit easier today. Bless this time we share together. And PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, DO NOT LET MY MOTHER STUMBLE UPON THIS BLOG.

Amen.

Now that we’ve got that out of the way, let’s talk about blowjobs.

Once upon a time, I was an innocent girl of 17, a late bloomer who hadn’t so much as made out with a boy. Ten years ago, I started dating the boy who would become my husband, but back then, he was the boy I was great friends with and who had been recently dating my best friend.

Oh, yes. High school drama at its best, folks.

Don’t worry. I was a virtuous teen and waited to proclaim any feelings for him until he was free as a bird. In fact, the one who pushed us together is that same (former) best friend.

What came along with that drama was knowledge. She sucked (hee) at blowjobs, she almost always refused to perform, and he loved them (even from her – “Sex is like pizza. Even when it sucks, it’s still pretty fucking good.” – Rob, husband of Jenny). Part of their downfall was this conflict of interest.

I knew when we started dating that Rob was more than a fling. He was one of my closest friends, and I wanted a successful relationship with him. I did what any ambitious 17-year-old would do: I used the information available to me.

Oh, the precedents we set when we are driven insane by goals.

In my (weak) defense, I thoroughly loved fulfilling the role of Oral Goddess. I had quite the fixation back in the day, constantly nomming on Blow-Pops (heh), Tootsie Pops, Dum-Dums, pen caps, mechanical-pencil clips, bubble gum, straws – if it was slightly nommable, I nommed it. Slobbing his knob covered my oral fixation, plus it made him grin like a fool. Win-win, right?

I proudly strutted about in my Oral Goddess sash, openly discussing techniques with friends. I recall a floormate suggesting I teach a group of girls to reach Goddess status my freshman year of college, but I can’t honestly say if that class ever took place. Rob bragged about my skills (teenagers really are ridiculous, no?), and I nodded along, trotting out my party tricks (deep-throating phallic foods – “Look, ma! No gag reflex!” and shoving my entire fist in my mouth – “Look, ma! My big mouth does more than sass back!”).

We’d established a nice little schedule – we’d have Team Funsies during the white pills, then, when the pack switched to that lone row of green pills, it was time for Treat Week. I had no interest in anything coming near the crime scene of my bits and pieces, and Rob had all the interest in the world of my mouth meeting his mister.

A year before we got married, a wrench was thrown into the perfectly working cogs of our sexual routine. My body started to rebel on me, first by a splitting, tear-causing headache that lasted day after day, then a feeling like my face was falling apart.

Temperomandibular joint disorder.

The gum I so loved? Banned. The bagels I so loved? Banned. I didn’t have the guts to ask my dentist about blowjobs, but I’m quite sure “keeping one’s mouth held wiiiiiiiide open and engaged in salacious activities” was also on the banned list. I was put on a soft-foods diet, given head and neck exercises and sent home with muscle relaxers.

And I had to break the news to Rob.

The man doesn’t cry … EVER … but I’m pretty sure he was near tears that day. Sure, he was concerned for my health and wellbeing, but you and I both know he was also mentally humming a funeral dirge for his days of frequent and free blowjobs.

At first, it was sad. We both felt plucked from what had become a normal part of our lives. I felt guilty for taking one of his favorite activities (no matter how passive his involvement is) away because of my busted jaw. He felt guilty for being sad when I was the one in pain.

As you can guess, it didn’t take long for me to start enjoying my Oral Goddess retirement. It was carefree and relaxing, kind of how it feels to plop down into an overstuffed chair on display at the mall while hustling and bustling around during the Christmas season. You’re go go going and don’t even realize how sore your feet are, how tired your legs are, until you sit for a minute while your shopping buddy takes a pee break.

Then you don’t want to get back up.

I can totally see how you bait-and-switchers bask in the glow of your retirement. It. Was. Lovely.

Rob broached the subject of my return to the sport when he noticed I had long-since given up my diet of soft food and muscle relaxers. “Can you maybe try? For me? You can stop if it hurts,” he said.

So, try I did. It wasn’t the most comfortable thing in the world, but it wasn’t terribly painful. Then, when I finished, the look of happiness and contentment on his face was the best painkiller in the world.

I probably could have hung up my Oral Goddess sash for life – I certainly have the right diagnosis for it – but giving a blowjob to my impossible-to-shop-for husband is more gratifying than giving him birthday or Christmas gifts. It’s free, and it takes approximately 15 minutes to purchase, wrap and deliver the gift. It’s something I can give him that no one else can (well … let’s not go There), and it’s also something many of his friends don’t have and desperately want. Retirement was nice, but it wasn’t mutually gratifying. In this marriage game, the happiness of two is greater than that of one.

I may have jumped into blowjob-land with odd intentions, but my seemingly immature moves back in the day have been provided a valuable give-and-take in our relationship.

I’m sure my personal dick-sucking history was thrilling to read on its, but it’d be wrong of me to wave my veteran Oral Goddess sash in your face without some parting words of wisdom:

1. Manscaping is good. It’s sexy. It won’t make him seem feminine. It will keep you from having to floss mid-blowjob.

2. Find a comfortable position and stay there. Sure, fancy moves and locations are fun sometimes, but what he wants for the average blowjob is a big finish in a timely manner.

3. Use textures and temperatures to your advantage. Drink an ice-cold or steaming beverage before (and take sips during); find some fun lipgloss or lube; suck on an Altoid; use your teeth; don’t use your teeth; use your hands; don’t use your hands. Be adventurous and take notes. If something doesn’t work after five seconds, ditch and switch.

4. Ask him what he likes, even if it’s during the act. Knowledge is power.

5. If you’re a neatfreak, hop in the shower together and let the steam and soap get you both in the mood. Use your hands to wash the area in question first (foreplay!), then move in for the kill either still in the shower (easy cleanup), or while he’s toweling off.

6. Don’t be afraid of the big finish. Sure, semen is no Ben & Jerry’s Half Baked, but I’ve had worse-tasting things in my mouth (like celery! ick!). Either let it pool under your tongue to be spat out once his ride on the love coaster is over, or swallow it as fast as you can. It only lasts for a few seconds, and the comfort you sacrifice in those mere seconds is worth it.

For the record, I used to swallow. He told me after a few years that it didn’t matter what I did. Now, I spit. And rinse with Listerine.

p.s. Blair, I apologize for any creepers who descend upon your blog via sketchy Googling. I do not apologize for any judgment you receive for publishing my naughty and vulgar shenanigans.