NEVER ASK HOW SHE GOT SO GOOD AT GIVING HEAD
It was late and I'd had no luck at the bar, and the bartenders were signaling last call. I saw her then, and it was hard to miss her. She was tall, my height, and not particularly thin or pretty, and she seemed awkward, but she had an amazing chest and one thing I'd never seen in person: the thickest, reddest, softest, most beautiful lips.
I could only think about one thing as I saw her face, and by the look of recognition on her face, men who stared at her all thought the same thing I did. Usually in a bar I'm much too shy to approach anyone. In college and the decade afterward I would force myself to make the attempt, and I would call it "collecting rejections." When I got to two dozen turn-downs, I'd stop, or when the women in the room collectively saw me as desperate, which I was. But this woman's lips were too sensuous to walk away from, and her return glance, while not psyched, was at least not discouraging.
Hi, I'm Mike, I said.
"Hi. Jeanna," she said, holding out her hand as if we were formally introduced. I shook her hand. Her skin was soft and smooth, and her sexuality flowed right into me. I was suddenly in heat. I had to have her -- well, not so much her, but those lips. And I told her so. I watched her reaction. Again, she wasn't wildly enthusiastic, but she wasn't upset either. It was as if she expected it and accepted it. She did a test on me to make sure I wasn't a psycho. I invited her to the diner next door and bought her and her friends breakfast. I was a nice guy, my usual sweet self, and tipped the waitress heavy. But the magic on her side seemed to fade. She left the diner with her friends, turning her back to me, as if to say she didn't want to see me.
I started off toward my car, and as I did, she turned toward me from her open door. Follow me, she called. Wow, I was getting lucky after all, I thought happily. I followed her a few miles to her house. She led me by the hand past the front door, paid her babysitter, and looked in on her infant son. Already the wind seemed to be leaving my sails. With a babysitter, a desk with a pile of bills and a baby, she seemed so much more human and less a masturbation fantasy. If she noticed me losing my mojo, she made up for it fast. She pulled me by the hand into her bedroom and dropped her clothes to the floor, then stripped off mine. She lay on the bed and spread her legs, like she wanted to be fucked. I smiled. No, madam, I said, I have to have that mouth of yours first. We never did get to the actual fucking, because that mouth put every vagina I'd had to date to shame. I'd never been sucked off like that before. And not only did it feel amazing, it looked positively pornographic. She really got into it.
Or should I say, it got into her. In almost no time I released a gallon of cum in a firehose spray into her willing, wet, sucking mouth. She made it all disappear like it was no big deal. But I was in awe. We chatted for a few minutes, and I was reluctant to leave, because I knew that it wouldn't take long before I was up for her again. She was amazed, but she acted like she wanted to be fucked. I had to disappoint her a second time. I told her, look, I can get pussy anywhere, any time, but lips and talent like yours? That's rare. I felt guilty about it, of course. I suppose she got something out of it.
By the time two hours had passed, she had swallowed my load three more times. She was absolutely the best in the Western Hemisphere at sucking cock. As I pulled on my jeans, I asked her the question that no man should ever ask. Jeanna, how did you learn to do that so well? I figured she'd talk about some former boyfriend. I didn't care -- it was a four blowjob one night stand, I wouldn't be jealous. But I wasn't ready for what came out of those goddess-like lips.
"Daddy taught me," she said, matter-of-factly. What? I stuttered. What did you say? "My father taught me. I'll show you." She led me out into the living room, where there must have been twenty pictures of a nondescript man in his early 60s. "Daddy taught me how to give blowjobs when I was eight." Oh my God, I said, you poor thing. I'm so sorry -- Before I could say any more, her finger touched my lips to hush me up. "It's okay. I liked it. I used to ask him if I could do it to him. We kind of did that behind Mom's back."
I dropped my jaw, not certain if this were all a prank. How long did you do that for, I asked. "I don't know, a few minutes at a time, until he came," she said. "He was pretty quick. A lot of cum, though, like you." She smiled. No, I said, I meant how old were you when he didn't make you do that any more? "Sixteen," she said. "But I got on my knees for him every year or so after that. Just so he wouldn't forget." I didn't know what to say.
A macabre sense of curiosity made me ask her the next question. So, when was the last time you did that to him? She actually smiled. "About a month ago." She said it as if she'd liked it. She read my face, or she'd had this conversation a hundred times. "Look, it wasn't that big a deal. Like I said, I liked it. And I wanted to learn. I love my Daddy. Hes a great dad. He always took care of me." As long as you were honking on his knob, I thought.
I just swallowed and kissed her cheek. Good-night, Jeanna, I said. "Good night, Mikey," she smiled. I walked into the cold spring night and fished in my pocket for my keys and I wondered, did all of us abused children find each other? Was that the recognition that had lit up her eyes when I first noticed her? As it turned out, it was more than a one night stand. Every woman I was with after her made me long for plain-Jane Jeanna with the cocksucking lips and the precocious sexuality taught her by her father. I saw her three more times, perhaps only a month between my visits. The fourth time I called her there was a giggle in her voice. "I can't see you, I got married." What? How did that happen so fast? Is your husband the baby's father? "No, silly," she said. "I met him right after the last time with you." I hung up the phone feeling disappointed, thinking that I should have had full body sex with her instead of freebasing on all those blowjobs.
But then I smiled. Apparently any woman can get a husband, I thought. All she needs is attitude. And enthusiasm. And, I suppose, someone to teach her when she's ready to learn. I wondered how much of her story the new husband knew. I thought of him going to a family picnic and making small talk with his father-in-law, knowing what had happened. How could he look the man in the eye? I did and still do think of that father as an evil scumbag, but his daughter somehow came out fine. Yes, sure, she did the one night stand thing with me and who knows how many other people, but there was this happiness to her, a certain unquenchable joy. I told myself that it was really that part of her that had attracted me. It couldn't just be me using her for her mouth. But then I'd realize I was kidding myself. Perhaps it was sins like these that made my later life explode into chaos. Or maybe it was that I'd been a victim of childhood abuse myself. Or perhaps it was just that I was an ass and I had no real excuses. But I do know that I hoped that Big Lips Girl represented the last time a sexual encounter led me into the Twilight Zone. How little I knew about the universe, for I ended up there more times after the divorce than I can count.
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