Hurricane Tongue

I get a lot of visits from keyword searches relating to, or asking about, cunnilingus. Things like, “first time cunnilingus”, “what happens during cunnilingus”, and “cunnilungus mom”. I can’t help with the last one, but I…consider myself lucky for that.

As much as I talk about it, I rarely actually say cunnilingus in my every day life, and instead, opt for some sort of derivative of pussy eating, or if I’m feeling especially eager, I’ll say something like, “I want you to bury your head in between my thighs”. It may not be elegant, but when I need to grind a face, requesting something like, “Would you be so kind as to perform cunnilingus on me?” just isn’t as effective as, “Eat my pussy now.”

I still remember the first time I was serviced, which is fitting because I am really only capable of remembering a first as long as it involves my vagina. I was 17, fresh out of high school, and spending my days dry humping my first boyfriend while worrying about how much ointment I would need for my chafed keyhole. I was on the floor of his room, nestled between a drum kit and La-Z-Boy (which functioned as his bed), and staring at the Choo Choo train wallpaper that seemed to mock the numerous Slipknot posters hanging nearby. I was still wearing my white Victoria’s Secret string bikini (notable for its title as the sexiest pair of underwear I owned at the time), and I wanted to stop him as he slid them off and headed straight for Cunt Junction, but I couldn’t find it in me, because although I was petrified, I had a suspicion that it could work in my favor.

I never had erotic thoughts about getting my pussy eaten until it actually happened to me. I never sought out cunnilingus porn or made it part of my daily checklist (like I do now). To me, reaching my sexual peak meant being able to say that a man had ejaculated in my mouth and/or vagina. When I masturbated, I simply thought about being fucked, usually by a guy who vaguely resembled Vanilla Ice, only without the parachute pants and shitty music career. My own orgasm never really made it into the blueprints of my fantasies. I think I just assumed that when I finally had sex, I would put on my coveralls, suck a dick, and sneak off to masturbate while patting myself on the back for a job well done.

So, in retrospect, it is not surprising to me that I didn’t orgasm during my first 14 minutes of bliss. However, this could be because I couldn’t stop worrying about how my pussy smelled. I had never used any sort of feminine hygiene product, but I was exposed to enough Summer’s Eve commercials to believe that my pussy was rank and the only cure was an Ocean Whisper douche and a heart to heart with my mom. I eventually got over it, but to this day, I still cream myself during oral anytime I’m told that my pussy smells or tastes amazing.

Another problem for me was my assumption that since I was being orally stimulated, I would have immediate and multiple orgasms. Through lots of time and experience, I’ve learned that my orgasm is my responsibility, and cannot be given to me. I earn that shit, every single time.

It took a bit of time before I was comfortable telling someone how I needed to be pleased. I don’t know why I was embarrassed about my own pussy, or why I thought it was ok to just take whatever was given to me, but it usually involved being under the impression that someone other than myself knew how to please me better than I could. Men who tell me that they are skilled pussy eaters admittedly pique my interest, but ultimately I think that they are full of shit because it is highly likely that they are working with the idea that all women reach orgasm in the same way.

For me, enthusiasm and willingness are the only things that matter when it comes to eating my pussy. The rest can be taught. I usually go through a trial mode, where I allow the guy to use his own technique on me, and then eventually I will tell him what I like instead. Having my clit flicked makes me want to crawl out of my skin (in a bad way), and being finger banged is an unnecessary distraction. All I need to melt into the bed are circular motions and nipple play.

I look back on my first time receiving oral with fondness. Not because it was particularly mind blowing (not that I would’ve been able to tell anyway), but because from it, I was able to learn what I like and how to control my limbs so I don’t knock over a 12-piece drum set.

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