Why I don't like (receiving) oral sex:

Aside from the fact that I’ve only met one man that could do it without making me feel like a turkey being glazed before stuffed.....

It’s all Michael Bolton’s fault.

That’s right. That long haired crooner of the 90’s ruined oral sex for me.

Oh, don’t get me wrong, I liked him alright. “When a man loves a woman” was a classic...a ballad for lovers young and old. “How am I supposed to live without you” made me want to get on my knees and raise my hands to the sky and shout, “WHY! WHY!” before collapsing into a heap of teenage angst on the floor.

My mother was completely obsessed with him. I don’t mean, “Gosh, he’s just so handsome. I love his music. I have all his albums. My friends and I are so excited his concert tour is coming through!”

Nuh uh.

I mean, “OH MY FUCKING GAWD LOOK AT THAT MAAAAN! I WANT TO CLIMB UP THAT BODY AND STAY THERE TILL I MELT OFF! SCREAM! THEY’RE PLAYING MY FAVORITE SONG! IT’S MICHAEL IT’S MICHAEL! WHEN A MAAAAAN LOVES A WOOOOMAN! SWOON.”

She had so many t-shirts with his face plastered on them. Most of them were sleep shirts so she could “lie against his face”. Yeah, I’m serious.

I still remember the day the announcement came over the radio that he was coming here for a concert. We were in the car. I almost died that day. She swerved and yelled and if it’s possible to do the mambo while driving...she did it. I still blame my bad (selective) hearing on her Michael screaming fits.

She’d hidden her camera in her pants to get it into the concert and came back with 4 rolls of film. Where she put them all, I never want to know.

Evidently, while singing one of his soulful songs, Michael decided to walk down an aisle and into the fevered group of middle aged women. Schmuck.

My mom had an aisle seat. As soon as he got to her row (and I’ve heard this story 70 thousand times) he stopped. He looked at her as he crooned into the microphone. He got right.up.in.her.shit...and took her hand. After a second, she jerked her hand back, whipped out her camera, and snapped a picture right.up.in.his.shit.

Her friend said the poor man couldn’t move for about 15 seconds. Just stood their singing and blinking while my mother screamed, “MICHAEL MICHAEL I LOVE YOU”. It’s lucky for mom that her friend hid the camera. Otherwise, I never would have had the pleasure of gazing into an 8x10 blown up photo of Michael Bolton’s startled face every single day for about 10 years.

And now, we’ve come back to ME.

I was young, dumb, and full of false bravado when it came to boys.

I was also home alone quite often. My sister stayed at a sitters or a friend’s house until my mom collected her, as I was not to be trusted. Something about feeding cat food to her and her friends. Whatever.

One summer I had a very eager and experimental boyfriend that we shall call Big Nose, or BN for short.

BN didn’t live very far and he would ride his bike through the woods to come see me almost every day.

After weeks of making out, he finally convinced me to allow him access to the Holy Grail. (Yes, I said weeks. I wasn’t always slutty.) And so we progressed from only under the shirt feely action and tonsil hockey to fingering.

I was less impressed by this fingering business than my friends. Mostly because BN had no idea where the clitoris is....or probably even WHAT it is. Probably thought it was a myth, like unicorns and free hookers.

I braved his fingered onslaught like a champion, only occasionally saying, “Would you hurry up”, when he got a little too excited.

Then one afternoon he made me an offer I was too bored to refuse.

“Wanna let me...you know?”

“What”, I said, popping my gum.

“Go down?”

Big sigh. “I guess. Saved by the Bell doesn’t come on for another half hour anyway.”

He dragged me back to my parent’s bedroom, of all fucking places, because “they have a water bed and I hear it’s better.”

To which I replied, “I’m not having sex with you.”
And he said, “I know that...I mean I think it’ll be more fun.”
Gum pop. “Uh huh.”

And so we arranged ourselves on the bucking water bed. I was nervous and hiding it pretty well behind my practiced disdain.

He reached over to hit the play button on the tape player and said, “Just for a little background...” and out came Michael’s voice.

I gritted my teeth and looked up at the ceiling as he made his move.

Ok. Alright. This was fine. Weird, but fine.

As I turned my head to the side, Michael started in on “Time, love, and tenderness” and my eyes locked on the giant framed photo of his face. Staring at me.

And the water bed was making little slosh slosh noises...and BN was making weird slurping noises and poking me (unpleasantly) with his gigantic nose...and Michael was staring at me and singing, “Oh baby, oh baby, you just need some tiiiiime love and tendernesssssss” and BN started moving his tongue in time with the lyrics and it was FREAKING ME OUT. Time, lick, love, lick, and, lick, tenderness, three fast...lick lick lick.

And it scared me, ok.

Something about the combination of the water bed, that giant nose, and Michael Bolton timed licking knocked me off oral. It took me years not to hear that long haired fucker in my head every time a man dined in.

The one that finally managed to make it seem like a pleasure and not a thing to get out of the way was, go figure, a man whore and the kid’s dad. I’m sure he could tie cherry stems into knots with his tongue. Maybe even lift a five pound dumbbell with it.

The first time he came after me with that thing, I ran. Well, crawled relatively fast across the bed. Once I explained the problem to him, and he finished laughing hysterically, he held me down and tried to cure me. And there was no love and tenderness involved.

Now that he’s out of the picture and leading a life of abstinence, (ironic laughter) I’ve reverted back to my old issues. There’s just not been another that knows what the fuck is going on down there.

And that is how Michael Bolton gave me an oral sex complex.

The End.