Hot Sweltering Summer Sex Vignettes

Coming & Going

There is, within the penile infrastructure, a clever little mechanism -- a sort of physiological ratchet -- that thwarts simultaneous ejaculation and urination. At least I think I remember reading this in a "Ask Cecil" column or something years ago, so it's only potentially a fact, but my memory is as clear as nothing-but-water-for-10-hours piss when it comes to remembering the particulars of the teenage blowjob that led to my own personal experience with this phenomenon. And to the realization that "simultaneous" is an extremely specific term. I should point out that the "teenage" in this account refers to myself at the time: the woman was in her mid-20s. She was a computer programmer living in Maryland, and I'd just moved there from California after having been introduced to her -- through the mail, no less -- by the excommunicated Scientologist who'd previously set me up with a room (after I'd been ingloriously booted from the U.S. Air Force) in a Hollywood apartment complex called, I'm not kidding you, The Shangri Lodge.

It was 1981; I was 19 years old.

We were visiting her family in upstate New York, and it was an itchy situation because her clinically depressed mom had recently returned to the family after having been hospitalized following her (the mom's) second suicide attempt in however many years, and so everyone was walking on about a square mile of eggshells, and the air was filled with the kind of brittle politeness that makes you want to scream just so it'll shatter and be done with. And this woman -- aw, let's call her Cecily -- and I went to spend the night alone in the family's camper by some marshy, cat-tail-framed lake.

We'd brought three or four bottles of wine with us, all Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill, which we intermittently chased with whatever beer we'd snagged a six-pack of. And we were getting pretty sloshed, Cecily and I, messing around with the half-submerged dinghy her father'd been "meaning to fix up one of these days," listening to weird compilation tapes on the camper's old stereo, playing game after increasingly sodden game of gin rummy with a deck that was missing, it all comes back to me now, the three and 10 of clubs.

Eventually the sun went down. And so, eventually, did Cecily.

This was nothing new for us. A precedent -- and several other, less ordinary precedents -- had been set weeks before. We'd never intended to recapitulate the Kama Sutra or anything, but just as those infinite monkeys endlessly thrumming away on their infinite typewriters will inevitably get around to Richard III ... well, you get the idea. But we'd never been this drunk together before. Both of us were pathetic lightweights regarding alcohol, and the Boone's Farm and beer had easily Rope-a-Doped us into a TKO.

So there we were: plastered and horny and attempting to fuck in positions better left to the sober and perhaps tantrically degreed. Legs were here, arms were there, genitalia rampant upon a field of intoxicated lust. Frustration kept mad pace with desire as we maneuvered, naked and slippery and inept, atop the vinyl-coated cushions in the micro-Winnebago's sleeping compartment; whatever bits of clothing we still wore were no longer recognizable as such and were dripping with cheap wine and Johnson's Baby Oil. And after about half an hour of erotic shenanigans that pass for foreplay the way Stephen Hawking passes for the Empire State Building, Cecily, who was both less drunk and more basically beefy than I was, shoved me onto my back, grinned fiercely, and took my turgid cock into her mouth.

Now, guys are supposed to love blowjobs. Guys are supposed to think -- or at least to manfully assert that they think -- that blowjobs are the only thing better than full-on genital intercourse, and that that is the only thing better than the Super Bowl. This blowjob assertion is seen as macho, I imagine, because fellatio places the woman in the more servile position and, for some guys, there's nothing more edifying than to have a woman serve you -- especially sexually. It's a power thing, y'know? Me, though, I'm not so interested in power; and I'm even less interested in sexual stimulation that is, except when perfectly applied, a bit too intense too quickly. Because I don't want to relinquish that much control. And, okay, if you consider it closely enough, that preference is simply the other side of the power equation.

But, such quibbles aside, I wasn't about to argue with the woman vis-a-vis her oral engulfing of my exquisitely throbbing manroot. There were, though, other contraindications that should've been considered.

I'd been drinking all afternoon long, hadn't gone to the bathroom for hours. I must've had the need for relief, my bladder must've been crying out for drainage; but my brain was too compromised to realize it. Beneath the alcohol-induced numbness, however ... beyond the increasing tension of pleasure from Cecily's determined and skillful suction ... other pressures were mounting.

But the tension of pleasure was the first to increase beyond redemption. To the point of no return, to the point at which the mind goes to some far place where time stands still and someone's playing the 101 Strings' version of The Best of Kansas on a dysfunctional Marantz and the sheer, climaxing flesh of one's body becomes the totality of human existence.

Immediately following which, that clever mechanism, that cunning little bio-ratchet, is released. Because, even if I'm correctly recalling what I think Cecil said and simultaneity is out of the question, a mere nanosecond's difference is all it takes to move an event past the border of quantifiable concurrence. Which, along with the added stimulation of fellatio as supplied by the tongue and lips and general oral cavity of she-who-we're-calling-Cecily, explains why, after I came, I started to go. And continued to go, whizzing like Secretariat's grandfather, sending a tight geyser of piss crashing against the roof of Cecily's mouth as her eyes widened in total surprise and she fell backward, choking a bit, out of the camper's bed.

It's just such bits of carnal knowledge that weave the mind so close to the body and remind us, regardless of what the philosophers might say, of meat's inevitable dominion. And of how we're mostly water.