Amethyst writes about an unexpected pitfall of learning to give a blowjob in the 1990s:

Giving head meant you not only liked him, you really liked him, but you also ran less of a risk of being labeled a slut because you hadn’t given it up entirely – obviously you still has self respect! – but you also weren’t a cock tease and your poor boyfriend or boy du jour also wouldn’t face the tragic, horny abyss of ‘blue balls’. It was not simply a requisite, an expectation that you’d suck dick but also that you’d swallow because “only whores spit”. Again, lots of logic here. Where were we getting our information?

The most memorable blowjob of my youth, and really what sparked my complicated relationship with semen, occurred the summer after twelfth grade. It was also the first night I’d ever spent with a boy.

His shirt came off, then mine and his hand put my hand on the bulge in his jeans. This was it. I slipped down his body and off couch to kneel between his thighs. He lay back, one arm behind his head the other draped casually over his stomach. His hips lifted as his jeans and shorts came down and his cock sprung free. Tense, hard and cut, he was a perfect God for just a moment and I was his eager and determined worshipper. Forget the shitty knuckle tattoos and jagged appendix scar, he was perfect and his cock was already weeping. This would be a slam dunk.

The perfect, glistening beads of precum were just he beginning. I worked him over like a champ until he was damp with sweat and sucking air through his teeth, sitting up, pushing my hair off my face. He uttered a staccato announcement of his impending orgasm, a rushed and stuttering warning as he pulled his cock from my lips and let loose an impossibly large load onto my lips and chin.

To say he came furiously would not do it justice. Rope after rope of creamy cum flowed from his cock and it wasn’t stopping so I took him back into my mouth and began swallowing as he howled. Then something went terribly wrong. We somehow got out of synch because suddenly I couldn’t keep up. What had started as a fountain of ambrosia was now a burning geyser of hell fire, choking me and forcing its way into my sinuses. Determined not to appear a novice, I gagged it down but with a shuddering cough the worst happened: it came out my nose. The look on his face was sheer horror and I can understand why. When I imagine the scene from his point of view it would have been all red weeping eyes, smeared mascara, a river of semen from my nose joining the froth already on my chin all with a pained grimace and dry heaves.

In his defense he gallantly pulled out and handed me his shirt. Without thinking, I blew my nose in it. And that, dear readers, officially killed the mood. I was mortified, he was kind about it. He stayed the night and there was much better success in the morning…

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