Consider this the statement of the Blowjob Avenger Consider this the statement of a woman who will not be silenced by dick pounding into her face or exploited by another editor who will accept a poem about dick pounding into her face because even if it isn’t “great” it’s still “trendy” to publish “sex poems by women”.

The first time I got drunk involved  five  five  five     goblets of franzia
and Charlie adorably drunk and oh his chipmunk cheeks   slurring arguments
in defense of eating lettuce as a snack     As he was snacking   on lettuce
Charlie was a year older than me     We shared a stand in the pit orchestra for
our high school’s production of “The Music Man”     I noticed his knee
next to mine  daily     He drove me home after rehearsal   which is how I know
it delighted him no end that   he   could steer his car   with his knees
His knees steering his car     That’s pretty much how I ended up on my back
in his dad’s den     naked     Charlie humping my open mouth   forever     Anytime
a dude is humping your mouth is forever     And drunk guys take so
fucking long to come     Charlie told me  he loved me      I knew then   What a lie
Hyperbole at best     I wrote a poem about it     The final phrase of the poem was
“the smell of sex”     That blowjob got me my first publication     I do not
give blowjobs anymore     It would be unfair to blame Charlie for this     He was
sweet     He steered with his knees     I once watched him eat raw bacon   fat
dripping from his stuffed chipmunk cheeks     And oh how he danced     He danced
like I danced and it was like we were two halves of one   pelvis-grinding machine
He wasn’t Mike   who held my head down and choked me on his dick     He
wasn’t Will who insisted that every time we had sex   I   had   to do all of the things
to all of his parts before we could move on to me     He wasn’t Jeremy who was
a marathon-running  25-year-old virgin with a fractured femur and a telling disgust
at his own cum     A disgust that trumped even my own   then   slight discomfort
with the smell and texture of semen between my fingers   down my throat     How
ironic then     my nickname for all of college would be   The Blowjob Avenger
thanks to “the smell of sex” and that 10-line poem     That I would write a sex column
advising others  Set Boundaries But Be Adventurous     Experimenting with people
who are experimenting with you means   boundaries are   permeable     I didn’t
know my own had failed     All the women I know   all the women I trust
have been assaulted   raped   abused   threatened   harassed     I haven’t been
I didn’t think I had been     But that clean antiseptic smell of semen
closes my throat   still and always     I apologize to my husband
who doesn’t care     We have this ridiculous dance where he affirms
my decision to not do the things I don’t want to   and we have the sex
I like without my getting on my knees to suck him off     I was at a party
in college   suck-to-the-bottom-of-the-bottle drunk   fall down pass out on the coats
drunk     Mark laid beside me   groped me all over  under my dress   up my dress
He was a grad student   I was not     I  was more experienced and sexually savvy
Except that night when I was so drunk because stupid Jonathan   Jonathan who dubbed
me the Blowjob Avenger   always always   got me so drunk when we hung out
Struggling to stay awake   struggling against passing out     Whispers whispers
and someone asked if I was   OK     Surely Mark was drunk too     I’m sure
I waved off the person’s concern   To save face     So long after that night
after college was over   somewhere in New York City   the story came up again
and another writer who was at that party   joked   about having to stop
Mark from raping an undergrad     No one thought rape was an actual risk for
very drunk   very young me   that night of vomit and missing memories
Because I was a man-eater and Mark was so   innocent     Nothing would have stopped
him   from raping   me   that night     How many other nights has there been nothing
between me   and rape     Even at the height of my college sex column   “The G-Spot”
popular enough to anger conservatives on Baltimore talk radio   I was 105 pounds of
blonde hair and tiny waist and   a juicy reputation   for sucking dick    I was what every dude
thought he wanted   until I opened my mouth to speak     Nick was a football player
I went to high school with   whose dick I sucked in college     Sucked his cock
on the front porch of my house     My asshole ex who lived next door    saw me
wrote critical letters to my News-Letter editor about my    sex column under the name
“Travis Bickle”     But Nick was sweet and he was   like all of them   surprised that
under the frank and dirty sex columnist   the chick with the vibrator and handle on her cunt
was  a girl   with feelings   a terrible ex   no idea where she was going
after she graduated     I ran into Nick   once   back at home  at the movie theater
He was with his girlfriend and hugged me   sincere and generous     Which is why
I still like him     Because he   at least   remembered me for more than   my mouth
Most remember me for my mouth   wrapped around them or delivering unto them
a thousand lashes of my tongue     I scared my editors at the college paper   intimidated
them     I wrote a column ripping into a misogynist dick     He wrote to me
He offered his magical fingers in exchange for a blowjob     Fuck no   dick     How
those editors   just like the middle-aged editor who published my “not great” blowjob poem
loved to have me around   loved how I bolstered their readership   with a performance
of my sexuality     I intimidated them   though   when they realized that my mouth
my cunt    my words   came with consequences   for them     How terrifying to engage
with a woman   not just delight in her show     How hard it is to confront a woman
and her sexuality as titillating   and    worthy of engagement     How impossible
to exploit your writer for her saucy sex talk   and   defend her reputation
as a writer and not a sex worker     How easy to paint all these   guys as one
giant hanging dick with a pea-brain at its tip     There was good in  them  too
and I wouldn’t mind meeting Charlie again   We’ll probably run into each other
at the movie theater   here in the town where I grew up   the town where I live
and raise my kids  Because I am here in suburbia  I drive past the playgrounds where
I made out and sucked dick after dark     I live in my old house   where I grew up
where my children run around the basement where I sucked the dicks of my
high school boyfriends     I brush against myselves all the time     And it is here   everywhere
like those selves   How even with all these dicks down their throat   they shout the truth


Sarah B. SelfieSarah B. is a poet and mother and wife. She does, in fact, live in the house where she grew up.

Advertisements

3 Comments

  1. Really enjoyed this. That’s awesome you live in the house you grew up in. I dream of that. I really like the part about brushing up against “myselves.” That happens to me all of the time. What a beautiful way to write about it.

Comments are closed.