At our favourite watering hole in The Village, Andrew tells us about the guy he was seeing who wanted to be smothered with a pillow during climax. Steve reminds us about the time he picked up a guy who turned out to be a hooker.
Sharing sexual horror stories is a healthy release, and being able to laugh it off eases the shame. So, I buy another round of drinks to prepare my friends for the most horrific sex story of the night: my first rim job, which turned out to be my last.
The year was 1999. I was 19 years old, just out of the closet and a virgin. My first boyfriend, the "Italian Cookie," and I were hanging out at my friend’s apartment. We were staying the night, and because a guest was already taking the couch, we took the summer bed set up on the balcony. Around midnight, everyone was heading to sleep, so the Italian Cookie and I went out to the balcony, stripped down to our underwear and climbed under the sheets. There was only limited privacy but the Italian Cookie wanted to fool around. I was uncomfortable, but he was adamant and horny. Things quickly went from kissing and over-the-clothes groping to no clothes, and the application of lubricant.
I wanted him to fuck me but was scared to death for a number of reasons: it was my first time with penetration, we were on my friend’s balcony, and there was a big Jamaican woman named Olive on the couch only a few feet inside the screen door. His persistence and throbbing urge to be inside me put my mind and body in a sexual daze, and within minutes my inhibitions flew right off the balcony.
We started going at it, but after a few minutes I couldn’t keep going, so I told him to stop. He obliged, but proceeded to flip me over and start rimming me. Being a naive virgin, I didn’t know what he was doing back there, nor did I know exactly how clean I was. I was on all fours and nervous as hell, but apparently clean, because he was enjoying himself.
Then, without warning, I farted.
Italian Cookie sat up with a disgusted look on his face. He quickly pulled at his tongue the way you do when lint or fluff is stuck on it. I was mortified and speechless.
My first thought was that Olive knew what we were doing, heard what had just happened and was going to tell the world come morning. I started apologizing profusely to the Italian Cookie. Surprisingly, he was very mature about the situation, and after that night we never spoke about it. But, of course, I couldn’t get it out of my head.
I concluded that it wasn’t a fart, but a queef– an anal queef caused by the penetration right before the rim job. Well, at least that explanation helps me sleep at night.
It’s been years since that incident, and to this day I don’t rim or get rimmed. I’m far from being the nervous little virgin I was back then, but for some reason I just can’t get the courage to try it again. Is there such a thing as rimming phobia?
Whenever the subject comes up nowadays with friends or partners, my stance is firm. Oh well, a rimless sex life is no loss to me. I didn’t enjoy it anyway.
As I looked around the table, my friends looked shocked, but then we all burst out laughing.
"So that’s why you hate rimming," Steve says.
"You should try it again to get over your fear," Andrew says.
"Yeah, you just haven’t been worked by the right guy yet," a man says leaning in from the table next to ours.
Apparently, I was loud enough for the whole front section of the bar to hear. Now that’s frightening.
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