Last week I posed the following question on Twitter:
“If you asked all your current and former sexual partners what the best things about fucking you are, what do you think they’d say?”
I got so many interesting responses that I’m going to work them up into a blog post at some point very soon. Before that though, I want to share a wonderfully detailed answer I received from someone who wishes to be known only as The Anonymous Linguist…for reasons that will rapidly become clear…
“They’d say I’m unequivocally excellent at blow jobs, and this I put down to French A Level and 100% enthusiasm in how brilliant penises are.”
Let’s say I spent ten years utterly terrified by penises, which I did. I didn’t become a cock-hungry slut until my late twenties, and I couldn’t tell you how or why, only that it felt like all of a sudden I craved it like nothing else.
It was as if I had only now begun to value my tongue and mouth. I had used them only for talking, singing, eating and brief kisses for so long, it was a revelation that they wished to pursue pleasure on a grander yet far more intimate scale.
All at once I became aware of my pink, flexible tongue – its particular skill in navigating foreign languages – and I remembered something that happened almost a decade before.
I loved languages at school. A painfully saved-for family holiday to France when I was six had instilled in me the beauty of foreign tongues, and maybe just a little of the self-importance that comes with being multilingual. Unfortunately due to crippling shyness, I would stubbornly refuse to speak any of these languages I excelled at as soon as we arrived at Calais. My parents despaired, but I continued with French (GCSE A*), adding German (GCSE A) before ultimately sticking with the devil I knew and only keeping French when I started my A levels (I regret this now, but at the time the idea of being the only person taking German A level was horrifying).
Nevertheless, it was still a shock when I was told I’d be getting the foreign languages award at school prize-giving.
Due to the start dates of my first university term I was already in the wilds of Yorkshire when the ceremony took place, but I am assured that when my award was announced, my French mistress took to the podium to wax lyrical on my ‘excellent oral skills’.
All through my penis fear those words stuck with me. I have oral skills. I nearly took Dutch as my first elective but chickened out to the safety of an arts based module. I liked the way my tongue moved when I tried to manipulate my awkward eighteen year old self into continental sexiness, breathing French phrases to my suitably impressed boyfriend at the time.
Once, on a social media platform long-since relegated to the graveyard of teenage fancy, a stranger told me I had a beautiful mouth. At the moment we are experiencing the longest fucking winter on record so my pout is dry and a little lacklustre, but my lips are full and a muddy pink, with two rows of even, attractive teeth between. These days I draw attention to my beautiful mouth, delicately flicking out my tongue and tracing the outer edges with my finger ‘absent mindedly’.
When I suck cock I remember my French lessons, German lessons. I repeat the alphabet in exaggerated motions over my lover’s erection, which is beautiful, a work of art. Incredulous I ever thought they were universal implements of torture. How is the skin so soft and malleable yet the flesh beneath hardens at my touch, as though I’m willing it into existence. I never feel so powerful as when I’m knelt before him, tasked with his release.
So now, I adore cock. I feel as though provision of oral sex may be the most important task my beautiful mouth was created for.
Even now as I write, I realise my mouth is open, in that cute yet slightly awkward way, my tongue folding and flickering over itself, thinking about how I could be spending my morning were I not alone today. Aware of my lithe, wicked tongue and all the ways I would employ it to make you shudder and gasp.