Learning the Alphabet

I'm really bad at eating pussy.

No, let me rephrase that: I'm the worst in the whole world at eating pussy. I have my picture in the Guinness Book of Records. (And it's not even a good picture: my eyes are closed and I have this dumb smile on my face.) I'm so bad at eating pussy that when I go down on a woman, I have to remember to stop at her crotch. I don't know where the G-spot is, but it's definitely not in a woman's knees. I know because I've checked.

For most people, this wouldn't be such a big deal, but for someone who likes to get his dick sucked as much as I do, it's a real handicap. I've found that women get tired of sucking on your dick pretty quickly if you can't reciprocate the favour. I guess it must be quite a disappointment for them to spend half an hour polishing your knob and then realize that they're not getting anything in return. They must wish they could go back 30 minutes in the past and give you that blowjob with their teeth - just to even things out. I think this is the best argument for not inventing time travel: some of us would never get a good blowjob again.

I can't count the number of times I got the little pat on the shoulder for all my efforts. Here I was with half my face buried in pussy, juices spread all the way up to my ears, thinking I was doing an amazing job... and then I feel this little pat on my shoulder. "That's okay", she says, "that's all right". These aren't exactly the moans of ecstasy I was expecting to hear. Mind you, I'd rather feel a little pat on my shoulder than a kick in my ass like I felt when that one woman threw me out on the street at two in the morning. (And the worst part is that the woman in question was staying over at my apartment that night.)

Even the more polite ones who would rather fake an orgasm than give me the pat on the shoulder make me feel bad. I'm not stupid: I can tell they're just pretending. I've seen women have orgasms in the past (when I was using my dick instead of my tongue); I know what it's supposed to look and sound like. Pretending to come is like pretending to sleep: you might think it's easy, but keep in mind that other people know *better than you* what you look and sound like when you do either of these things. Pretending to come is like going to a foreign country and trying to pass for a local by speaking with the people's accent: you're not fooling anyone unless you're a professional actor.

I'd been going out with my new girlfriend for a little while and had already disappointed her a number of times, so one day I decided I would do something about it: I went to see Andrea. Andrea is a friend of mine, a former roommate - but most importantly a lesbian. I figured a lesbian would be the best person to ask for tips on how to eat pussy; just like if I needed help to cook something, I would ask my mom; and if I had troubles with my computer, I would go see my little cousin who spends all his time on the Internet. (Depending on where he spends all this time, my little cousin might also have a number of pussy eating tips to give me, but I thought it would be too awkward to ask him.)

Just so you can picture her later, Andrea is a woman in her late 20s. She's 5'6 or 5'7 and rather thin, except for her breasts which look like they belong on another, fatter woman's body. She has shoulder-length, light brown hair and eyes of the same colour (but not shoulder-length, obviously). She usually wears glasses, but she will be taking them off later - as you will see. She's got a tight little ass in her even tighter little jeans, and long fingers that would look just right wrapped around my cock, and lips that wouldn't seem out of place either. I know she is playing for the other team, but so is Marshawn Lynch, and I still have him in my fantasy football roster.

As for what I look like, that's easy: I look exactly like you, my dear reader. This is why this story is going to be so relatable. I look just like you. If you and I were to go somewhere together, people would think we are twins. We have the same height, weight and body type; the same hair colour, eye colour and skin colour; the same nose, the same ears, the same jawline. We are absolutely identical, you and I - except my dick is slightly longer than yours. Thicker, too. I hope this is not making you jealous.

Andrea lives with her girlfriend in an apartment the size of a goddamn postage stamp. When she came to the door, the first thing I said after hugging her (and feeling her breasts press on my chest) was:

- Andrea, baby! You're out, everyone knows you like women. So why do you stay in this closet?

- Is this what you need my help for? Coming up with better jokes?

- Not exactly, I said. But you're half right: there's some coming involved.

- No way: I'm not having sex with you or jerking you off. I'm sorry that your girlfriend broke up with you, but -

- She didn't, she didn't; that's not why I'm here. On the contrary: I'm here precisely so she doesn't break up with me.

I hadn't told Andrea on the phone why I needed her help because I thought it would feel too weird, but I realized it felt just as weird - or even weirder - explaining it to her in person. I'm usually very comfortable around Andrea; back when we were roommates, we would talk about sex all the time. She would tell me about the women she found hot, about the women she slept with, and I would do the same. But I hadn't told her about the little pats on the shoulder, just like I'd told her about every woman I'd wanted to fuck except one: Andrea herself. She's not dumb, though; she probably figured it out already.

When I told her I wanted tips on how to go down on a woman, she thought it was the funniest thing ever. She often complains that my jokes aren't funny, but that day she laughed enough to make up for all the other times.

- I'm not kidding, I said. I need your help.

- But going down on a woman is so easy! It's the easiest thing ever! It's just natural!

- It's just natural for you, maybe, but for me it's like a puzzle.

- Do it like a puzzle then: start from the edges and move toward the center.

- You know what? You have no right to say anything about my jokes.

- No, really, I'm serious. If you want to pleasure a woman, you don't jump into the thick of things right away. You start at the edges, you tease her a bit until you feel she wants more, and then you slowly make your way to the center of attraction.

- Okay, and then what?

- And then you eat her out!

But that sounded too simple. If all I needed to do was just to start a bit more slowly, someone would have told me before. And I also recalled going down on a woman one time and taking a lot of time before diving into her pussy, but that hadn't made a difference. (Full disclosure: I wasn't actually trying to tease her that one time; it's just that I was drunk and so I spent five minutes licking and fingering her belly-button.) I made a note of Andrea's advice about taking things slow, but I thought there might also be something wrong with the way I eat pussy when I finally get around to it. So I asked her:

- And how do you "eat her out", exactly?

- Come on! I can't believe you're asking me this! How hard can it be?

- It can be very hard sometimes. You wouldn't believe how hard it can be! Rock hard.

- Are we still talking about pussy eating now?

- Maybe...

She sighed and rolled her eyes, but there was a hint of a smile on her lips that showed me she wasn't completely fed up with me yet. Andrea and I have been friends for a long time: she knows she needs to be patient to get anything out of me. So she took a deep breath, shook her head and said:

- Okay then, you show me how you do it. You show me how you eat pussy.

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Andrea, the woman I'd wanted to fuck for so many years, was asking me to go down on her! After waiting so long for something I thought would never happen, I was finally going to spread her legs apart and plunge my tongue into her hot, wet pussy. I could already taste the sweetness of her juices on my lips, and feel the grip of her fingers in my hair as she pulled my head deeper, deeper into the warm embrace of -

- Not on me, you dumbass. On your hand.

- Yeah, of course. I knew what you meant.

- Pretend your hand is a woman's pussy and show me how you eat it.

- I know, I was just about to do that. I was getting ready.

Going from eating Andrea's pussy to licking my own hand was somewhat of a step down: like thinking you've just won the lottery, and then it turns out it was Shirley Jackson's lottery. I was a little disappointed, and it must have been showing on my face because she said: "Hey, now you know how all those women feel!". I let her have her fun, closed my eyes and opened the middle and ring fingers of my right hand as wide as possible, like Mr. Spock's Vulcan salute in Star Trek. But I tried to clear my mind of the man with the bowl haircut and the pointy ears, and to think of naked women instead. I have to say I was quite successful.

You might find this hard to believe, but I have a knack for imagining what women look like without any clothes on. I like to think of it as my special talent, just like other people are good listeners, or have a way with animals, or can leap tall buildings in a single bound. I can look at a woman on the street and immediately imagine, with photographic clarity, what she might look like naked. My boundless fantasy creates a picture of her body down to the smallest detail: the size of her breasts, the shape and colour of her nipples, the way she trims (or doesn't trim) her pubic hair, the dimples in her back and the pimples on her ass, that small mole on her inner thigh, a weird scar on her hip from that time when she fell off a tractor, et cetera, et cetera.

The woman I imagined that day was based on the receptionist at my father's office. She's a tall, athletic woman with short blong hair and small tits. I gave her flat abs and just a thin patch of hair above her pussy. I wasn't sure if her toenails should be painted or not; then I decided she would keep most of her clothes on. She was sitting on her chair, behind the front desk, and lifting her skirt to show me that she wasn't wearing any panties underneath. I came closer, knelt in front of her and started licking the V-shaped gap between my fingers. My tongue was pushing her pussy lips apart wider and wider, and I could hear her moan with pleasure in my head. My chin buried itself in the palm of my hand as I started to lick her faster. Her body was shivering, then shaking: she'd never felt anything like this before. I could tell the passionate back-and-forth motions of my tongue were bringing her closer and closer to orgasm; I was expecting to hear her beg me not to stop; but what I heard instead was Andrea saying: "Stop, stop, stop!"

I opened my eyes. Andrea was wincing with pain.

- Stop it, she said. You're terrible.

- Really? I thought it was pretty good.

- It wasn't. It was awful.

- Oh yeah? She seemed to enjoy it.

- Who, the woman in your head? Maybe she did, but no real woman will ever get off from an abomination like this.

- I bet it would have been easier with a real woman. I'm not used to go down on a bunch of fingers.

- A real woman being licked that way would have run off to join a man-hating cult of lesbian witches. Even your own hand is probably hating you right now.

- Whatever. I jerk off with the other one anyway.

- Eating pussy is supposed to be cunnilingus; what you're doing is funnilingus.

- Okay, okay, I get it. I suck at this.

- If only you did! All you do is lick the same spot over and over. It gets boring real quick.

- What else am I supposed to do? Lick her feet?

She sighed again and rolled her eyes, and now she wasn't smiling anymore. But she must have realized that I really had no clue what to do, and I think she took pity on me because she decided to help me no matter how hopeless it seemed. As a lesbian, she was probably forgetting that it's possible for some people to not know the first thing about cunnilingus. And so, in order to help someone like me, she went back to the very basics.

- I'm going to give you a trick, she said. It's called the alphabet.

- Oh, I know that already!

- Shut up.

- I learned it in school.

- Shut up and listen to me. It's a trick to eat pussy, all right? What you need to do is to imagine that your tongue is a pencil.

- Uh, okay. As long as my dick isn't also a pencil.

- Forget your dick. Your tongue is a pencil, and you want to pretend that your woman's vagina is a book.

- How is a woman's pussy like a book? Because it opens? Because it's always better than the movie? Is it a pop-up book?

- It's a little notebook, okay? The curly hair is the spiral at the top. And what you do is that you write each letter of the alphabet in that book, with your tongue as a pencil.

- Why would I write letters in a notebook? It makes no sense!

- Just do what I say. You write the letters of the alphabet: you start with an A, then you do B, then C... You write letters with your tongue, so the way you lick your woman's pussy is always changing. Sometimes you go up and down, sometimes you move around, clockwise, counter-clockwise... It's always different, it never gets boring.

- I'm still not sure how that works.

- Oh come on! I know you've got enough imagination to figure out how that trick goes. If you can pretend your hand is a pussy, then you can also pretend your tongue is a pencil.

- Really, Andrea, I don't see it. Can you show me?

- I'm not showing you, she said. You figure it out.

- You know, they say that a picture is worth a thousand words.

- Yeah, and those thousand words are all: no.

- Andrea, I'm begging you.

- Not a lick of a chance.

- I'm down on my knees.

- You're not, and let's keep it that way.

It's a good thing I didn't actually kneel in front of Andrea to beg for her help because right at that moment, her girlfriend came in. She was coming back from the grocery store with two whole bags of fruits and vegetables: carrots, cucumbers, parsnips, zucchinis, leeks, plantains and bananas. And also a huge pineapple which hopefully they were planning to eat. Andrea's girlfriend, Zoey, is a hot redhead with curves in all the right places, as the saying goes. I'm not sure what a wrong place would be for a curve; are there actually women out there with boobs growing out of their legs? So anyway, she's got a great set of matching tits and ass, and - according to my fantasy - her whole body is covered in freckles. I've been entertaining a lot of fantasies about Andrea and Zoey: how they kiss each other, caress each other, fuck each other, and also how at some point they get tired of tongues, fingers, dildos and cucumbers, and ask me to join them.

The very first part of that fantasy came true: Zoey put down the grocery bags and came over to kiss Andrea. One down, three more to go. I watched their lips meet each other and Zoey wrap her arms around Andrea's shoulders, pulling her closer. I think Zoey was about to stick her tongue out and into her girlfriend's mouth, but Andrea broke off the kiss and looked at me as if she wanted me to go.

- I'm going, I said. I'm going right away. Just show me that thing and I'm gone.

- I'm not showing you anything, Andrea said. You figure it out.

But Zoey didn't understand what we were talking about.

- What thing? she said. What thing are you not showing him?

- The alphabet, I said. My girlfriend is going to dump me if I don't know the alphabet, but Andrea doesn't want to show me.

- Don't listen to him, Andrea said.

- Show me in your hand, I said. Pretend your hand is a pussy, and then pretend that pussy is also a book, and then... uh... open that handbook with your tongue which is actually a pencil...

- Oh, that alphabet! Zoey said.

And then it was Zoey's turn to laugh at me. She must have thought, at first, that I was asking Andrea to show me the actual alphabet, as if I didn't know how to read, but then she understood what I meant. But she kept giggling for a while, and I got the feeling that this was such a basic trick for a lesbian that it was just as funny whether I was asking about the actual alphabet or not. I bet it was like hearing a grown man ask about the birds and the bees.

- You need to learn about the alphabet! she said.

- I know! But Andrea doesn't want to show me.

- We'll show you, she said.

- No way, Andrea said. Don't listen to him: he's just pretending that he doesn't understand because he wants to watch.

- I don't think he's pretending, Zoey said.

- Of course I'm not, I said. Listen to your girlfriend, Andrea. She's right, you know.

- Yeah, I don't think he's pretending, Zoey said a second time. I think he really doesn't understand, I believe him. I think he's just as dumb and clueless as he looks. He's so dumb, and stupid, and has no idea -

- Okay, okay, I said. We got it. We all got it; even I got it.

- Come in the bedroom in five minutes, she said.

- Zoey, you're crazy, Andrea said.

- That's why you love me, baby!

I am not going to spend too much time describing the couple of minutes that followed: it was just me standing there and getting a boner as I imagined what was going on in that bedroom. Every minute I had to wait felt like an hour. The Cialis ads say you should call a doctor if your erection lasts more than four hours; mine lasted five before Zoey called me in. She'd taken off her panties, her jeans and her shoes (but probably not in that order) and was lying on the bed. Andrea was sitting next to her with a frown on her face; she'd only taken off her glasses. I got the impression that Andrea didn't want me there, but that she also couldn't say no to her girlfriend. And apparently Zoey really wanted me there.

I didn't ask myself too many questions at the time - I had other things to think about! - but afterwards I wondered why Zoey was so eager to have me watch Andrea go down on her. Why would a lesbian want some guy she barely knows to be there when she is being pleasured by her girlfriend? I thought that maybe Zoey was bisexual and was being turned on at the sight of the bulge in my pants. But I was wrong: Zoey isn't bisexual; she's totally a lesbian. She's a 7 on the Kinsey scale - the only scale on which she's not a 10. I now understand that it wasn't my boner that was turning her on, it was the very idea of a man who has to watch two beautiful women pleasuring each other but isn't allowed to join in on the fun. Zoey didn't care how hard my cock was, she only cared how hard it was for me to not pull it out of my pants. She isn't bisexual, she's a bitch.

Andrea must already have done the "edge of the puzzle" part before I got there, because she said:

- Now pay attention, because I'm not doing this twice: I'm going to write an A.

- Is it okay if I sit on the bed too?

- No, you stay there. You stand there and you don't come any closer.

- And you keep your hands behind your back, Zoey said.

This wasn't what I'd been expecting, but they left me no other choice. It sure would have felt good to sit on the bed right next to Andrea and watch how she licked her hot girlfriend's pussy. I would have been close enough to see and hear every little detail: the goosebumps on Zoey's skin as she got aroused, the soft sounds of her wet pussy, the little gasps Andrea made whenever she caught her breath. I might even have been close enough to brush against Zoey's leg or thigh - in a purely accidental manner, of course. But instead, I was kept away from the action, and I couldn't even pull out my dick and stroke myself while I watched from afar. I had to put my hands behind my back and clench them together to make sure they stayed there.

Andrea lowered her head between Zoey's thighs, stuck out just the tip of her pink tongue and wrote the first letter across her girlfriend's smoothly shaven pussy. Actually, it didn't look to me like she was writing; it reminded me more of painting. She was moving her tongue several times over the same spot, as if she wanted to make sure that Zoey felt exactly which part of the letter she was tracing. Andrea's tongue wasn't a pencil - it was a ballpoint pen running out of ink. But Zoey didn't seem to mind: she had her eyes closed and a blissful smile on her lips. Andrea hadn't even finished painting the horizontal bar across the A and already I could hear Zoey breathing long, relaxed sighs of contentment.