tagReviews & EssaysWhy I Give Head

Why I Give Head


From a very early stage in my sexual development, I knew that when I got serious about boys I should be a fellatiator. (MS Word is angrily insisting that "fellatiator" is not a word, but if Colbert is allowed "truthiness" as his defining characteristic then I can take fellatiator as mine.) Between the ages of about sixteen and nineteen I tried to abandon this idea, but I did so with the consciousness that I was outraging my true nature and that sooner or later I should have to settle down and give oral sex to a nice boy. This fascination seemed entirely at odds with my budding identity as both a feminist and a bi-sexual, but something had such a deep seated, unconscious appeal that no logical, conscious polemic could overcome it. Over time, I realized that this desire was inextricably bound up in my growing interest in Domination/submission. Simple sex is, at its core, a congregation of equals; two people come together to engage in a mutual activity for mutual pleasure. This sameness of purpose and activity limits the power difference between the two partners. Sure, one can go top and the other bottom, or you can slap your partner's ass, but in the end you are both "having sex", doing the same thing. In oral sex, on the other hand, there is no doubt that the two partners are engaged in very different activities (one giving and the other receiving) which makes a real difference in power possible. The giver may be submissive (offering pleasure to her/his partner for nothing in return) or dominant (holding the power of one of the most primal urges in his/her mouth), but s/he cannot be equal.

Some background might help you understand why this idea holds such appeal to me. I was born in mainland China to a relatively conservative Chinese family. My father's family had been Westernized Catholic bourgeoisie before the revolution, and despite his total apathy to all things theological the Church's strict asceticism had a formative impact on him. My mother's family were devout Communists who came east during the revolution, and strictly adhered to the Party's puritan stand on sexual deviants. The closest my family ever came to discussing sexual matters were fleeting references to my maternal uncle, who had spoken too freely about homosexual rights during Hundred Flowers and so had been "cast down" during the Cultural Revolution. Apart from their conservatism, my parents shared a sense of ambition (they met at Tsinghua University and bonded over their desire to go to America to make better lives for themselves) and they worked hard to instill those same values in me.

I don't remember much before we came to the US, but I do remember being quite upset by the move itself. My parents had benefited from a rigorous English immersion course that allowed them to be at least functional with the broader community, I had not. Almost as soon as we arrived I began kindergarten, and it was obvious that I just did not fit in. There were a few other Chinese speakers, mostly the children of grad students like myself, but the only one I really formed a bond with was an introverted girl who would later give me my first inkling that I might not be a 100% normal heterosexual. In lieu of a social life I threw myself into my studies, but we were required to be outside "playing" during recess, so I had to find other ways to pass my time. That's how I learned to watch, and watching is how I really saw power dynamics for the first time. There is a wonderfully complex hierarchy among schoolchildren with its own codes and shibboleths; it's just fluid enough to make it ever changing, but just solid enough that it can be understood and delineated. Those were unhappy times for me, but fortunately I had never been happy enough to realize how miserable I was.

I've long since forgotten how I learned about actual sex; I only know that when maturation class came in the 5th and 6th grades it held no real surprises for me. Some older girl had doubtless passed on the sacred knowledge of what would happen at some hazy point when my classmates and I were "older" before grown ups could ruin it with their level headed, practical explanations. In any event, as we passed into junior high the symptoms of puberty became the badges of maturity. Growth, swelling hips, budding breasts and even the dreaded menstruation would make us giddy with pride that we were growing up even as we were baffled by new emotions and experiences that neither gossip nor medical fact had prepared us for. Of course, whatever marks those who should be proud must also mark some with shame, and puberty wasn't easy on me. I was a fairly late bloomer, not having my first period until I was almost fourteen, and my breasts never quite grew to the impressive proportions I wanted them to. Doctors would sight my body fat as the reason for both, noting that I hovered around the very bottom of the healthy range. Still, junior high was a period of positive change for me. I was determined not to repeat my elementary school loneliness and approached networking with the same vigor I had applied to my studies before. My English had become near perfect, and my parents openly encouraged me to participate in school activities both for my happiness and for college applications, so my social life quickly ballooned with friends from things like math counts, science Olympiad and cheerleading.

It didn't hurt that, despite my wiry frame, I was fairly pretty in an Asian geek sort of way, which lead to the tentative advances of a few boys. I said no, of course, since my priority was still school, and I didn't think I had time for that kind of distraction (my father said it best in his terse way: "It's a lot easier to make a boy crazy for you than a college"). But no matter how emphatically I turned them down, they proved that my life had crossed one of the last thresholds of innocence: sex was now a factor. Of course, we were still in junior high, so most of it was not intercourse sex, but just "giving head", and even that was a serious allegation, mostly spoken in hushed tones as proof that someone was a slut. Still, the idea fascinated me whenever I caught a glimpse of an unusual bulge in a man's pants. I brushed it off as idle curiosity, assuring myself that I would never do anything slutty, and if I did it would be nothing so degrading to women!

Gradually, my aversion to the sexual melted away. First, it became more and more clear that the feelings my best friend's warm smiles and alluring eyes invoked in me were more than friendship or simple aesthetic appreciation. A few weeks later, terrified out of my mind and between my sheets I touched myself for the first time, leading to my first ever orgasm. After that, I was hooked. I started probing around the internet for more info, finding chat rooms on MSN and AIM, story sites like ASSTR (and later on Lit), dirty pictures, and so on. It always started out as "just a peek" to see what was new and usually ended with me sneaking back into my room, naughty thoughts of busty women and well hung men in my head, to finish my little ritual.

My exposure to online pornography/erotica/whatever-the-heck-you-call-it launched me on two parallel but somewhat contradictory courses. On the one hand, being exposed to such a breadth of human fantasy helped me begin to get a real grasp on my own sexuality; vague yearnings were crystallized with their own words and associated images. I discovered that I was drawn mainly to stories about Domination and submission its various forms, especially those with subs I could identify with: young, perky, a bit self conscious and usually Asian. Others tickled my fancy, covering a whole range of topics, but none stuck with me like those. And of course, among D/s stories my favorites pretty much always involved fellatio. The more I read about it, the more I understood why it appealed so much to the sub in me. Since ancient times, the phallus has been a symbol of virility, potency and power. Fellatio appealed to me so much because it tapped into that loaded imagery, becoming a form of total supplication to a cultural font of authority. I was so fascinated by this social dimension of phallic ideals that I convinced my (very enlightened) AP Art History teacher to let me do a term paper tracing attitudes towards the phallus as part of the human ideal from classical to modern times.

On the other hand, my research on the issue of pornography exposed me to a wide range of feminist debates about what exactly porn meant for women's rights. Some thought it was the perfect antidote for centuries of sexual repression, tossing aside the Madonna/wore dichotomy and finally acknowledging what every girl knew: we liked sex. Most, however, pointed out that there was a difference between women becoming sexual beings like men have been allowed to be for centuries and women becoming sex objects. Adding to my woes, I was not just a woman, but an Asian woman, and as many of the commentators I read pointed out, Asians in particular were feminized, eroticized and exoticized to create an appealing Other for western ethnic groups to project their fantasies on. Most Asian women, I am sure, can attest to the creepy guy who clearly has the "yellow fever" since Asians have been so essentialized as "ideal" women. The Cindy's Torment controversy was before my time, but there was plenty of evidence that stereotypical fantasies of meek Asian women still abounded, and I had indulged myself in more than a little bit of that evidence.

Torn between my principles and my lust, I did my best to live up to my principles. I would slip and read the occasional erotic story, but in general I suppressed my sexual tendencies, focusing on the billion or so other things there were to do in high school. My main lapse came after a fight with my mother, when I decided to accept a date with a boy in my class. I told my parents that I was going to a study session to go see a movie with him (I don't even remember what it was). At some point a little past the movies, he put his hand and my thigh and moved it higher and higher. I pulled away from him and told him to cut it out, but he just put his hand right back on and continued. That was one of the most terrifying moments of my life. My body wanted it, and I could even feel myself moistening, but at the same time I knew that I was not ready for sex, especially on a first date. I wanted to stop him, maybe hit him or call out and make a scene, but was too ashamed and confused. He actually started fingering me - commenting on my dampness and joking that I was "a tease" for telling him to stop - before I finally managed to tear myself away and called a cab to get home. I could tell my parents suspected something, but I could also tell that they could tell that I was not ready to talk about it, so my dad just made some of my favorite foods that night and we ate. I'll never be able to thank them enough for that.

My reaction to those unwanted advances became more confused as time went by. I knew, on a logical level, that I had been a victim of sexual aggression, but at the same time I found myself having erotic thoughts about the encounter. That confusion took a heavy toll on me, making me uncertain of myself and my friends (the boy and I traveled in the same circles). The rest of my senior year I was terrified of the very prospect of a relationship, too confused and frightened to talk to anyone about it, afraid of the litany of accusations against victims of sexual aggression that have become so common: that I really wanted it or was a cocktease or should have just let him "do his thing" and enjoyed it.

Thank God for gen eds. My university required me to take a survey gender theory course, and I figured I might as well get it over with and took it the fall semester of my freshman year. One article dealt with a woman who found herself aroused by unsolicited, obscene and threatening phone calls. Realizing I wasn't alone, I finally opened up about that night in a discussion session and was amazed at what the simple courage to talk did for me. Yes, I realized, I had been physically aroused, but that in no way implied consent, nor did having fantasies about submission, even fantasies involving non-consensual sex, mean that I condoned non-consensual sex or the objectification of women.

That same semester, in another gen ed, I met the boy to whom I would eventually give my virginity. We were both uncertain about sex at first, so we took it a little slow. But gradually things picked up, hugging begat kissing begat touching, begat petting. And eventually it came to oral. We had been fooling around on his bed, me hand was in his pants, and suddenly I got the urge. I just leaned over and whispered in his ear. "I want to suck it."

The poor guy looked like a deer caught in headlights, explaining in panicked tone of voice normally reserved for late term papers and missed finals that I did not have to, but I just explained that I wanted to. If he didn't think he was ready, that would be fine too, I was just expressing interest. He took off his lower garments in acquiescence, and I pawed at his dick a bit, studying it. I had never really studied one up close, and it had a sort of majesty...and truth be told, it was kind of cute (Sorry guys!). Then I started giving my first real BJ. Almost as soon as I started down his shaft, I got my first excited yelp. Unfortunately, he yelped "TEETH!" and was clearly not happy about it, so I scaled back my original plans of deep throating. After a nervous giggle and apology I got back to it, focusing on the head of his shaft, flicking over the tip with my tongue. He shuddered, and I was afraid I had screwed up again, but he just ran his fingers through my hair and assured me that time had been all pleasure. I was immensely satisfied with myself, having given him such pleasure, seeing the genuine affection in his eyes. Going back to work, he came pretty quickly and I swallowed it. It took a bit of wiping around with my tongue to get all the globs, and it left a salty after taste, but it wasn't that bad. And the look of afterglow on his face was priceless. I knew I had given that to him.

He offered to go down on me, and I said that if he wanted to I would be happy to oblige. It was my turn to lose the pants and he started up, but it was clear he did not enjoy it. When he gagged for a second then gave me the most apologetic look in the universe, I knew it was time to call it off and I asked him to just cuddle with me. We fell asleep spooning together and slept in the next day. I've been happier quite often, but there are very few times I've been so content.

As our relationship developed, we got kinkier and kinkier in our non-intercourse diversions. The poor guy was concerned that he was pushing me in ways I didn't want to go, despite the fact that I proposed most of our kinkier adventures. We started out with the boiler plate stuff, some spanking, some handcuffs, just the basics. Then came the silly stuff like letting him ejaculate on me, or wearing bra that he had sprayed onto (the cleaning was a little nasty, but it was worth it for the thrill). Then came the risky stuff, like giving him head with people around, or in the great outdoors. And yes, we eventually had sex.

Unfortunately, all good things come to an end, and we eventually realized life was taking us in very different directions. We remained close, but broke off the romantic element of our relationship. It took me a while to get back to wanting a relationship, but eventually I found another nice guy and life took its course yet again. This time I was a bit more eager, and after about a month of dating (on top of a long standing friendship) resolved to offer to go down on him. He was a bit more experienced than my last partner, and so took the offer a bit more graciously.

I started with my normal bag of tricks, a few teasing licks before slowly lowering my lips, setting up a deep throat run (I was so proud when I mastered that skill) when I realized there was something fundamentally different about how I felt. Instead of enjoying the sensation of giving, I realized that I was getting a total rush off the way that he responded when I ran my tongue around the rim of his cockhead. The jerk, the moan...I had power, and I liked it. When I thought he was a little too close to orgasm, I would cool down a little, enjoying the pleading, slightly befuddled look on his face. When he came at last, it was a geyser. He just lay there for several seconds, as I grinned up at him, realizing for the first time in my life that I had a bit of dominating streak in me. It was a nice realization.

That relationship also ended with a whimper after a good run, and although it never got as BDSMy as my first one (I definitely lean towards sub) we had our moments, including a fun little adventure in coaxed cross dressing that proved my fellatiation skills had become a powerful incentive (again, silly MS Word insists that my little word is not part of the English lexicon). Since then I have enjoyed a fair number of other activities, from more formalized, serious BDSM to just going down on another woman. It's been a wild two years, and there are definitely some things I regret doing, but when all is said and done I am happy for them. The sex was fun, but the best part of sex is not some physical stimulation that lasts a few minutes and is gone, it's the way that it can be a meaningful part of a relationship, deepening what people share between them. For me, that is what giving head in particular and D/s is really all about; exploring what's beyond "rub it by my clit so I can get off" and seeing how you can use your sexuality to interact with those you care about.

Thanks for reading,


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