Joe Blow Job

When was it? Who was it? What was it like?

My first time.

All I remember are bits and pieces. Of his bits and pieces.

A zipper yanked. Jeans puddling down. Around his spindly ankles.

My first time.

I remember his hand on the back of my head. Fingers wending like a snake in the grass.

A soft, husky whisper. “Do it,” he said. “How?,” I said.

My first time.

He held it out to me between two fingers. Like a sacred offering to the Gods.

“So pink,” I thought. Like Barbie’s skin. Only, softer.

My first time.

I blew on it, softly, as if scattering fluff from a dandelion. He shivered and tightened his grip.

“No, like this,” he said. Poking my closed lips. Not so soft, now.

My first time.

He wanted in. In my mouth. Tried to gain entry. With his thing. His cock. His dick. His manhood.

A tentative sniff. My lips slowly parted. So this, is that.

My first time.

What I remember most: There was no blowing involved. No. No blowing, whatsoever.

Not by me, anyway.

Sherry McGuinn is a longtime Chicago-area writer and award-winning screenwriter. Her work has appeared in The Chicago Tribune, Chicago Sun-Times and numerous other publications. Sherry’s manager is currently pitching her newest screenplay, a drama with dark, comedic overtones and inspired by a true story.

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