I’ll Never Forget The Time The Girl I Liked Vomited All Over My Dick

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Nice Move

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I love getting head. I’m sure a lot of you love getting head, too. A nice blow job can change a man’s perspective on things. It can sweeten a sour mood, if you’ve eaten enough pineapple. But not every blow job goes the way you want it. Sometimes, in the face of adversity, you get a nightmare blow job. That’s what I’m here to warn you about. I’m here to tell you the beej is an imperfect practice.

About two weeks ago, my fraternity brothers and I were out watching a playoff football game at one of the local college bars. It was one of those filthy, disgusting pubs with a sticky floor that you would never consider visiting unless your BAC was twice the legal limit. That wasn’t a problem for us, so we headed over there to hang out with friends and have a good time.

Halfway through the night, Rebecca, a girl I had been talking to on and off over break, texted me and asked if I wanted to meet up with her and her friends. I said sure, knowing my friends wouldn’t care, and told her to meet us at Nelly’s, the bar we were headed to. She obliged, and she brought some of her hot friends for my friends to attempt to take home.

She was super cool and we were having a good time. I could tell she was interested in me. I had been dealing with a serious sexual drought, so I wanted to close carefully and not screw up my only chance at hooking up with a girl for the evening. About an hour into hanging out, Rebecca asked if I would show her the “aquarium” in my apartment.

“Aquarium?” I asked like an idiot. “It’s just a betta fish. It’s not really that cool.”

Rebecca looked disappointed that I had clearly fucked up this excuse to invite her over to my apartment. I caught this quickly.

“BUT I’D BE GLAD TO SHOW YOU IT,” I practically shouted.

“Great,” she said. “I’ll get us an Uber.”

She said goodbye to her friends and we were off.

We got back to my place, and things started off awkwardly. I went to get some food for my betta fish, Thatcher. As I started explaining to her the violent habits of my ugly blue fish, she started taking off her clothes. I was kind of disappointed she wasn’t actually interested in my fish, but I got over it when we started making out.

Making out progressed into fingering, and before I knew it, we were naked on my bed. She told me she didn’t want to have sex, but that she’d give me the best blow job I’d had in years. (Little did she know, it was one of the only blow jobs I’d had in years.) I was more than okay with this. She kissed me down my chest before going off on my dick.

It was great at first, like any other blow job. I was just laying back, looking at the ceiling, satisfied with myself. My hand was on the back of her head, guiding her up and down as if she had no idea what she was doing. After what felt like a few minutes, I felt her jolt back. She made a weird noise, like a frog croak, and her perky tits bounced as she covered her mouth. Before I realized she was signaling for my trash can, it was too late.

Rebecca released one more croak-like belch and then unleashed a spew of vomit onto my chest, waist, dick, and legs. Anything that didn’t hit me hit my clean, white sheets. It outlined me like a corpse in Law & Order. It was atrocious. It was disgusting. It was absurd.

Embarrassed, Rebecca ran into the bathroom to finish vomiting. I went in behind her, fully erect, though it was dying off quickly, and jumped in the shower. When she was finished, she apologized through the shower curtain.

“I’m…I’m really sorry.”

And that was it. She got dressed, grabbed her things, and left. She didn’t text me. She didn’t call me the next day. She didn’t sit next to me in our foreign policy class. She acted as if she never wanted to talk to me again, all because she vomited all over my penis.

I haven’t gotten a blow job since then, and I’m strangely okay with it. I have sexual PTSD. It’s going to take me a while to fully recover from this episode. No amount of body wash and laundry detergent will wash away the memory.

Just remember that the blow job is imperfect. It feels great when it’s happening, but at any moment, things can go entirely haywire. Be prepared — it could ruin a great thing for you.

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