By The 'Cunnilingus Cowboy' | Special to The Sun
So over the past three years of “sex” columnists, you guys have been treated to the girl who looked deceptively attractive in her picture, the singing sorority girl and the faceless slut. After wading through three years of over analysis and complaints about the socio-cultural double standards regarding oral endearment amongst the two sexes, I thought it was only fair that y’all got a slightly different viewpoint. Now, one may think that someone who calls himself the Cunnilingus Cowboy is also going to reflect on his gargantuan wrinklebeast and ability to satisfy every Kappa on campus in one night. I, however, plan to recount a night that some of you faithful readers may be familiar with: a night in the infamous quarters of THE Jenna B.
Now before you all drop the paper, thinking that the faceless wonder is just using another faceless wonder as a clever ruse to trick you into reading about her likeness to Aphrodite, take a pause. My night was, by no means, filled with wonder, awe, or a particularly satisfying ending. My goal here is to demystify this (not particularly) elusive creature who makes her home here on East Hill.
It all started with a fairly standard Thursday night at Rulloff’s. While I don’t know her all that well, I do know that every time I stroll into Rullies after about 10:03 p.m. I can find her there. Preliminary observations: sloppy drunk, spilling a double vodka soda on a dude with a wispy stache, 85 percent of the larger “titty” taking a breather from inside her shiny shirt. I just found out that my girlfriend had cheated on me with Hank Azaria from the Birdcage (not really, but close enough), and is there a better way to heal than in the embrace of a drunken sex columnist?
I got a drink and went over for the obligatory greeting plus boob graze, and we were off to the races. She started regaling me about some book she’s gonna write and slugged back another double V&S in about 3.8 flat. I thought to myself “now’s as good a time as any.” We left.
The walk home was an exercise in personal strength and agility. I had to try to balance my own drunk ass, along with hers, while she tried to rip down her third cigarette over the course of about 20 minutes. Danger.
So after nearly getting stabbed in the face with her Marb Ultra Light and dragged to the sidewalk because her heel broke, we made it to her bedroom (I’m guessing this is where one finds the notorious “Bedroom Eyes,” but no such luck). She said something odd to one of her roommates and the bedroom door sealed us in.
Blah, blah, blah, undressing, kissing, slightly ripped undershirt.
I thought it only right to support the good name of man in this case, so I hunkered down at the fork in the road … wait for it … wait for it … YES! And I went to work. I was pulling out every trick I could think of, and what do I get? Pulled hair and my face being repeatedly shoved into Cootertown. Let me tell you something: any complaint Jenna B. has ever made with regards to improper treatment during fellatio can be immediately thrown out. After all was said and done, she didn’t even thank me for shaving right before I went out (and down). How rude.
So once my tongue was ready to fall off, she sorta returned the favor. Little too much teeth, lacking in attention to detail. All in all, 5.75 outta 10.
You’ve read much more than you probably ever wanted to about the thigh clapping this girl has been involved with, so I won’t overdo it on the details. Let me just say this: her poor roommate playing Guitar Hero in the living room must have better knowledge about Jenna’s moaning patterns than Keith Richards does about coke. It was a veritable symphony with complexity in pitch, volume, and duration. I don’t know how to describe the sound she made when I accidentally elbowed her in the ribs (don’t ask), but it haunts me to this day.
Overall, I would have been reasonably satisfied with the exchange as a whole, were it not for the egregious breach of standard sexual protocol that followed. We’d just finished, and I was lying on her bed, naked as the day I was born. I felt like all the hard work had been worth it for that very moment (then again, I always think that). Guys can certainly relate to this beautiful, ethereal, post-coital place where you sort of float above the bed in euphoric bliss. You are neither asleep nor awake, and all is good in the world.
“EWWW GET UP! YOU’RE GONNA GET BABY GRAVY ALL OVER MY FUCKING SHEETS!”
That’s right. She said it. No thank you for the (seeming) hours of tongue pilates, she didn’t even hop on top at all. Is it so much to ask for a moment of peace after sacrificing life and limb? I brought a condom, dammit — and it wasn’t even in my wallet! The nerve.
I guess after all is said and done, I have something to show for it. I climbed the mountain that only .000000634 percent of the world’s males have (it sounds better that way). Now I can say that I went to bed with a sex writer, and for all you know, maybe now you have too.
The ‘Cunnilingus Cowboy’ is a senior. The Sun granted him pseudonymity to protect his identity, but has verified, to the best of its ability, the facts of the article. The article is printed with Jenna B.’s permission.