What's this now, you ask? We take an awkward sex mishap and turn it into a triumph in these stories from the sexual front lines. Sex is messy and unpredictable and humorous.  It's not your confession or your worst ever (fill in a saucy word here), it's simply your Parlor Trick.  So gather 'round for a story in our first ever Parlor Trick series. It's not pretty. Just pretty awesome

I was a late bloomer. Even though I spent my adolescent years making out with my Josh Hartnett poster and rubbing my naked Barbie and Ken dolls together, I was not a beacon of raw sexuality. I didn’t get my first kiss until I was fifteen. I didn’t have skin-to-skin contact with an erection until two months before I graduated high school. Over time, sexual frustration began to take its toll and I grew an impossibly large penis-shaped chip on my shoulder. This chip didn’t make me resentful or world-weary, however. It made me ambitious. I was like a sexual Napoleon, but instead of overcompensating for my height, I was making up for lost years of erotic experimentation.

If you know your history, you know that Napoleon spent years winning battles all over the world, vanquishing enemies and just generally killing it, military-wise. You also know, then, that Napoleon eventually decided to invade Russia where the empire he built went tumbling down in a hail of bullets. Similarly, I spent a few years invading bedrooms, leaving a trail of orgasms and satisfied men in my wake. Like Napoleon before me, I got cocky. My Russia was deep-throating.

I had a crush on Eric* for a few semesters. He was smart, cute, and funny as hell, and I wanted to impress him. I prepared for our date, pizza and a movie, in all of the usual ways. I did my hair, my makeup, shaved my legs, watched a few hours of deep-throating porn with the intent gaze of a scholar, and picked out my outfit. I was ready.

By the time he came over I was buzzing with excitement and a few glasses of wine. My stomach was churning with nervous excitement all through dinner, the rest of the bottle of wine, and the first half of the movie. I’d had enough of idly making out and massaging his thigh through his jeans. I wanted to blow his mind.

I took him to my room, threw him on the bed, and ripped off his jeans with the enthusiasm of a horny teenage boy. From the minute I took him in my mouth, though, I knew something was wrong. The combination of the pizza, wine, and flustered butterflies in my stomach were making me hot and feverish. Never one to back down from a challenge, however, I persevered until one thrust caught me off-guard. From the back of my throat I could feel the remains of dinner rise up and even though I tried to fight it, there it was, making bedfellows with my crush's perfect dick.

My pursuit for perfect blow job was dogged, though, and I couldn’t stomach defeat. So I made the only choice I could make. I swallowed. I wouldn’t let my weak gag reflex ruin this for me. Shortly thereafter he finished, and in that moment, as I ingested my second bodily fluid of the day I felt something else swell up inside of me. Pride. Because, you see, this is where the similarities between me and Napoleon end. I could have fled my metaphorical Russia and admitted defeat, but I was steadfast and resolute even in the face of regurgitated pizza. 

It is my greatest sexual achievement born out of my greatest humiliation. It is my parlor trick.

Emily Frances is a writer from the heart of the Rockies. She enjoys scotch, beards, and dancing that doesn't involve crotch-to-butt contact. Follow her on Twitter @pocketcopter


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