WILD Selfhood: On Fellatial Regurgitation

When I was 20 I threw up on a dick. It wasn’t a hefty load of vomit, but it did definitely happen. I was sucking said appendage—that of a usual lover, not a boyfriend but someone with whom I’d been sleeping long enough that the exclusivity conversation would not have been unbefitting—when, all of sudden, in tandem with Sam’s ejaculation, about half a cup of partially digested Gin & Tonic emerged from my mouth. It was a watery contents, chunk-free I’m happy to report, but still quite humiliating. So I did the rational thing: I pretended it didn’t happen.

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photo via Red My Lips

Much to my delight, so did Sam. About 15 seconds after he came (a long while when you have throw up trickling down into your pube-webs), he stood up. His nude, black, Adonisic body towered over me as I stretched out across my own vomit, clutching for whatever seduction remain of my character, when he said casually, “Wanna take a shower?” “Mmm, I’m okay,” I replied in that hoarse, post-blow job voice, needing a few moments of solitude to collect myself. He told me he’d be right back, leaned down, stuck his tongue between my lips covered in vomit coated in semen, and left. Of all the moments in our two-year fuck fest, this is the moment I thought most vividly: Wait, why isn’t he my boyfriend?

When he closed the door, I hopped out of bed and searched for some sort of fragrance to dilute the odor. Sam, however, does not wear cologne. The most plausible thing I found was St. Ives Oatmeal and Shea Butter body lotion, which I promptly pumped into my palm and spread across the stain, at once drunkenly impressed by my innovation and derisively disappointed that my blow job confidence dropped from about an eight to a two in a timespan shorter than Sam’s dick. (Not.) I assuaged the dismay by telling myself that any blow job to yield regurgitation must be great! Then I stuck my nose in our communal excretion and inhaled deeply. The effect of the lotion wasn’t wholly convincing—something like taking a whiff of a shit-stinking flower—but it sufficed.

I remember a vague smile as I laid down to sleep. My humiliation transitioning into a most unfamiliar pride: that of sleeping in dirty, dirty sheets. When Sam returned, he pulled me in close and we fell asleep in our waste.

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installation by the Chapman Brothers

When with girlfriends, it does not take long to humorize fellatial upchuck. In fact, regardless of any misery with which you deliver the news, barfing on a dick is pretty much its own immediate punchline. And thus, this very odd form of self-referential therapy. Generally, when I do something I’d rather not have, I cut straight to self-reproach, like a reflex. I like the analogy of dodgeball. Berating myself, ironically, feels like I’m successfully avoiding the mass of red rubber hauled at my head; while acceptance of throwing up on the dick, or getting so high that I lose all verbal abilities, or over reacting, feels like I’ve been hit square in the eye. However, when the defeat at hand (i.e.: dick-asphyxiation) so thoroughly transcends all those other petty downfalls that the only thing to do is laugh, you learn a lot. Particularly in the “how to be less hard on yourself when it comes to blow jobs and other stuff” department. And so sitting at the dinner table, beside three great friends, I was, if only for an instant, obliged to the previous night’s events.

Thinking about my overzealous gag reflex in this respect, I came upon a thought that has stuck with me in the four years since: Regurgitating on a penis was my own personal indoctrination into what is known as “your 20s.” It is my symbolic savior of what it means to exist in this decade of exalted self-interest and curable STDs*. Because really, what is your 20s if not a vomitus-dipped cock?

*Because of this article’s colossal admission, I feel I owe it to my dignity to make known that I have never contracted a curable or non-curable sexually transmitted disease.

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photo by Helmut Newton via ASX

There are the clearer parallels: a lack of control, a perpetual sensation of slight discomfort, the feeling that no matter how bright your mind, or sturdy your agency, there are some realities, some decisions, over which you have zero, or, like, negative ten, power. There’s the revelations that come along with social transgression. And then there’s the collateral imagery of this particular blow job and my current interior monologue: nothing says pandemonium like a mixed-medium collage of semen, saliva, an erect dick, and some heaved liquor :)!

That’s not all, though. I argue that my immediate treatment of the situation also holds emblematic water. I was grateful for Sam’s kindness, his compliance with my playing dumb. (I imagine acknowledging it would have been as humiliating for him as for me. How would one go about that?: “So you just threw up on my dick, right?” “Uh, yeah, sure, you wish.”) But I feel, had I understood myself a bit better in that year, in this year should it happen again, I might have risen my head from his groin and in uncontrollable laughter said forthrightly, “Oh my god, I just puked on your DICK,” cum-drool seeping from the corners of my mouth. Knowing Sam, who is a stalwart follower of Georges Bataille (apologies for the intellectual bullshit), he would have matched my hysteria, pulled my face to his, and we would have made love like neither of us had ever before. This is hypothetical, of course, but the distinct feeling that that is how it would have gone, has meaning to me.

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Bauhaus stage costumes via Retronaut

I’ve contemplated the reasons I couldn’t—or rather didn’t—do this, and although humiliation seems an apt explanation, I’m not entirely convinced. Sam and I had shared many an embarrassing story. He was closest to me during what remains my lowest year thus far, and I to him through a very sticky father-son fiasco. We knew, and still do, a rare comfort with one another. So why my secrecy, especially since the cat (vomit) was out of the bag (my mouth) no matter my lies?

I bend toward the concept of pretense. These years, for me at least, are ones of mendacity. Of denying that your penis is covered in my indigestion, of lying about my tastes until I’m comfortable with them, of faking it till I make it—and by make it I mean become okay with the idea that very little is going to be as I anticipate it to be. Especially sex. We’re conditioned to believe (via movies, tabloids, Calvin Klein ads, blah blah blah) that sex should look sexy: pretty, neat, deft, comely. Back in my virginal years, this is how I imagined I’d fuck—all compact and shit, with consciously intoned moans.

Then I choked on a dick and achieved enlightenment.

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Alfred Hitchcock on a sleigh ride with children via Retronaut

Sex, obviously, is best when it’s ugly and surprising and humane and my breasts have fused to my fat rolls in a rendition of the coil pot I made in 4th grade. I know this. But, since we’re moving ahead with the whole honesty bit, I still don’t really understand this. I’m not sure many of us (early—I’m holding out for a better ending) twenty-somethings do. I still want things (read: me) to appear a certain way. I want to fuck like a ballerina, and have long, slender fingers. I want to be as comfortable around strangers as I am around friends, have less social anxiety, and more timely wit. I want to know exactly what I want, even though I’m rather indecisive. I guess what this boils down to in the pot of clichés that is my life is: I want to know who I am. But, in your 20s, god pretty much just says fuck you, here’s a dick to munch on to that. So I did…

And in doing so, I realized that when you don’t yet know who you are or what you stand for, it is best to stand simply for what you do. Whatever that may be. Admit it to yourself. (Admit it to the world before you do to Sam, if you like!) Share your guilty pleasure songs, outrightly love The Voice, begin every holiday season with “Where Are You Christmas?” by Faith Hill. Quit your small lies! Tell people you’re fanatic about that prestigious film genre, The RomCom. Acknowledge that sometimes you exploit your friends and recognize that you were negligent of his feelings simply because he’s a dude. Enjoy “Say Yes To The Dress” more than “Twin Peaks,” be obsessed with Big Anj, publicize your Spotify account, and What the hell!, tell the girl you love a finger up your ass. And Girls, tell that man that that is not where your clit is. Admit it, take yourself in.

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sculpture by Jennifer Rubell

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had the opportunity to plead exoneration. “Well, I was super fucking drunk and he was fucking my skull, I mean the guy was literally fucking my skull, that ass hole. If you don’t want your genitals to be puked on don’t go around fucking peoples’ heads like the gag reflex is a myth.” But that would make me disrespectful of honesty, and, (here’s the key!) further away from who I am. (“My name is Bianca and I am a dick-choker.”) Be candid and your values, your self, happiness, even, will emerge from this skewed, messy, panicky as shit decade.

There were tinctures of that emergence that night. In the vague smile before I fell asleep—self-realization taking root.

 

In the past few weeks, I’ve made peace with the possibility that by writing whatever the opposite of anonymously is, I may be resigning myself to a blow job-less life alone. But I wanted to prove to myself that I’m capable of such grotesque and absurd admission, if only to understand that I am not alone. Somewhere along the line you, Dear Reader, have regurgitated on a penis, literally (stand strong my deep-throating peers) or symbolically, and that you too may have thought there was no path but denial. A more fortified falsity has never been.

In the end, maybe this is not your 20s, but just mine. Maybe this is another paradigm of the self-indulgent, “It’s my experience so it must be yours” mentality of this decade. But, maybe not. If so, if you, too, are dumbfounded—nearly paralyzed—by the chaos of selfhood at 20, 21, 22, 23, and now 24, come forward, Friend. Acknowledge that it makes more sense when you’re puking on the cock. For you are not alone.

text by: Bianca Ozeri










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