At Miles’s house, he packed up a duffel bag while I stripped his bed—we’d left it a mess yesterday morning. When he was done and I’d put fresh sheets on the mattress, he announced he had to write a quick blog post.
“Right now?” I paused in the middle of slipping a pillow into its case.
“Yes, before I forget any of the details of that fuckhot blowjob you gave me last night, although that is not likely to happen in this lifetime. If ever anything was unforgettable, that was it.”
My cheeks got hot. “You can’t write about me giving you a fuckhot blowjob!” I shrieked, although secretly it delighted me to think I might be the subject of one of his lurid posts. Me, of all people. Me!
He laughed. “I love when you say fuck. Listen, men and women depend on me. I make the world a sexier place, therefore a better place, when I share these things. And you’re helping me do that. You should feel proud of yourself.”
I chewed on my bottom lip. “Fine. But don’t use my name.”
“I never use real names.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged. “It protects the innocent, and it keeps things light. Fun.”
While Miles wrote, I sat on the porch with my coffee and a book from the house’s dusty library, a volume of poems by Mary Oliver. I’d never heard of her before, and I didn’t know much about poetry, but hers was so beautifully easy to understand, and so personal, I felt like she was speaking right to me. One poem in particular, called “When Death Comes,” made chills sweep across my back and down my arms. I sat up straight and read it again, then I looked out across the orchard, half expecting to find the poet herself standing there, pointing a finger at me. I looked at the words again, trying to memorize the final line.
I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.
It was such a simple statement, and yet so powerful an idea. I knew exactly what she meant. That feeling had inspired me from the time I was young to go after what I wanted and do my best to achieve those goals. Swimming, good grades, Dan, a college scholarship, my own business, my house…but I could see now how fear of change, or maybe fear of failure, had shaped that ambition into a careful, tidy, safe sort of life. And when my life was over, did I really want no mistakes on my record? No messy lessons learned? Nothing that made me say, I can’t believe I did that!?
I wasn’t planning to, as Miles said, fuck up my life. But I was planning on taking a few more chances. Living out loud a little more. If I made mistakes, so be it—I’d own them.
Miles came out onto the porch with his duffel, his computer bag, and his coffee. “Ready?”
“Yes. Just let me put this book back.”
He tipped his head too read the cover. “Ah. That’s a good one. I got it for my mom for Christmas one year after hearing Mary Oliver on NPR. I doubt she ever opened it. Want it?”
“I can’t take your mom’s book,” I said, rising from my chair. “But I might buy my own copy. I really like it.” After I replaced the book on the shelf, Miles locked up the house.
“Want to take the top off?” he asked after throwing his bags in the back and his coffee in a cup holder.
“Sure.” I put my coffee in the car too, helped him remove the roof panels and stow them in the back, then jumped in the front seat.
Miles slid in behind the wheel a moment later and surprised me by grabbing my face and planting a huge kiss on my lips.
Butterflies took flight inside me. “What was that for?”
“For being brave,” he said, starting the car. “I’m so fucking proud of you.” He threw an arm across the back of my seat and looked over his shoulder as he reversed out of the driveway.
“Thanks. I’m kind of proud of myself, even though my life feels a little upside down right now.”
He grinned as we started down the highway. “Told you it was me.”
It took me a few seconds to realize he meant Madam Psuka’s prediction. “Oh, stop. That wasn’t real. You didn’t upend my life, you just helped me see that I needed to make some changes. Have more fun. Explore a new side of myself.” I cocked my head. “Hey, what did you call me in your article, by the way?”
“Cinnamon Buns.”
“Cinnamon Buns!” I yelled, my eyes bugging. “That’s the anonymous nickname you gave me?”
“Yeah, why? You don’t like it?”
“No! For one thing, it will be totally obvious to anyone who knows what I do for a living, and for another, I thought it would be something sultry and glamorous, like Svetlana.”
“Mmmm, Svetlana.”
I hit him on the leg. Hard.
“I’m kidding,” he said, laughing. “You’re much hotter than Svetlana. Beautiful girl next door with hidden dirty streak beats Ukrainian acrobat any day. And anyone who reads this article will agree with me. Trust me, it’s highly complimentary.”
“When can I read it?”
“Right now if you want. It’s live.”
“It’s live? I thought you were going to let me see it first, at least!” Diving into my purse, I scrambled for my phone. “Oh, God. I’m scared.”
“Don’t be. I’m telling you, it’s all good.”
My heart thumped hard as I searched for his blog, my body prickling with heat. What had he said about me? I saw the right link in the search results, clicked on it, and began to read.
Want a Better Blowjob Tonight?
I thought so.
And I’m here to help.
Last night, I had quite simply the best blowjob you can possibly imagine. I’m talking the Aston Martin of blowjobs. The Stanley Cup of blowjobs. If blowjobs had a World Series, this girl was Ty Cobb, Roger Hornsby, and Joe Jackson COMBINED.
I’ll call her Cinnamon Buns. Because she looks as delicious and smells and tastes like the best one you’ve ever eaten.
This blowjob from Cinnamon Buns was clearly a gift from the heavens, and I feel strongly that the gods bestowed it upon me because they knew I would act benevolently. Thus, I share with you my experience not to inspire envy or resentment, but in the hopes that you can find a way to get your girlfriend’s eyes on this article and inspire her to blowjob brilliance as well.
In return, gentlemen, you will please follow this link to an article called 10 Ways to Get Her Off Tonight (You’re Doing It Wrong, Asshole).
OK. Let’s begin. You with me, ladies?
First, I want to commend you for reading. You’re clearly smart, sexy, and fun, which makes you the hottest woman he has ever known even before you put that gorgeous mouth on his unworthy dick. You are a goddess. (See what I’m doing here, guys?)
Now, I’m just going to come right out and say it: I’ve had a lot of blowjobs.
But this one.
This one.
As I watched Cinnamon Buns get to her knees on the floor in front of me, my dick sprang up like one of those inflatable Bozo the clown bop bags I had as a kid. I’d push it down and it would pop right back up again, ready to go.
Not that there is anything funny about my dick, of course. It is very serious. Let me rephrase.
My dick stood tall like a proud soldier ready for duty, weapons locked and loaded.
Much better.
I had a feeling before she even got started that this was going to be a blowjob of epic intensity, and I was right. Now, partly it was because of our great chemistry, and partly it was because she’s just magic, but here are five things I can’t stop thinking about today, things that you can do tonight to create a little magic of your own for your guy—just make sure he deserves it.
1) Take Control…Then Give it Up. Cinnamon Buns pushed me into the bedroom, shoved me down on the bed, and bossed me into a blowjob like it was for her, not me. She came at me like it was her birthday and all she wanted was a great big piece of birthday cock, and I was gonna give it to her or else. But she knows I like submissiveness too, and when I took charge, she let me.