Motherhood & blow jobs

I gave my first blow job in the back seat of this random guy’s car. I remember he was a car (motor sport?) photographer. I do not remember his name but, then again, the same could be said of every guy I have had sex with. I remember my Husband’s name and that should count for something shouldn’t it?

I remember him asking for a blow job. I confessed it was my first time and he said he’d talk me through it. I was excited to try and so I did. And I loved it. The majority of my subsequent sex partners never asked. I never offered. If I’m being honest there wasn’t enough time for anything other than climb-on-climb-off-take-me-home-and-please-never-speak-to-me-again.

I did “date” this guy who could never stay hard so he preferred blow jobs. It turned out that he also had a penchant for forcibly holding my head down and forcing me to swallow. The first time was also the last time. I refused to speak to him again (and spent days trying to cure the burning sensation his sperm left in my throat) and decided to swear off blow jobs for good too.

And then I met Husband. I don’t remember the first time it happened except that he reignited my love for blow jobs. And he doesn’t make me swallow. With him I feel powerful. I can be a sexual goddess and perfect my technique. We can play around and try new things. Laugh at the things that don’t work.

When I had a baby though I resigned myself to living a blow job-less life. Mum’s don’t give blow jobs. They don’t have fun sex. They lie there and then go back to making pureed baby food. I had this perfect vision of what a mother is. A mother is not slutty. She does not like porn. She is great a craft. She doesn’t ever get sick and, for fucks sake, she does not have generalised anxiety disorder. She doesn’t have depression. OCD? What’s that? PTSD? No fucking way.

Yet, as plans tend to go, I failed at all of those things. I can’t draw. I despise the way glitter gets everywhere. And, gosh darn-it, I love sex. But I still felt uncomfortable that I wanted things in the bedroom that didn’t mesh with my vision of the mum I wanted to be.

After the first year I came back into my own. I discovered my love for doggy-style. Built up my toy collection. Found voyeur porn that I became obsessed with and went back to sucking on my Husband’s penis. Getting back on my knees felt wonderful. What can I say? It’s a huge turn on for me. I love the power. I love the way it makes him feel but, more importantly, for me at least, I love the way it makes me feel.

My kid is ten now and, slowly, over the years I have shed the image of the “perfect mum”. Mostly, because perfection doesn’t exist and, if it does, my version of perfection involves a penis in my mouth.