A submission from across the pond. Sarah writes a dating blog called He Loves Me Not. I’ve followed the ups and downs with Sarah for a long time now and her blog never fails to entertain, amuse and, sometimes, shock me.
With Sarah’s submission came the following note for my blog readers…
Because of Nutty Cow’s nationality, I feel the need to disclose that I’m American. Therefore I spell funny. We Americans love our Z’s.
Not every post I write makes it to my blog. This is one such post. At the time it neither fit in with the storyline nor tone of my blog, so it was banished to the depths of draft mode. Enjoy.
Written 12 February 2011
Tonight I headed to happy hour with Harvey, her husband, Helen’s ex-boyfriend, Schmoozer, Swayze, Katie and Vince and his girlfriend. We were in our seedy bar with the beer-soaked wooden plank flooring. The free 6 o’clock shot had already been delivered and consumed.
“You know what I can’t stand?” I said as I finished my second beer. “No, I shouldn’t say it; it’s too raunchy.”
“Sarah,” Harvey said. “When has that ever stopped you? We keep you around because you are inappropriate.”
“Fine. I can’t stand it when you are going down on a guy and he grabs you by the back of the skull and he starts fucking your face. I’m pretty tolerant of a lot of things, but that just pisses me off.”
The table laughed. To be honest, the guys kind of laughed harder.
“So what do you do when that happens?” asked one of the guys.
I stuck my tongue inside my cheek to emphasize my mouth was full. “Uhn nuh,” I garbled purposefully. “And if they don’t listen to that, I shuck them.”
“Shuck?” The table laughed so hard that they were in tears. I forgot I was playing to an audience of people in committed relationships; this has become my role.
“You know, like an ear of corn,” I made the motion of teeth down a solid object. “Raking.”
Everyone was laughing so hard that tears were streaming down their faces. “Shucking? Really? Only you would compare a blow job to corn husking.”
This story made me famous. As each new person joined happy hour, I had to retell the story, making the Uhn nuh with the fake blow job in my mouth. It became the catch phrase for the night. Would you like to have another beer? Uhn nuh? Okay.
By the third or fourth time telling the story, I was over it. My cheek was sore from thrusting my tongue into it. It was no longer a liquid conversation; it became an act. I was playing the role of the fun, single girl performing for her dinner. The girl who gives blow jobs to boys that fuck her face. And I can because I’m single. And I meet boys off the internet which may explain my predicament altogether.
I watch the couples before me. Judging from exchanged glances, I can tell who the face fuckers are: Harvey’s husband is definitely one. So is Schmoozer. Swayze isn’t. Vince probably isn’t one either.
And they may have laughed at me, but it was I who had the last laugh: I’m not the one in the relationship with a face fucker.