Post-blow job blues

I like to give oral sex to my husband, but I resent it when he won't reciprocate. Until he does, I'm on strike!

Published March 3, 2003 8:23PM (EST)

Dear Cary,

I like to give oral sex; I do. But my problem is to be left all hot and ready to go, while the old boyfriend takes a nap/shower post-blow job. This usually ends with me masturbating alone or next to a sleeping body, thinking about him or sometimes other men. It's a sad, sad state.

I adore this man, or I would not put up with this nonsense. This is what we argue about. Well, that and shrinking sweaters in the dryer. He is a great match for me and we have been together for four years.

What is really going on here?

What bothers me more is not that he won't put out, but that he will often pleasure himself with online porn late at night while I am sleeping. Leaving nothing for me. We've gone for months without traditional sex and frankly I think that he doesn't care. Right now, I am boycotting sexual affection -- sending him online in greater frequency and me hiding in the bathroom with my trusty dildo. I'm not sure where to go from here.

On Strike

Dear On Strike,

Please excuse the peremptory or even half-mad nature of this missive but while your fellow is getting oral sex I'm getting oral surgery and have to finish up a column pronto before they turn on the nitrous.

So quickly, before I begin dreaming of long vacations on lush tropical isles and wondering idly what that high-pitched whining inside my head is (don't think about it!), what's going on here is an escalating cycle of resentment and isolation that isn't going to solve anything. You have to change your tactics.

If you give him a full-on complete blow job, of course he's going to lie down and go to sleep. That's what men do. That's a law of nature. But if you only give him half a blow job, and then take his hard throbbing love member and shove it into your hot steaming love hole, taking care to do this quickly while it remains heroically turgid and throbbing and in fact nearly vibrating with primal priapic mojo, and then you mount him like a fierce Indian maiden, taking care to emit small shrieky animal noises like those you might hear in some steaming otherworldly jungle of erotic prose in the backroom of a small but thriving mom-and-pop porn publishing concern maybe down on Ellis Street in the Tenderloin, he will have no choice but to respond with fierce (if somewhat contrived), howling, primitive animal love-machine thrustings and dark, smutty imprecations and all that kind of thing until one way or another he has done to you those very disturbing and delightful things you wish to have done to you. And then you can be the one to go to sleep or take a long, leisurely shower. Don't you think?

One day science will figure all this out, but for now all we've got is the half a blow job and the aggressive manhandling of the relevant member. Look at it this way: If he's thinking with his dick, you're just making a good, strong counterargument.

Maybe in 100 years researchers will discover why when two people love each other and move in together the sex goes to hell. Maybe they'll find some tiny sex pheromone or bug or virus or even some psychic or telepathic medium by which the species' primal urge to reproduce quickly discovers when it's been circumvented by contraception or a flat-out desire to just have fun and ceases to operate, or they will discover something that we haven't thought of yet that will explain why sex is more interesting when it happens in the back seat of a car with your boss's wife or on a rooftop with your wife's sister or in some dark corner of some stranger's garage on the foosball table with the woman who brought the party balloons. They can put a man on the moon but ...

Yes, doctor, I think I'm getting the nitrous now. I'm counting back from 100.

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Want more advice from Cary? Read Friday's column.

By Cary Tennis

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