20nothing.com

When I returned to university as a twenty-three year old, ninety-nine point nine percent of people asked if I was doing it to meet twenty year old boys.
“No,” I assured my professor. “But it is a nice perk, isn’t it?”
Mixing education and sex is, in my eyes, the meaning of life married into one convenient location. It is perfect for someone who, say, likes post-coital reading, post-coital intellectual conversation or, you know, just sex with a hot twenty-year old. University really does cater to every body. Fresh out of school, I have found myself searching for knowledge anywhere and everywhere. Cereal boxes are a perfect place to find trivia to kick-start your day. Apparently, alcohol isn’t included in the nutritional pyramid. I know. It shocked the shit out of me to.

Because I studied philosophy [and sleep with twenty year old boys], I don’t spend my Sundays at church.
“Do you want to go cruise sex stores in West Hollywood?” LA Girl Friend asked one God’s Day in November.
“Hell’s to the yeah I do!” I responded in excitement I usually reserve for said twenty year olds.
We dawdled past dildos, glided pasted gags and lunged over to leather.
“Are you looking for anything in particular?” We were asked in every store. Presumably because people don’t tend to go to sex stores for entertainment value without the intent of taking entertainment home with him.
“No thank you,” I politely told the tattooed girl who walked like she had anal beads permanently launched into her no-no hole.
After pricing the premier ass-less chaps that WeHo has to offer, we arrived at the Mecca of sex stores that makes one vibrate with excitement. The Pleasure Chest. We were immediately met with an advertisement. An offer, really, to continue our education.
“What are you doing on the eve of Thanksgiving?” LA Girl Friend asked me.
“I don’t know his name yet.”
“Do you want to go to Blow Job Class?”

When I started studying philosophy, I was nervous because everything I thought I knew was going to be proven to be wrong. The road to enlightenment is paved with self-doubt and necessary corrections to every ideal you have ever known. Attending Blow Job Class ignites an almost identical fear.
“I can’t even anticipate what they could say that I am doing wrong,” I told LA Girl Friend.
“I know. I have visions of me sitting there, shocked, screaming, ‘Excuse Me? What?!’”
As an avid studier, I have applied practice making perfect in every area of my life. Philosophy, smoking, drinking, you know, the usual. Blow Jobs, obviously, have not been an exception to the rule. In some cases, one song on iTunes is all that separates me from effort and going to sleep. But feeling your way around the process and having a professional tell you exactly what needs to be done are very, very different endeavors.
“What if I find out I have been doing it wrong for the past ten years?” I asked.
“They are probably going to tell us to put a finger in His ass.”
“This class is free, right?”

Blow Jobs are, I think, the most sexually intimate thing one can do. This, obviously, is a very different category to emotional intimacy. Unless you are one of the select few who deem a Penis In The Mouth to be the epitome of emotional richness. A Blow Job is the moment when all smoke and mirrors go away and you see Him closely and clearly for the first time. It is when you learn Who he really is.
“So, you really like him? That is amazing.”
“Well…”
“But yesterday you said you did?”
“Yes, but…”
“Oh. You?…”
“Yes.”
“I understand.”
Nothing more needs to be said. Such a little thing can be a big deal.

After studying three degrees of relative irrelevance to the corporate world, I have been desperate to acquire a degree that I can put on my resume to clearly insinuate that I have one skill I am good at. I have flirted with the idea of writing “Blow Job” at the top of the page previously, but unless a job interview went in a certain direction, I have never had official proof to back it up. The fear that I would fail the class was worse than when I handed in my final philosophy thesis after eight months research. I had more riding on it than the reverse cowgirl.
“I have been researching this for a decade,” LA Girl Friend cried. “And today, the one day, I have a blocked nose.”
“What the fuck do you need your nose for?” I squealed, literally terrified that my lesson had prematurely ejaculated.
“To breathe…”
“Oh.” That thing.
I know. It shocked the shit out of me to.

To Be Continued…