MoxieintheCity.net - Social/Professional Networking Events & Workshops

Aug 27
What Your Voice Says About You

Mar 25
Passion Play

Feb 14
Hook Up How To

Feb 07
Match Point

Nov 14
Immaculate Deception - False Advertising on dates

Oct 19
About Last Night - Fellatio Class

Sep 12
Lapdance 101 - Give Me Your Lap and I1ll Change Your Life

Aug 22
Sex Ed for Adults

Dec 01
Lock and Key Parties Inspire Harlequin Novel

Nov 15
Moxie In The Press - Ready To Stop Being Single?

Oct 01
Why Can`t You Just Say `Not Interested?`

Oct 01
Moxie in the Press - Dating Trends from The Tyra Banks Show

Sep 01
How To Score at A Singles Event

Aug 11
Moxie in the Press - Moxie Feature din ABC.com Article About Online Dating

Aug 04
Moxie in the Press - Giving Karma A Nudge - Flirting Workshop Review

Aug 01
(S)he`s All That

Mar 01
Moxie in the Press - Match.com Review

Mar 01
Moxie in the Press - Nerve.com Review of Moxie`s Bedroom Confidence Workshops

Dec 31
Lapdance 101

Dec 31
Fellatio in the District

Moxie in the Press - Nerve.com Review of Moxie`s Bedroom Confidence Workshops

Fellatio school by Jen Miller
To become a scholar of and to achieve excellence in the field of
cocksucking
by attending a class on the art of fellatio.

Hypothesis:
State your hypothesis in the form of a prediction that can be verified
by
the results of the experiment.

Upon graduating from art school, I promised myself that I would never
again
grace the halls of academia. I broke this rule only once, to take a
class on
Tolkien at The Learning Annex. But when a fellow Nerve contributor
e-mailed
me an E-vite for a class on how to give better blowjobs, I knew it was
time
to strap on my thinking cap, dust off the Trapper Keeper and bust out
the
kneepads. I got my B.F.A. in sculpture, so my continued education will
be in
a far more useful field. Sucking dick is a skill that can be employed
time
andtime again to great effect. But does the perfect blowjob exist, and
can
such skills be taught in a class? Can a small-mouthed woman like myself
achieve such greatness? Will I become the Zamfir of the skin flute, or
will
I fail to make beautiful music on my lover's organ?

Materials:
Please list all the materials required for this experiment (including,
if
applicable, how they were obtained).

- Ten dollars
- Notebook and pen
- MetroCard
- Willing blowjob recipient

Method:
In this portion of your report, you must describe, step-by-step, what
you
did in your lab. It should be specific enough that someone who has not
seen
the lab can follow the directions and recreate the same lab.

Like the surfers searching for the perfect wave in Endless Summer, my
quest
for perfection would take me far from home. The seminar was being held
on
the Upper West Side, a good ten subway stops from my apartment.
Hesitantly,
I approached the building, which purportedly housed something called
"the
Sexy Spirits Lecture Room." I had expected a scholarly, stone palace
bespeaking secret orders, but this looked more like an apartment
complex.
Inside, a mustachioed man greeted me and requested that I remove my
shoes before entering the space. A handful of women hovered in the
doorway,
slipping off their heels and glancing around furtively. I shared a
nervous
glance with a professional-looking woman. "I'm just gonna stay out here
and
wait for my friend," she said. Suddenly I felt like a loser for being
there
alone. It was high school all over again! I glanced over my shoulder to
make
sure no one had taped a "Kick me, I'm an art fag!" sign onto my back.
The lecture room screamed New Age aesthetics. Billowy wall hangings
depicted Hindu goddesses while a trippy, fractal video played to the
rhythm
of chanting Eastern music. A warm fireplace roared in the corner.
I introduced myself to Moxie, the evening's educator. "Hi, I'm Jen,
the
writer from Nerve who contacted you," I said, shaking her hand.
"So, what kind of stuff do you write about?" she asked.
"I'm writing the 'I Did It for Science' column that Grant Stoddard
used
to write. This is only my second installment."
"Oh, I looooved his column," she gushed.
To make a Three's Company analogy, sometimes I feel like Grant was
the
Suzanne Somers of Nerve. This would make me the Jenilee Harrison of
Nerve,
which is a very tough thing to be, especially because most people don't
even
remember who Jenilee Harrison is.
Settling onto a rattan stool, I gazed at my new professor. An
attractive
brunette dressed modestly in black slacks and a blouse, she seemed to
be in
her mid-thirties. Nothing about her shouted "Blowjob Queen." The way
she
moved was tomboyish, like a much hotter version of my high school field
hockey coach. (I, too, am a tomboy, but I'm more of a tomboy/drag
queen.) I
checked out Moxie's lips; they were larger than mine. She looked like a
regular woman, yet apparently she held the key to pussy-whipping the
male
species.
When she's not teaching, she's the owner of the national
interactive
singles event service MoxieintheCity.net and writer of the popular blog
"Sex
and Moxie."
Who is the typical blowjob student? I wondered, surveying the
crowd. The
average female student seemed to be in her thirties. When I told my
friend
Bruce this, he suggested that many of these women were probably looking
to
"make a baby" and therefore felt they needed to acquire certain skills
that
would make a man consider filling their hot ovens of ovum. For whatever
reason, thirtysomething women are most interested in giving great head.
(Men, mull this over the next time you drool over Reagan-era hotties.)
The male students seemed a bit older, probably in their forties.
Most
were wearing suits, and all gave off a distinct air of awkward
straightness.
Why would straight men attend a class on fellatio? Maybe to be in a
room
full of women who not only give blowjobs but want to improve their
blowjobs,
too.
With the exception of a hippie girl sitting on the floor and me,
most
students looked like they'd come from work on Wall Street.
Two suit-clad men sat down next to me. "What brings you here?" one
of
them asked me.
"I'm a sex columnist," I replied, regretting the words the second
they
came out of my mouth. The term "sex columnist" would seem to imply that
I am
some sort of expert on sex, which I'm not, so I added, "But I give
horrible
head."
"How does one become a sex columnist? I mean, that's not really
something
you plan to do when you're seven."
"When I was seven, I wanted to be Miss America," I said, "but then I
realized all of the Miss Americas had big boobs, and that didn't work
out so
well."
Another dude sat down next to me. I could hear him breathing in a
manner
I found irritating. "Should be an interesting night," he chortled.
Once almost thirty people had taken seats, Moxie introduced a tan
fellow
named Anton. He owns the Sexy Spirits Lecture Room, where seminars are
held
almost every night. Anton described Sexy Spirits as "a sex-positive
education center specializing in the raising of consciousness through
Tantric and Taoist sexual practices." (You can see a picture of Anton
and
check out the class descriptions at sexyspirits.com.) At the end of his
spiel, he yielded the floor to Moxie.
"Anyone here go to Catholic school?" she asked. A few hands shot up.
Moxie explained that she was the daughter of an extremely traditional
Sicilian Catholic father who taught her one thing about sex: it was for
marriage and procreation only. I could not relate. Even though my
parents
never talked about sex, I discovered their hidden copy of Joy of Sex
and
often replicated the positions assumed by the bearded man and
full-bushed
woman with my Barbie dolls. Because I only had one Ken, there was a lot
of
wild lesbian activity rocking the Dream House.
"I never knew how to flirt," Moxie shared. "I never knew that it was
okay
to talk about sex." Until one fateful day, when she went off to college
and
started dating "Robert," the campus stud, who asked her, "Do you know
what
the perfect blowjob is?" This Yoda of fellatio then taught Moxie how to
properly handle his lightsaber, and when she was done, he announced,
"That's
the best blowjob I've ever had," instilling his pupil with a sense of
confidence and power.
"Sexual confidence is about power," Moxie told us. "Not dominance,
but
the power to express your needs and desires." I'm confident that I'm
good at
some things, like swimming or making ribbon barrettes. But sexual
confidence
eludes me. The many years I spent being called "Sweathog" and
"Fat-Head" by
my older brothers dealt a horrible blow to my confidence, as did the
fact
that I looked like the singer Meat Loaf for the first six years of my
life.
Moxie asked the class to shout out qualities they thought were
sexy.
Curvy, stylish, smart, funny and creative were among the
Moxie professed that flavored lube is her fave.
responses. "Sexy is not an aesthetic," she said. "It's an aura." I'd
never
really thought about that, but it totally explains why male models
don't do
it for me, yet I have recurring dreams about Robert Plant and Jimmy
Page.
(Not the Led Zeppelin of yesteryear; Robert Plant and Jimmy Page as
they are
today.)
Now that the class had been invited to shout things out, the
"interrupters" began their running commentary. Every class, staff
meeting or
rehearsal has at least one interrupter. These people won't let the
teacher
get a word in edgewise as they spout off nonsense that they imagine is
somehow useful to the student body. These people will drive you insane.
First the hippie girl on the floor began. Soon thereafter, the
"breather"
next to me was interjecting. I wrote in my notebook, For the love of
God,
zip it and let's get on with the bj techniques.
"We're getting off subject," Moxie said calmly. "Let's get back on
track.
How many people came here to learn oral sex techniques?"
Ninety percent of the women's hands shot up. Moxie pulled out a
Sharpie
and wrote on a dry-erase board: Don't do it if you don't wanna. This
first
step seemed easy enough. If I'm attracted to someone I'll want to blow
him,
unless I have a sore throat or they have a wretched case of ball-sac
odor.
Step two was also relatively simple: Always lubricate the shaft, as
men
chafe easily and you won't want to blow him if his penis is covered in
flaking scabs of dry skin. Moxie professed that flavored lube is her
fave.
The male interrupter ‹ who I was now convinced was actually a virgin ‹
interjected, "Lube is too sticky," as if the entire class were planning
on
blowing him after the lecture.
We moved on to the subject of teasing. "Don't go right into it,"
Moxie
suggested. "Tease him. Trail your hair along his inner thighs. Look
into his
eyes. Take the time to turn him on." So the idea is not to just drop to
your
knees and start munching on his cock, although sometimes that's called
for
if you're in a bar bathroom. However, I'd like to publicly state that I
have
a small bladder, and I think bar bathrooms should be used for three
things:
peeing, puking if necessary, and for writing flattering graffiti about
me.
"Now it's time to get to work," Moxie declared. "But if you love
doing
it, it won't feel like work." Because I've reviewed several books on
the
subject of lovemaking, I already knew which "parts" supposedly produce
a
wellspring of love mayonnaise when properly handled. She suggested
making a
ring with one's hand and placing it around the shaft while you move
your
lips in order to cover more ground area.
"And, while you're doing it, don't forget to breathe!" she
exclaimed.
Apparently, breathing makes it easier not only to stay alive but to
suck
dick as well!
"Don't forget the boys!" Moxie advised." But again, do it gently."
The
idea is not to bite into his chewy center, but to lick the salty
coating.
"Change your pace. Don't let him come right away," she offered. "But
when
you get there, ladies, you have to tell him if you don't want him to
come in
your mouth."
So how do you know he's ready to shoot his load if he doesn't
scream,
"I'm going to come"? Most likely his breathing will get quicker and
harder
and his testicles will turn to walnuts, at which point it's time to
make the
big decision: to spit or to swallow? My feeling is that if you like
someone
enough to take their penis into your mouth for a prolonged period of
time
while also licking their balls and maybe even sticking a finger or a
butt-plug up their ass, and you know that this person is disease-free,
you
might as well swallow. It's a great way to get some protein if you're a
vegetarian. However, if the person you are blowing is a bad person,
quickly
move your head out of the way and see where his jizz lands. Then hand
him a
roll of Bounty and leave the room.
"Do you know why men prefer women to swallow?" Moxie asked. A
handful of
responses echoed throughout the classroom.
"They don't wanna make a mess and have to clean it up."
"My boyfriend tells me he feels abandoned if I don't."
"Because it feels good for him."
"Civilization would die out if men could blow themselves," a man in the
corner offered.
Moxie told us that it was all of these reasons and more: the
physical
aspects, the mental aspects and the laziness.
"I hate it," one woman exclaimed. "It's like the texture of egg
yolks!"
Others offered reasons why they either liked drinking semen or
didn't. I
felt like I was at a wine tasting.
"My test for any man," said a gorgeous Latina, "is whether or not
he'll
give me an open-mouthed kiss afterward. If he won't ‹ goodbye."
"You're gonna lose a lot of guys that way," forewarned the
breather. He
then delivered a monologue wherein he theorized that homophobia made
men
afraid to kiss women who've just swallowed their jizz.
"But if men could blow themselves, they would, all day long," I
told the
interrupter. "And they would swallow."
"Civilization would die out if men could blow themselves," a man in
the
corner offered.
Chaos ensued as the class discussed a mythical world in which men
could
blow themselves.
"Okay, I have a question for the ladies," the male interrupter
declared.
"As long as it's appropriate and respectful," Moxie stated, and I
could
feel a collective female eye-roll travel around the room like fans
doing the
wave at a Yankees game.
"If a woman goes down on you, does she always want reciprocation?"
"It's safe to say," I began, "that most women like cunnilingus, and
that
most women want to have orgasms. The answer to that question is yes. I
have
given hundreds of blowjobs," I declared. This is true. Considering I've
been
giving them for fifteen years, at roughly one a week, that totals 788
blowjobs. "And the amount of times I've been orally pleased is nowhere
near
that number." Now I was getting angry. "I once asked one of my lovers
why he
didn't go down on me as often as I went down on him, and he said it's
because I DIDN'T ASK!" At this, the women were horrified, on the verge
of
rioting. "Communication is important in sex, but a woman shouldn't have
to
ask to have her pussy eaten every time, especially when it's already
been
determined that she likes it."
The class agreed. Reciprocation is humane.
"Does anyone have any questions?" Moxie asked.
"How do you feel about props like Altoids and honey?" I inquired.
The men
in the room quickly debunked the Altoid theory, explaining that an
Altoid-coated tongue can often cause a tingling that is too intense.
But an
inventive class member shared that when she only used a sliver of an
Altoid
and some ice, her lover went crazy for it. Most of the class members
seemed
to think that honey was too messy and that anything you need a tarp for
should be avoided.
After answering a few more questions, Moxie wished us luck in our
cocksucking endeavors. Some of the student body mingled, but I thanked
Moxie
and shot out the door, anxious to put pen to paper.
The following day, I sat down to write my column and realized that
I
wouldn't know if my studies had been a success until I actually blew
someone. After all, you don't know if a driving class worked until you
get
behind the wheel. I would now have to suck someone's penis. The
question was
whose.
"A blowjob really is a gift when you think about it," my friend
Bruce
suggested. "You should only blow someone nice."
Sex should never be considered a commodity, but Bruce was right.
Only
nice people deserve blowjobs.
Fortunately, I'd made plans for Friday to hang out with two
extremely
promiscuous, bisexual bandmates named Orion and Erin. The sole members
of
the self-professed "shittiest band ever" had been sending me
indecipherable,
filthy email for the past month.
When "Fridate" rolled around, the duo arrived at my love pad
carrying a
bag of beer and the board game Girl Talk: The Game of Truth or Dare,
which
is intended for tweens, but can also be played by adventurous adults.
Girl
Talk consists of a small wheel that can be spun, Price is Right-style,
to
reveal questions and dares. An example of a dare would be, "Call the
operator and ask for the President's phone number." A
"We're totally breaking the rules," I said, dropping to my knees.
truth might be, "Did you ever cheat on a test?"
When Girl Talk is combined with alcohol, it can lead to some pretty
heated situations. When Orion received a dare that requested he "borrow
some
clothing from an adult and wear it for the rest of the game," I lent
him a
negligee. When I was told to "do whatever the player to your left tells
you
to," Orion had me make out with both him and Erin. Soon I noticed that
the
Girl Talk wheel was being manipulated in order to create pornographic
situations.
Seven hours, two pitcher-sized margaritas, one six-pack of
Budweiser,
two forties of Coors and two tallboys of Bud later, we engaged in a
raucous
game of Seven Minutes in Heaven. As Erin passed out on the couch, Orion
and
I went way over the allotted seven minutes. "We're totally breaking the
rules," I said, dropping to my knees and preparing to put what I'd
learned
to the test.
At first, I tried to concentrate on the various steps, announcing
them
as I went along. "Now I'm teasing you," I said, trailing my hair across
his
chest.
But my running commentary ended as I got to work licking, flicking
my
tongue and sucking, whereupon Orion elicited several extremely grateful
moans which would have made my alma mater proud.
"Oh God, I want to fuck you," he pleaded. I, too, desperately
wanted the
main course, but I remembered the assignment at hand and kept going,
torturing both of us. I was so wet that I had to masturbate while
blowing
him, which prevented me from fully using my hands ‹ probably a
technical
no-no. This, coupled with my intoxication, made for a blowjob that
didn't
reflect my recent education.
As four a.m. crept up and I was still going to town,
sleep-deprivation-induced madness and fatigue took hold. To be honest,
I
have no idea how long I spent on my knees. We were in a time warp, and
I was
delirious. Orion was clearly deriving pleasure from the skills I'd
learned.
But I felt like Frodo right before he tossed the ring into the Cracks
of
Doom. My mind and body had been ravaged by exhaustion and debauchery,
and I
just couldn't go on. If I hadn't grown lazy and stopped, my techniques
might
have resulted in a protein shake for breakfast.

Conclusion:
Summarize your findings. Don't forget to attempt to identify possible
variables that could result in different findings for others trying to
recreate your test results.

Succeeding in any field of study is a big commitment. At four in the
morning, my commitment had waned. Had I not been inebriated, exhausted
and
worried about breaking the rules of Seven Minutes in Heaven, I might
have
achieved greatness in the field of cocksucking. Instead, I failed in
almost
every capacity.
Even though I showed up for class on time and took abundant notes,
it
wasn't enough. My own personal lethargy was the biggest variable in the
experiment and prevented me from finishing what I started. This was as
if,
in painting "Woman With a Water Jug," Vermeer had only painted the
water
jug. According to the feedback I got from Orion the following day, the
skills I acquired in class were apparent, but the dedication to
excellence
wasn't.
Because the blowjob recipient is yet another variable, the lab would
have
been more thorough had I blown several men and reported their feedback,
but
I don't want to reduce myself to the role of human jizz-rag, even in
the
name of science.
Another variable was alcohol. Dale Earnhardt Jr. is a champion
NASCAR
driver, but if he showed up at the track drunk, he probably wouldn't
take
home any trophies. Sex is one of the few occasions in life when I
prefer to
be sober. Drunken sex is sloppy sex, and a sloppy blowjob won't win any
honors.
If one is performing a blowjob as the main event rather than as
foreplay, I suppose the goal would be to make its recipient spew forth
a
fountainhead of spooge while also experiencing one's own orgasm akin to
a
religious experience. This particular blowjob did not accomplish that.
However, perseverance is an important component of education. Because
I've
only blown one individual since taking my class, there's no telling
what
accomplishments the future holds.
As so many cheesy classroom posters have pointed out, "A good
attitude
makes a great difference." The tips and techniques I learned in class
were
helpful, but in my postgraduate studies, what I'm going to work on is
my
attitude. n°

"I Did It for Science" appears monthly.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Reverend Jen Miller, patron saint of the uncool, hosts the long-running
New
York City open mike "Reverend Jen's Anti-Slam." She is also the author
of
Reverend Jen's Really Cool Neighborhood, a Lower East Side travel guide
"for
the poor, deviant and bored." Visit her website at www.revjen.com.

Publication: Nerve.com
2005-03-01

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Moxie in the Press - Nerve.com Review of Moxie`s Bedroom Confidence Workshops