Story of My Life Read Online Free PDF

or else they just have to promise that they’ll act and talk like they’ve been lobotomized, grunt in monosyllables like cavemen, and limit their emotions to the range between A and B. Still, they’re the only other sex we’ve got. And they can make you feel so goodsometimes you want to scream like the housewife who’s just won the big prize on
Wheel of Fortune
and generally forgive them for being men.
    So Dean finishes shaving, wipes himself off and walks out into the kitchen, ignoring me. I follow him in. Cute butt. He sits down at the table and picks up the
Times.
    I’m thinking about firing up the first cigarette of the day but then I get another idea.
    Poor baby didn’t get no satisfaction, I say, coming up behind him and rubbing the back of his neck. I start singing, I can’t get no . . . I can’t get no . . .
    He resists for a while, keeping the muscles tense as I work my way down, pretending he’s reading, but gradually he starts to slump in his chair and when I kneel down in front of him and start to massage the inside of his legs he lets out this big moan. He reaches out to stroke my hair, leans his head back, closes his eyes, his breath catching in his throat when I reach for the little opening in his boxers.
    He gasps when I take him inside my mouth, and that’s just the beginning. I mean, I haven’t met too many guys who say
no thanks, honey, I’d rather watch the game
when you suggest a blow job. But still, I never heard anything like the chorus of weird satisfied sounds coming from Dean while I’m going down on him. It makes me feel really good, like a nurse or maybe an angel, doing my good deed for the day. I mean, this boy is appreciative and that really inspires me.
    What can I say? I’m an actress.

    Let me just say that in general my feeling about blow jobs is, I can take them or leave them. In fact, mainly I could leave them. Guys, of course, won’t let you and I suppose you can’t blame them. I mean, if it’s anything like having a guy you really like go down on you, particularly if he’s shaved recently, then who can hold it against them, really? God knows I’d rather lose my left arm than go without that for the rest of my life. So, like, I usually figure its kind of a trade-off. You know, the I’ll-lick-yours-if-you’ll-lick-mine kind of thing. Except one thing that really grosses me out—somebody ought to write a book about modern etiquette that covers this sort of thing—one thing I hate, right? is some guy going down on me the first date. I think that’s incredibly presumptuous and rude. Fucking is one thing. But sticking your face in someone’s crotch—I mean, that’s really intimate. And I get really uncomfortable and weirded out when it’s some guy whose name I never did catch over the music on the dance floor. I think you should put some talking and kissing mileage on your lips before you put them on my, uh, lips. Okay, guys? Just in case anybody out there wants to know.
    And another thing I don’t like, as long as we’re on the subject, is when some guy is going down on you, and you’re like—wow, even if there isn’t a God it’s okay, I can deal with it no problem, like, I could give a shit—and you’re floating in some kind of warm liquid trance when you suddenly feel theold pivot. You know what I mean, the old swivel where he’s still got his tongue in your southern cleavage but it’s rotating, swinging the hips northward and suddenly there’s this dick banging against your teeth. I don’t know, I suppose trading favors is what it’s all about. I mean sometimes I think we’re all just masturbating each other any way you look at it. If we’re not jerking each other around, we’re jerking each other off. But still, do we have to be so blatant about it? I mean,
really
.
    Actually, my last real boyfriend, Alex—the only real boyfriend I ever had in my life, we went out for five years—he was blatant about it. He’d make deals. Like, for instance,