Dear Cunnilingus,
This is a difficult letter to write. But it has to be said. I’ve been struggling with my feelings about you for a long time now. I wasn’t sure how to express it all clearly and carefully, without hurting you. No one ever wants to hear that they’re not the cat’s pajamas. Believe me, I understand.
The first time we met we were immediately off to a rocky start. It was with my high school boyfriend, and we were both really inexperienced. He had no clue what he was doing, definitely clueless as to where my clitoris even was, and all I felt was a mess of saliva and nothing else. Afterward, my boyfriend and I agreed you were not as exciting as we had heard from more experienced friends, and you were never part of our repertoire again. We stuck to missionary, vanilla sex, the kind that comes with being 17 and 18, and we did our best not to mention you and the debacle you were in our lives that night, in the back of his dad’s car.
But, as with all high school love affairs, the inevitable breakup followed, and I was thrust into the world of casual dating and even more casual hookups. I was in college then. I had people to try out and on for size.
Time and time again, you came up in conversation, both in bed and out. If I could weasel my out of you, I would, and if my friends went on and on about how much they loved you, I followed suit. It seemed strange to me that anyone would find such pleasure in so much slobber, especially when it never, at least for me, resulted in an orgasm. Sorry to say, Cunnilingus, but in my experience, it’s while I’m receiving you that I’ve gotten some of my best thinking done: What do I need to buy for groceries? Am I out of mayo yet? I wonder how I’ll look in that dress I saw in the J.Crew window. I mean, it is my color after all, and I already have shoes that will go perfectly … Is he done yet? Should I fake it now or later? If I fake it now with a few moans, maybe he’ll stop and put his dick inside me instead. OK, I’ll moan now then.
It was in those moments that I knew what sort of relationship we had, the one that was barely hanging on by a thread, didn’t have much of a shelf life. We just didn’t connect the same way you do with others. I questioned my adequacy as an oral sex receiver; I wondered if it was a body insecurity that, perhaps, I was unaware of – some deep-seated shame or psychological flaw.
Sure, there was that one guy along the way who could deliver you in an unforgettable way, but you and I both know what that was really about: his penis size. In that case, with a penis not much bigger, when erect, than a tube of lipstick, it made sense. He had no choice; he had to master you. But that relationship was short-lived, and I was back out there, legs spread, feigning interest, arousal, and sometimes, when I was feeling generous, an orgasm, too. It was out of pity for you, for the guys trying to perform you, and a means to convince myself I was like everyone else — someone who enjoyed you.
But Cunnilingus, I just don’t. There’s something sloppy about you; something too wet, too misguided, too all over the place, and all of it usually coming from an overly enthused man (and, on two occasions, a woman who, surprisingly, was even worse), looking up over my pubic bone as if waiting for me to pat his head, and say, “Good boy.” I just can’t anymore. So, it’s come to this: Cunnilingus, it’s time for us to part.
I understand that you will never entirely slip from my life, that you’ll always be there, lingering, as an item on the sex menu. I accept that. But the fact remains that we’re just not suited to be together. We’re cut from a different cloth, you and I. And while I wish you the best of luck out there in a world of women who love you, you do nothing for me. It’s okay, champ, you can’t win ‘em all! We’ve given it a whirl, but it’s time to officially break up. Thank you for the memories, I guess, and never forget: You will be loved … just not by me.
Best,
Amanda