Eating Me Out Is A Privilege, Not An Obligation; Or What To Do When He Gets Lazy In Bed

I recently moved to a new state: North Dakota, aka the frozen Tundra. Like any newcomer, I needed to put the “D” in Dakota. I swipe for my type, and encountered a baseball player (or should I say BAE-sball player) named Jack*.

Jack was an accountant, so boring, but with money. I can suck up some chatter about credits and debits just to eat at a restaurant even Yelp doesn’t have enough stars for. He was tall. He had a sister that he loved so I assumed he wasn’t a Trump-humping misogynist. He told me I was skinny as he fingered me to shitty superhero movies. You know, how all critically acclaimed love stories begin.

At first, the sex was good. He was very affectionate. He went down on me and was actually pretty stoked about making me finish, because duh. This guy joked he would add “pussy-eating” as a LinkedIn skill and ask for my endorsement.

After a few weeks, he often just wanted to cuddle after we were both done with work and the gym. He chalked it up to being “tired.” I get that. Sometimes you just want to be little spoon and clock out without your cock out. However, over the next few weeks, things declined faster than Rob Kardashian and Black Chyna’s inevitably doomed relationship. When we did have sex, I felt as though he was fingering me, not for my pleasure or for me to orgasm, but rather, just to get me wet enough so that he could have sex with me.

He rushed. He dropped his pants faster than Beyoncé drops a surprise album. He came faster than Beyoncé drops a surprise album.

He was going down on me way less frequently and when he did, I had to ask. He was lickin’ it and kickin’ it for a shorter amount of time, almost as if it was an obligation and not a privilege.

Well, listen up, it is a privilege. I do not shower everyday (well, I do shower everyday regardless of whether or not I’m taking regular trips to pound town, but I rarely wash my hair as I am medically dependent on dry shampoo) and get bikini waxes that cost almost as much as my monthly health insurance payment just for you to treat my cock-pocket subparly. You lucky motherfucker should be calling cunnilingus FUNnilingus.

Now, I get that my ankles are considered pornographic during Midwest winters when everyone wears enough layers to clothe a small country, so you should be pretty fucking grateful when you get to see my entire naked body. (This is obviously after it takes us approximately 30 minutes to undress ourselves and remove our obligatory thermal underwear.)

Ladies, many of you reading have a “Jack.” Any guy that has the absolute honor of making sweet, sweet love to you while you watch Netflix on your ex’s account should absolutely thank his lucky stars that he gets this golden ticket to lick it. You are an absolute rockstar, and this guy should be as excited as you are when the cute cashier “forgets” to charge you for guac at Chipotle.

Jack isn’t Jack Shit. He gets one conversation from you politely warning that he step it up and pep it up. Then, if he doesn’t worship the ground you walk on, he can go Jack off.

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