That Time I Taught My Friend a Forbidden Language

Contains sexual language, references to sexual activity, and mature themes.

If you’re married and don’t have red hair in your beard. You’re probably going to get divorced.

This isn’t a hair color thing. Even if your hair is ginger or black, your beard can always get redder if you know what I mean.

If you’re already divorced. Check your beard for red hairs. Don’t have any? Know that 1 little red hair might have saved you from custody paperwork.

Growing out that post-divorce depression beard might serve as a great tool for self-awareness.

You should know what I’m licking on about by now.

Let’s clear something up.

I always thought “giving head’ was a universal term for going down on someone, since, quite literally...

... as one gives their “head” in service to the other.

But after numerous open legs closed and told me I wasn’t going to be sucking their dick, I found myself confused and questioned the true nature of my service (I found some good dick later, but that’s a different bit. Don’t think too much about this 1. Let go. Find your rhythm fruit-fly, it’s here).

Why is it men don’t eat out, but expect their hairy-ass to be licked by women like it’s a gift from the majei?

I have yet to hear a rap song that brags about slobbing on a geyser for the love and fuck of it.

Dick sucking is in almost every formula for a rap song, just as money, hoes, and fast cars are- but let's change that, shall we?

See- historically, men in general are not at the top of the tongue chain.

We’re bottom feeders. Ass grabbers. Tity wranglers.

Young men are especially guilty of this crime, which is why older men date younger women for many reasons, but mainly because older men know, or at least have a better fighting chance at knowing how to eat pussy.

I’m mostly going to refer to men here, but that doesn't mean everyone else is innocent.

Anyone can wear a man mask and find a scapegoat to gaslight. No one is safe from stereotypes; they are the baseline spectrum of how we, as a society, develop many of our core beliefs.

If you’re blind to stereotypes, you’re privy to bumping into their gatekeepers without truly knowing the nature of how power games may be controlling you.

Before you is a humble opportunity to take that power and control back for yourself and others in many ways.

1 of them is everyone giving more consensual head.

Lick your way to freedom!

There are also the non-young people in this arena. Some are already divorced…. The more stubborn types. You should stay open to learning new things, or you may just get your tongue stuck like your marriage. You’ll fuck like concrete and have the passion of a chatbot.

Let go... listen… feel…

I’m also referring to.

The falsely overconfident munchers in the arena.

The “don’t ask, don't tell,” but then the other person is waiting until they get to the next part- posers.

The dissociated insatiable pillow peach princesses.

These are some who may say they don’t like giving head because they “like eating pussy more,” so basically they’re bi but are “straight lesbian when sucking dick.” Yet this same logic is neither consistent when you’re giving them all of your offerings under their tree.

Again, we are talking mostly about principle, remember, this applies to all areas of life and wormholes.

We’re also talking about:

The convenience fee sticklers.

The turnover and that’s over types.

The non-towel grabbers.

The sex aftercare neglect that becomes a repetitive topical argument when you don’t show up in the relationship in the ways that you should… So now the bar is so low that you're 1 cum rag away from decency, and you can’t even do that shit!

I met a lad in college who loved any woman just as much as he wanted to have sex with them.

He fucked with his heart, ya-see… A noble knight.

In the communities of concern circles, it’s called a “man-hoe.”

A man-hoe is either:

Someone masculine and promiscuous.

Someone who is promiscuous but really just wants someone to love, yet acts like it’s all about the sex, but it’s not all about the sex, dude.

Or, a male gardener, who may also be called a knome, depending on their hedge-to-height ratio divided by privilege over the square root of douchebaggery times parental capacity, in parentheses, because it’s considered 1st within the equation.

So this man-hoe, my good friend, strutted himself over to a suitor who enjoyed his 6-pack abs, chipper grin, and ability to spit game.

As per usual, this man-hoe found himself getting lucky in a treacherous battle of the sheets… (Maybe it was just a futon or a twin comforter. Who knows?) Some alcohol… Shared secrets… “You’re so sensitive and hot.” … with no armor but his bare skin, vulnerability, penis, ribbed condom, and holstered tongue, these 2 souls consummated their situation of being at the same place at the same time.

Upon being asked to bow and lend his head in service, the Sire-Man-Hoe later recounted the night by saying to me, the Wise Headmaster, “She was pretty quiet when I was down there, man, I don’t know if that's a good thing. Is that normal?”

“My young padawan,” I told the Sire-Man-Hoe, “That is not normal.”

During an earlier moon, I was pouring a handle of vodka into my chalice, spinning in a circle to commemorate the momentary loss of my cerebellum.

“When in doubt. Eat out,” I proclaimed to the masses, who were drinking red solo cups of weak-ass fruity drinks that tasted better the more they lied to themselves.

The Sire-Man-Hoe’s self-appointed woman in courted question was present at this extravaganza.

The night faded to black. I passed out… looking sexy…

Upon the next morning, I was told numerous tales from eye-witness accounts who shared about how I was maybe the only man they had ever heard bragging so adamantly about eating pussy before.

“When in doubt! Eat out! That’s the (insert my name) guarantee,” I told them. “If you don’t cum by my penis, you’ll cum by tongue. That’s the (insert my name) guarantee mutha-fucka!”

Some of you may cringe, but if so… just remember your face isn't the only thing that this joke has pulled.

I sang these ballads of truth, and word got around. Word got around so much that the sire’s suitor came to my dorm room and asked for my divine wisdom.

“You brag about eating out a lot,” she said.

“The guarantee, sure.”

“You also drink a lot, are you okay?”

“I’m studying to be a therapist.”

“Doing great.”

“Yeap.”

The woman sighed, looked around to make sure no one was listening, and then said, I mean actually said, in real life, for real-for real, “Can you teach (the Sire-Man-Hoe) some tips? Don’t tell him I asked you. He just needs a little direction down there. I don’t know how to communicate it?”

“Does he need a GPS or wheels?”

“Well yes… both…”

“Oh, geeze… He also needs a car, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah, but he’s got the engine.”

“I’ll do it for feminism,” I said, knowing that this moment was what I had been training my whole life for.

She didn’t look encouraged, but this could have been all the SSRIs she was on. Sometimes, being on SSRIs is similar to how it is when Darth Vader puts on his mask and chokes you out.

Breathing, ever so deeply, Vader shouts, “Feel that force, huh!”

Silence.

“I am your father!”

Silence.

You try to cum. But you can’t!

Harder! Harder!

You still don’t cum!

Harder-harder!

“AHHHHH.” The entire force unleashes.

Silence…

Just like all love stories in Star Wars, the force of love and consent is nowhere to be found.

Thankfully, the only way to get off most times is to continue searching for your version of a New Hope.

In this case, a man sought to be a new hoe..

I approached the topic with the Young-Sire-Man-Hoe with grace. “So how good is your tongue game, bro?”

(That’s when we got to…)

“She was pretty quiet when I was down there, man, I don’t know if that's a good thing. Is that normal?”

“That is not normal, my young padawan.”

That’s when I got out the Dogma bowl. The bowl was wet with water and clean, of course.

“Lick that bitch like a dawg bro.” (‘dawg’ was in a New York accident).

“Like a dawg! Don’t be pussy! Eat the pussy! Focus! Like this,” I said, as I licked that shit with the rhythm and flow of an entire quartet of angels. I merely listened to what the water told my senses they needed.

“Listen with your tongue, young padawan,” I said and snaked my head in there like I was bobbing for apples. Underwater, I chanted, “Consent! Consent! Consent!”, coming up for a sec, “Let your heart find your asshole Padawan.” Then I dove back in and continued gurgling into the Dogma bowl. “Consent! Consent! Consent! Consent!”

So, as men, we got on our hands and knees and practiced these principles for hours and days on end. It takes time to tear your tongue muscles over and over again until they can lift the weight of whatever the other person’s squat max is.

The great thing about tongue muscles is that they rebuild themselves just as fast as they can be torn. Your tongue contains 8 major muscles, so it’s the only 8-pack you’ll ever be able to obtain without steroids or genetics.

To practice our craft, we laid on our bellies and tore up cream of wheat bowls by the pound with no hands.

We opened door knobs with the fuck-flicks of our power-tonques.

We ate soggy cereal with no God-damn spoon.

Slopped on toothpaste until every ounce evaporated into the vapor coming out of our noses.

We balanced Jello shots on our tongue-tips and planked our whole weight onto the head of our penis’s. Then chanted, “Consent! Consent! Consent! Consent!”

“My tongue is stronger than my biceps!” We recited each morning, before the usual pillow foreplay practice.

Some other people who walked by started taking notes and implementing our practices within their daily routines and awareness. We had their notes audited by anyone with enough experience to tie cherry knots in seconds and teach this great wisdom of consent that is universal.

We created a whole movement.

The cult of the tongue became the truth that has always existed within all of us.

An entire university of thot was built on the bones of consent for eating out the right way, honorably, with the rhythm, repetition, and pace of our breath.

Soon thereafter, the Young-Sire-Man-Hoe was walking down the dorm room hallway with his 8-pack tongue out, hard as fuck, but still soft in all the right places.

You understand?

He didn’t even chew gum with his teeth anymore.

He slept on top of doors so he could always be the gentleman to hold them open.

He masturbated without touching himself.

He took a deep breath and cried every time he felt a bee die.

He mastered the awareness to channel every sense of pleasure imaginable through the vessel of a singular taste bud.

Entire ice cubes melted with a mere tip touch from his steaming, red fire-fucker.

Finally, he was ready. There was nothing more I could teach him.

I’d like to say these teachings ended up in a romantic pairing for the Sire-Man-Hoe and the girl who sought the simple pleasures of an orgasm, as they did not.

However, they did accomplish something much greater: they made a man trust his senses and find his true nature regardless of what anyone else believed.

That is what consent teaches: the true nature of how we show up with all of our senses and communication, as adults who know better and do better because of it.

Bet you didn’t see this having a point, did ya?

Also, yes, this is a true story. I was asked to give advice, and I did teach my friend about the forbidden language of men not talking about oral sex for some weird reason. Now that guy is a father!

What I genuinely learned from re-writing this story over again, with an older heart and tongue, is that sometimes, in a relationship, consent is

doing the dishes,

cute sweet texts,

a fleeting thought of your deepest desires,

making coffee in the morning,

silence,

enjoying the space between each other until it's so close you never feel like leaving,

the sound of their sleepy voice,

the secret feelings that they finally dare to show you,

the only love that you know how to give, when you have it, leading to breadcrumbs, upon breadcrumbs of loving everything you ever could possibly want, need, or desire.

That's why it's so important to start learning how and why you express your forbidden language.

We don't have forever to love each other, just the short time we're given.