I didn’t like giving head. To this day, I still don’t really like the act, but I will never again try to liven it up the way I did that fateful night in College Town, Ohio.
It was one of those things where you’re experimenting not because you’re curious about the thing you end up trying out, but rather about experimenting in general, and you’ve heard it’s something you’re supposed to do. Like in 7th grade, when I snuck my mom’s copy of Reviving Ophelia and attempted bulimia; it didn’t work.
So we were going to experiment with food and sex!
My boyfriend was a senior and I was a freshman. We were in love; he told me I was his muse. We spent most of our time in his room, doing it, drinking beer, watching movies and playing Boggle. But if you spend enough time together, eventually you get creative.
And this night we were high. I don’t remember whose idea it was, but I do remember we both very much enjoyed Nutella—and one of us really enjoyed blowjobs.
With my finger, I scooped a globule of the thick chocolate-hazelnut spread and smeared it until it covered the entire head. This tastes like chocolate and not a penis, I thought. Score!
But then I stopped. “This is weird,” I said.
“You’re supposed to lick it off,” he murmured.
“I know, but it doesn’t come off,” I argued. And then noticed that I had been more spreading the Nutella around with my mouth than actually removing it. “And it’s in your pee hole!” Lucas investigated himself. “Can you get it out?” I tried with my tongue, then my finger.
“Ow,” he said with a wince.
“Sorry. Do you think it’s bad that it’s in there?” “I don’t know. Let’s just take a shower.” The sexy stuff, I have learned, never ends up sexy.
In the shower, Lucas and I washed off most of the Nutella, but his hole was still dark.
“Maybe you should pee,” I suggested. He tried, but couldn’t. “We need something to clean it with, like a Q-Tip. Is that OK?” I asked.
“When you get STD-tested they use one,” he said, figuring it would be safe.
With the poise of a urologist, I applied the swab and gently turned it. Lucas tumbled to the shower floor. His eyes were closed and he was convulsing.
“Luke! Luke!” I started slapping him and shaking his shoulders, convinced I had killed my boyfriend trying to save him from death by Nutella.
After a good five seconds, he opened his eyes and looked around hazily.
“What the fuck! You had a fucking seizure!” I kissed him desperately. “I thought you were dead!” I helped him out of the shower, wrapped a towel around him and led him to lie down on the bed.
“What the fuck,” he said. “Want me to call someone? Owen?” I cringed, but immediately felt relief at the idea. He was Lucas’ best friend and he had majored in science; he’d know what to do.
I dialed him on Lucas’ phone. His number was listed under “Crazy Ass Fool.”
“What—why didn’t he just pee,” Owen answered when I explained the problem.
“He tried, he couldn’t.” “Couldn’t pee? What do you mean?” “We’re high.” “Urine sterilizes everything. Why’d you think something that’s OK to eat would be bad in any other part of your body?” “I don’t know, this is our first time.” “I can’t believe you used a Q-Tip. Let me talk to Luke.”
They babbled to each other and I was nervous but also strangely excited— we were going through our first crisis together.
“He says see if I have seizures in my family,” Lucas reported back.
“Should I call somebody? Your dad?” I was emboldened by crisis.
“I guess. You feel comfortable?” Lucas’ father was distant, and he had a drinking problem. The combination of these two qualities made it less intimidating for me to call him. Maybe he wouldn’t remember the conversation, and since Lucas never saw him it wasn’t like he would bring it up at Thanksgiving dinner.
Slurring his every word, Lucas’ father happily recounted a seizure he’d had in his youth, and he suggested this was Lucas’ latent epilepsy revealing itself.
Lucas lay on the bed, deflated. “I don’t feel good.”
“Want to go to the ER? I think we should, even though it’s embarrassing.”
“Yeah, but we should, doctors don’t care.”
At the ER, our embarrassment was tempered by the understanding that to these medical officials, we were just two dumb college kids and they’d seen plenty before. Luckily, all the excitement had scared away our high.
“Baby, I just hope you don’t have epilepsy,” I said as we walked in.
“Ah, yeah, me too.” After I explained the situation to an admissions nurse, we were seen immediately by the doctor. We each took a deep breath and explained every last detail of our predicament. Then he closed the curtain on me so he could conduct his examination of Lucas.
When the curtain opened again, the doctor looked nonplussed. Lucas’ face had relaxed.
“Look,” he addressed us. “There are pressure points in your body, and when you experience intense pain there, your body shuts down. This is one of them.”
“So he doesn’t have epilepsy?” I brightened.
“No. It’s simple: Don’t stick Q-Tips up your dick.” We cracked up laughing, but he kept it deadpan, letting us have our fun.