“Booty, gettin some booty is more important than eatin food.”-The Booty Warrior
As one might expect, sex was of the utmost importance to my teenage happiness. We’d come to school with CD players listening to Songs About Jane checking for Consuila in those jeans with no back pockets. That one red-headed girl would be giving blowjobs to the latino boys in the stairwell, and we’d debate who of the 10th and 11th grade girls had the fattest asses and why–based mostly on what they were eating/ drinking (I am told that now this quandary, post cooptation, gentrification and crossfit is based on squats and not whole milk, etc).
When the weather broke, it was mating season. Playing pickup basketball at whatever court was exciting not just because of the game itself, but the idea of what the girls might be wearing and what combination of physical/verbal tactics could be employed to impress them. And by that I mean convince them to lead you into their grandmother’s basement through the back door. After that, the most important thing was simple, you had to try and make the girl cum.
I’ve only recently discovered that this was a rare concern for teenage boys. All I remember is how important making a girl cum was to one’s place in the teenage boy hierarchy. Clarence, Bruce and I would sit around talking all manner of shit about how niggas were lying, saying they made some girl squirt, or whose girl was the loudest, if we’d all done it in the same room. Who left the bed sheets the wettest? “Nah nigga, that’s sweat cuz yall out of shape and shit,” I’d say. “That,” I’d continue, pointing to a thicker patch of moisture, “that’s the pussy juice. Step ya game up.”
Teenage Quotes that immediately come to mind:
“Nigga, I gotta do laundry every time ya girl come over, bed be like a bathtub and shit.”
“Soon as my tongue touch the pussy that thang melt in my mouth.”
“I made them legs shake like she was havin a seizure.”
Most exciting was the discovery of the clit. The immediate way the girl’s body would respond was like tapping into nerves themselves. Whether you were fucking up (a slap on the head, a jolt away) or doing something right–a tightening of hips and thighs, a groan–you could form and test your hypothesis over and over. Then that glorious moment might occur, where your tongue clocks out of its blue collar job well-done to relax those muscles on the couch and bask in the glory of its earnings. That was something to live for. It was like being broke as hell, but paying all your bills on time, and then getting what you really want for dinner that night because fuck it. Even if everything around you was shit, there was transcendence in that tiny moment and the few hours that followed.
Now, as an adult, I’m told that this isn’t truly a thing. That boys were never interested in the girl’s orgasm, nor touching clits, which at first seems bizarre. Then I consider the startling frequency of women in my adult life who’ve claimed they’d never had an orgasm, or are afraid to. I remember Caitlin Moran’s open letter in the beginning of How to Be a Woman and this avoidance of the female orgasm still just feels unreal.
How else can you get excited then, if not at least the prospect of the girl cumming? It certainly isn’t watching porn (people always look at me like I’m crazy when I say I’m not much interested in that). The sexual pleasure of women though, just isn’t a very popular consideration, and maybe it only is for me because it’s tied to my own excitement. But what if it wasn’t?
Welp, done thinking about that.