On the Glory of Kissing Her Pussy: Three Life Lessons Learned Between Her Legs

In my younger years, I would chase my lovers’ orgasms as if they were kittens that could be pinned down and wrangled back inside before dark—and I don’t necessarily believe I was wrong to do so. I mean, my intentions were good. I intended to make her moan in delight and to (subconsciously, I suppose) boost my own ego in the process.

But now, in my still young but (hopefully) less juvenile years, I realize that my methodology was skewed at best and off-putting at worst. Because most cats don’t like to be chased as most people don’t enjoy the pressure of feeling as though they have to orgasm in order to satisfy their lover’s ego.

Kissing my lover’s pussy taught me this, perhaps more than any other form of love-making, because oral sex is an act seemingly performed with that express goal in mind. To make her come. To bring her to the brink and then lick and lap her over the edge. Which, I maintain, is a good thing. Orgasms are delicious. Striving to bring your lover to climax is important. Selfish lovers are the worst. And yet the more I let go of this goal and focused instead on the sheer pleasure of pleasure, the more I came to realize that love-making need have no goal or purpose other than the pure and innocent ecstasy of play.

Being vs. Becoming

Let’s put it this way: kissing my lover’s pussy brought me face-to-face with my tendency to miss the journey by focusing on the destination. Which, again, I do not believe is wrong. Goals are important. Achievement feels good.

But so does life—living life, enjoying life, breathing in its sweet and salty smells, tasting its flavors. Now, when I drop between her legs, I close my eyes and try to focus on the moment that we have both immersed ourselves within. The gentle rise and fall of her chest. The thrum of her heartbeat in her clit. The silent communication between our two selves. Why rush a thing that we both look forward to all day? Why skip a single step when I know that as soon as we’ve finished I’ll long to do it all over again?

“No man ever steps in the same river twice,” theorized an Ancient Greek philosopher named Heraclitus (yes, the man had clit in his name). And no, he’s not wrong—time marches forward, rivers change in subtle and less subtle ways. Being and becoming seem to be constantly occurring in concert at the same time, all of the time. So why not get naked and jump into the river as it presents itself in that particular moment at that particular time (assuming, of course, that its waters are healthy and clean)? Why not notice each of the subtle ripples and shifts in the tides? And why not kiss your lover’s pussy as if it’s your last chance to do so?

I tried my best to do this on our wedding day. I was told by married friends that the event would go by in a blur and that in retrospect I would only remember that blur and forget all the details. But I remember everything. The conversation with my brother during dinner. The sun behind my bride at the altar, how it blinded me. The drunken conversations with friends. And most of all, my steady effort to stay in the moment.

How did I learn to do this? By kissing her pussy.

In Giving, You Receive

I’d heard the quote before, “For it is in giving that we receive.” I even knew who’d said it—St. Francis of Assisi, my grandmother’s favorite saint and a guy I’d always thought of as the original hippie. And it made sense to me, though I’d never really felt it ring through my entire core until I started moaning with my face planted between the legs of my wife.

Her pleasure was my pleasure. I could feel it, corporeally and spiritually. I could feel her growing closer toward the light of an orgasm and could feel myself growing closer in the process. It had happened before, during penetrative sex. But during cunnilingus?

The event was strange. And as with learning to be as opposed to focusing on becoming, it has carried over into other facets of my life. Giving presents is as fun and sometimes more fun than receiving them, which was always the case, though I’d never noticed it before. Helping a neighbor with a problem he was having suddenly lifted me out of a deep bout of depression. This is not to say that I think we should all go around performing oral sex on those less fortunate than us. It is just to say that if you pay attention, lessons come to you in a multitude of ways.

On Listening

First, you fall to your knees—a clear corollary to prayer. You close your eyes as you would in meditation. You still your mind. You listen. ‘More,’ her body sometimes seems to say. ‘Less.’ ‘Up.’ ‘Down.’ ‘Yes.’

I have closed my eyes while going down on my lover and have heard my mind spring to life with a thousand different tasks that I wasn’t able to accomplish that day. Grocery lists. Chores. That forgotten item at your friend’s house. Troubles with your boss. Troubles with your creative life. And I have heard another voice that says, ‘You’re doing it wrong, you fucking idiot. What do you know about women? What do you know about going down on her? She hates you. She hates this. She just wants you to stop and jerk yourself off so that she doesn’t have to deal with your ceaselessly needy libido.’ And I swear I’ve heard (or felt) the chatter of her mind as well.

But below those voices there seems to be another voice, or another vibration, or whatever the fuck you want to call that thing—a river, a light, a feeling—and it too whispers words and spreads sensations through your innermost self that transmutes words and sensations into her innermost self. They then communicate back and forth until both of you are standing on the apex of a tall mountain and looking down at what appears to be the entire world.

That is the voice, or sound, or light that I attempt to return to whenever I am between her legs, and it is a voice that I attempt to return to when I’m writing, or jogging, or meditating, or feeling as though the entire world is caving in on me.

“Thank you,” I like to whisper to that voice. “Thank you.”

Kissing her pussy is therefore an act of worship, yes, as I kneel at the altar of her vagina, and it is a powerful feeling, the feeling of being in communion with something much larger than myself. But it’s more than that, as well. In that state, when I feel connected to her and to everything that surrounds her, I am able, it seems, to feel the presence of her pleasure on the tip of my tongue, or in the palm of my hand. I am able to bring her to the top of the mountain or hold her back and allow her to catch her breath. I can step a few paces down the steep incline. I can run straight up to the top. I can linger at the top. I can jump over the top with her. But I could not do that if I hadn’t learned to listen, and I would never have learned to listen without having spent time between her legs.

L’Agent Goodies…