My Captain, Oh My Captain!

Fine. I’ve been promising this. I believe I first hinted at this story on cajunboy’s blog some time ago. It is pretty embarrassing and definitely something that will come back to haunt me, but I’ve been lax in posting lately (hey, ELLA IS IN LOVE - FUCK OFF!) that I owe it to all 10 of you to do so.

In college, I briefly dated a man named R*. R was the sweetest, kindest soul I ever met during my time at BU. Unfortunately, he met me while I was on the rebound and completely hateful towards men. He was my first true “play thing,” the first man I ever dominated in the bedroom and treated like a total piece of meat.

Valentine’s Day happened to fall during our brief courtship. He took me to an amazing Italian restaurant on Newbury Street for the occasion and, seeing as ella rarely drank back then (yes, believe it or not), she got sloshed on three glasses of wine. We got back to his apartment and - for whatever reason (depression/boredom probably) - we dropped some herbal ecstasy. Before I knew it, I was on all fours telling him to lick my ass.

Now, at this time, ella had this done to her ONCE before, by her ex-boyfriend from high school. She didn’t enjoy it (how times change), but her man-hating ways that evening caused her to scream out the one degrading command she could think of. He obliged - as he always did, to any request - and suddenly I started to feel guilty. I was very much clean - of course - but still tried to think of how I could make this task more enjoyable to him. And so I said, stupidly:

“Pour a shot down my ass.” And so, he filled a shot glass with Captain Morgan’s and let it slide down my crack.

@!#*!@!) FUCKING MOTHER FUCKING FUCKING SHIT *@(#)!@##

Yes, this was the actual thought that hit my mind as soon as the nerve endings of my lady-flower processed the effects of the rum.

My poor girl was being drowned by the Captain much like the way I imagine it would feel if a real pirate set fire to a ship. It literally felt like a blowtorch was between my thighs. And I started to scream. I mean REALLY scream.

“Oh my god! Ow! Ow! Ow! It burns! Holy shit!”

His roommates, who were playing X-Box in the living room, started laughing and screaming, “Give it to her, R! Make her scream!”

So naturally he thought I was enjoying it. But then he saw my face. And he started to flip out.

“Get some ice! Get some fucking ice!” I wailed at the top of my lungs.

But he was drunk and high and couldn’t comprehend putting on his shorts and running out to the kitchen.

And so, I did what any girl would do in such a situation. I grabbed his head and made his tongue put out the flames.

Let me stress that this was not cunnilingus in the pleasurable sense. It was literally a firehose-like necessity. There was no orgasm being sought. It was a lap-this-the-fuck-up exercise. It was pleasure offsetting pain, not pain contributing to pleasure. In other words, it was not the usual turn of events.

In conclusion, ella recommends that NO ONE - male or female - ever buy their bits a drink. It doesn’t add fuel to the fire; it adds a backdraft to the bedroom. If you want to spice up a blow job or any form of lingus (cunni- or anal-) try an Altoid or a cough drop. Do NOT, under any circumstance, bring alcohol into the mix. "Rum Rim" has spoken.

(Note: Thank you to the fine girls of my college sorority for actually coining the nickname “Rum Rim” at a chapter sleepover. And yes, there were topless pillow fights that night. And bottomless ones, too. But just between three of us.)