CHERYL DIANE KIDDER completed her B.A. in Creative Writing at San Francisco State University, where she is close to completing her M.A.. She's published both poetry and fiction in The Reed, Amelia, Dog River, Alchemy, Sandscript and several college newspapers and literary
journals.

                                                                swallow


At first I just couldn’t. I mean, they always fill up my whole mouth, and then the back and forth, back and forth, all the hand motions and ass wriggling. There was just too much to think about. Oh, and the moaning. Somehow finding a place deep back in your throat, or your chest to make a few little obligatory pseudo-pleasurable sounds. It was just too much. All the time with the moaning and the wriggling.

Then there’s my overactive gag reflex. Who doesn’t have a gag reflex? It’s a survival tool for god’s sake. I’m no sword swallower. This is not a circus act.

And it’s not like it’s always expected. Especially not the first time. I mean, you swallow the first time they think you’re a ho-on-wheels, taking numbers in the men’s room at the Piggy-Tail Tavern or something. So, even if I wanted to, or could, I don’t the first time. Have to give them something to look forward to, have to leave a little mystery, a touch of je ne sais quoi.

You know this is something your mother never teaches you. Your first boyfriend either. This is the type of information that is best got from strangers behind the Woolworth’s, after your shift’s over in the front seat of the ‘76 Malibu he’s spent all summer fixing up. It’s a real end of summer type of event. You know, meet on the last day of school, fool around all summer, maybe get to a place of moaning and wriggling. But you save the big gulp for a special occasion.

Of course, every time that’s happened, it’s usually the last time you get to sit in the Malibu at all, so you have to time it just right, make sure you have a Chevy or a Mustang waiting in the wings, make sure you’ve wet their whistle a couple of times already, just for a dry run, so when the Malibu screams down your throat that one last time, you already know there’s a message waiting for you at home where your mother is still trying to decipher the secret language of boyfriends, cars and blow jobs.

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© 2002 Cheryl Diane Kidder