In heaven there’s no gag reflexes, you can deep throat all the dick you want without throwing up on it. Not that my idea of heaven is unlimited dick to suck but rather if I choose to suck dick I think it would be heavenly to never have the embarrassment of throwing up on it. I like my vomit in the toilet bowl and its residue on my first two fingers after downing a sleeve of Oreos in one sitting, not on some unsuspecting guy's crotch. 

The first time it happened was with Bailey, the first night I met him through mutual friends at a karaoke dive bar. He told me he was interested in me when I started singing Johnny Cash. ‘Ring of Fire’ is my go-to song. But anyway, I had one too many beers and started to get ambitious. Down their slurping for too long and up comes three brown drops landing on his hip. I come up, embarrassed and he asks me to go to the kitchen for a paper towel. I do and when I come back he wipes himself off. I go to the bathroom to collect myself. Face red and wondering what to do. Do I go back in there like nothing happened or do I lay next to him with my clothes back on with my tail between my legs to spend the night sexless. Luckily when I walk back in he’s still naked and gets on top of me. 

“No more of that for you.” He says kissing my neck. 

While we fucked I chastised myself for throwing up on dick which due to it’s size should be rather easy to suck. No one would be sore in the jaw after giving him head. But my gag reflex is that shot to hell that even small ones bring up my guts. 

The second time it happened was six months later with Jerry whose dick was at least big enough to warrant some gag. We went on a first date to a dive bar with a live Fleetwood Mac cover band playing on the makeshift stage. Out on the smoking patio we shared a couple cigarettes while he told me about his job as a bank teller and the neighborhood he lives in. A good job with benefits and a neighborhood not yet gentrified. But he doesn’t mind, says the homeless people have a right to be there. As I’m ashing an American Spirit he suggests leaving for another bar, one with a pool table. We head over and start the game. I’m bad. Bad bad. Missing every ball every time. He won all three games in a landslide. At the time I thought this would be the only embarrassing thing to happen that night. 

But no. Back at my place I take him in my mouth. After what feels like an hour I start deep throating. He calls me a good girl. It’s not long after I’m down there that my stomach starts to twist, he’s right on the gag reflex and a few close calls before one of the vodka crans I had earlier in the night comes up. He freezes. 

“Well that’s a first.” 

I hand him a dirty towel from the floor and apologize. He starts getting dressed and for a second I wonder if he’s about to leave. So shaken up by the puke that he has to go home. But he doesn’t, instead he lays down next to me and doesn’t say anything for a few minutes. It’s quiet and I wonder who will speak first. It’s him. 

“It’s not a big deal. Don’t worry about it.” He says trying to convince himself more than me. 

I thank him for the kindness but know I’ll never see him again. This has been a bad date that ended with a bad blowjob. Well actually it was really good until the puke but I figure puking ruins any head no matter how good it was beforehand. 

When he leaves we kiss and I ask him to message when he’s home safe. I went to bed replaying the moment over and over. The pink vomit, the cum stained towel I handed him without thinking, the startled look on his face. A couple days later he texts. 

“I don’t see it working out between us. I’m sorry.”