LXIX. By A.K.A. Darla
A self-proclaimed “fierce multi-tasker,” one PrimeCrush writer explains why this position simply isn’t for everyone (including her).
Mention the number “69” and I instantly hear the chant of wayward boys from my fifth-grade class: “Sixty-nine, that’s my line, I’ll eat yours if you eat mine.” That naughty little ditty is what first hipped me (and the other ten-year-old girls in the school yard) to the possible pleasures of the yin-yang position. The fifth-grade me was intrigued. The adult me finds it exhausting.
I am a fierce multi-tasker. I can easily prepare dinner while sexting a beau, answering emails, doing the laundry, and actively participating in a work-related Zoom seminar without missing a beat. However, when it comes to oral sex I will give nothing less than my undivided attention. And I expect the same from my partner. For me, the act of “69” produces the same physiological reaction as I experience when watching television with the radio on: I become instantly overwhelmed by the mixing of the mediums and I can’t focus on either device. Game over. No discussion. Don’t ask again. I have no desire to engage in any activity for which I need to pop an Adderall.
Nevertheless, “69-ers” are everywhere. They lurk in dark corners, sit behind you in church, and may even be your mother’s nursing aide. Every so often, when I arrive at a manicure/pedicure appointment, I will be greeted by an overly-aggressive technician who attempts to convince me to receive both services simultaneously. I instantly profile the technician as a “69-er,” politely refuse the offer, and remind them that when God created oral sex and salon services, she intended them each to be savored without distraction. No doubt, these technicians have pegged me as a “non-69-er” and have dubbed me unadventurous. Tough titties. See, if the pandemic has thumped our heads of anything it’s to stop and smell the roses. And if you plan on putting your nose to my rose, I ask that you do so whole-heartedly. There is a Zen proverb that goes: “The rose bush will not properly bloom when the gardener is getting a blow job.” Or something like that.
I often wonder just who invented this irksome element of the Kama Sutra. I imagine it was someone in a serious time crunch. Perhaps it was an Israelite fleeing Egypt and, in that case, I would most certainly excuse them for needing to kill two birds with one stone. Well, three, if you count waiting for the bread to rise.
Let me make this clear: I am NOT “anti-69.” Some of my best friends are “69-ers.” When they tell me they are baffled by my aversion, I explain that perhaps it’s something in my DNA. See, I am of Italian heritage. We make love, food, wine, and art with great intent. And then we take a nap. If you’ve ever fallen asleep in the “69” position, you get where I’m coming from.
Every so often, when I ponder my divorce, I hear the voice of my long-gone Nonna repeatedly warning me not to marry my 6’ 4” Irish (then) fiance. I always assumed she wanted me to marry an Italian man but in hindsight I think she wanted me to marry a short man. What nonna wouldn’t come right out and say was that a man of my ex’s physical stature was not a good fit for my 5’ 2” frame. Nonna was right. I spent the first two years of my marriage in a neck brace (I swear to God) because, frankly, engaging in “the position” with that Irishman was like bobbing for apples from across the room. Little did I know that the difficulty we had with “the position” would become an unfortunate metaphor for our failed marriage: We just weren’t a good fit.
And so, to all of you on “Team 69” I say, enjoy. Live and be well. And to all those wayward boys (now, men) in my fifth grade class I say, buon appetito!
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