“Pretty can also mean bland… hollow.” – Salty Vixen (2007, probably)
Someone got here searching for “pretty blow jobs.”
And while I usually just scroll past the really, really specific search terms, that one stuck. It made me tilt my head like a confused Corgi.
Pretty?
What does that even mean? Is it the perfect, symmetrical lighting of a tripod-mounted porn shoot? A performance so flawless it deserves a ribbon? No spitting? Zero effort? (Spoiler alert: If there’s no effort, it’s not for me, honey.)
🌸 Definition of **Pretty** 🌸
pret·ty [prit-ee]. –adjective
- pleasing or attractive to the eye, as by delicacy or gracefulness:
a pretty face. - (of things, places, etc.) pleasing to the eye, esp. without grandeur.
- pleasing to the ear:
a pretty tune. - pleasing to the mind or aesthetic taste:
He writes pretty little stories.
Let’s be honest. Aren’t the best blowjobs, and hell, sex generally, supposed to be, on some level, not pretty? Not perfect? Not “pleasing or attractive to the eye?”
I don’t mean unenjoyable. I mean undelicate. I mean raw, ugly, stripped down. The faces most people make when they’re coming—or even just deep into the deed—are rarely suitable for a department store ad. You know the ones. The wide-eyed, cheek-twitching, slightly-drooling-because-you-can’t-feel-your-face faces.
We can make much prettier faces when we’re relaxed, at ease. Like when we’re ordering a latte. The good faces, though? Those are for the bedroom.
👟 The Thrill of the Mess
They don’t call it the JBF (Jostled, Bed-Hair, Filthy-Minded) Walk of Shame for nothing. It’s been a minute since I’ve done the subway-of-shame (and that’s okay, I’ll live), but I still remember the thrill of the jostled clothes, the bright sun, the awkwardness.
It wasn’t a pretty look, but it was hot. It whispered, “I’ve got a secret that requires three separate showers.” It was the mad scramble for a convenience store that was open before work to buy a new toothbrush and a pair of questionable socks.
I crave the devil-may-care part of it. The part where tomorrow doesn’t just not matter—it doesn’t exist. Maybe I just miss being young enough to think I had forever to figure out how to fold a fitted sheet, let alone life.
🚫 Pretty = Safe. Safe = Boring.
I guess the cynicism about the lighthearted stories I often write (remember, my website allows erotica, but it’s not the main feature—it’s just a spicy side dish) comes from this: Sex isn’t always pretty.
And by that, I don’t just mean “good” or “enjoyable.” I mean that even when it is good—maybe especially when it is—it’s not pretty. It’s not safe or easy or simple. If it’s too pre-planned, you’re doing it wrong. There has to be that element of surprise, like discovering a forgotten french fry in your winter coat pocket—only this surprise makes you scream.
Imagine this alternative world: Sex, or life, is always flawless and easy and camera-ready. No sweat. No hair-pulling. No loud, unhinged screaming. No shock.
If you’d want to live in that world, you need to go buy a beige cardigan and re-evaluate your life choices. I’d rather wrestle a badger.
🔥 The Sound of Not-Pretty Perfection
I recently got high off the spanking, the showing off, the nipple clamps. I got things I’d been missing, and realized how much I needed that rush of energy.
The most beautiful moment that night was when E. and I were tag-teaming a cute boy’s fantastic ass. We were really pounding him.
“Oh, fuck!” he screamed. His face was red, his ass was red, and the whole room was electric.
“You can say yellow, you know,” E. reminded him, referring to the safeword.
His reply? “I don’t want to say yellow. I want to say, ‘Oh, fuck!’”
O.M.G. That was it. That was so perfect, so real, so not “pretty.”
It wasn’t a delicate whisper; it was a surrender. It was: “I want more, but I don’t know how much more. Do it until I can’t take any more… and don’t stop before that. I trust you, I’m yours.” It was, in its own messy way, profoundly sweet.
That’s the thing about spanking, sex, or whatever your chosen flavor of madness is: You can’t always control not just what someone else will do, but what you’ll do or want.
And while a part of me—the control freak who misses having a clean desktop—admires the easy, safe, pretty life, the rest of me knows that’s just fear talking. Jewel (yes, Jewel, okay?) had it right:
“Cynicism isn’t smarter, it’s just safer.”
I’m a Salty Vixen. I’ll take the high-risk, high-reward, un-pretty chaos. Because those rewards, to me anyway, are priceless.
🎤 For the Fun Note (and the History Buffs)
And since you mentioned it, that hilarious, sadly all-too-true anti-Bush video, “Clinton Got a Blowjob” by Eric Schwartz, is a total time capsule.
George Bush vacationed while New Orleans drowned
Clinton got a blowjob.
Sat in a classroom with the towers falling down
Clinton got a blowjob.
Schwartz, by the way, also wrote the anthem of my people: “Keep Your Jesus Off My Penis.” Now that’s what I call poetry.
